Dr. B. Page 4

  Immanuel, now hidden by the shadow of a column, was standing only a few meters from the group of listeners. As the little troupe tacked this way and that around the church, no one appeared to pay any attention to the stranger in their midst. On closer inspection the golden cockerel wasn’t especially impressive; on the contrary, it was cut roughly from some kind of gilt metal. But of course its fall from the skies had been all the more spectacular, and the tail feathers as well as the rooster’s comb were slightly damaged. It was now installed like a museum exhibit on a discreet pedestal in the narthex, which had been built after the fire. The light streamed in through the magnificent window onto the metal cockerel. The folds in the saint’s clothing had a strange sheen, as if they were made of copper. Sure enough, she was holding a chalice in one hand and a miniature church in the other.

  Immanuel was intrigued, forgetting for a moment that important matters were at stake, perhaps even matters of life and death. The priestly teacher—could it be the reverend himself?—guided his party to the font, and from there to one of the organs, where they remained for a few minutes. His explanations demonstrated a passionate interest in the art of emblematics. They passed the royal box without stopping before finally positioning themselves before the resplendent altar.

  “As you know, many important figures in the expanding Swedish empire were German-speaking. Let us take this glorious altar as an example. It was in all likelihood a gift from one of the kingdom’s wealthiest men, Magnus Gabriel De la Gardie.”

  The topic seemed of particular interest to the verbose church historian, judging by the length of time the group stood in front of the intricate golden centerpiece, so long, in fact, that the attention of some of the young theologians wandered. The manner in which they were leaning against the altar rail was not exactly devout. They looked as if they were slouched against a fence, Immanuel thought, seizing the opportunity to slip past them. He sat down on a pew at the back and felt exhaustion overwhelm his body. The lighting in the church was subdued and the monotonous voice soporific.

  That was when he saw something that aroused his interest. A burly figure, stout but scarcely taller than a schoolboy, passed behind the organ screen and slipped into an opening in the wall, which in all probability was the entrance to the tower. It all happened so quickly, he wasn’t quite sure if he had imagined it. Could the person he thought he had seen hurry past be a product of his overwrought mind? The last few days had certainly not been restful. Since the trip to the island, his sleep had got worse, his dreams more ominous and his hallucinations more frequent.

  Behind him he heard the venerable teacher’s never-ending lecture, which now revolved around the famous church bells. He recalled hearing the bells ring “Nun danket alle Gott” when taking his first walk through Gamla Stan with his wife and sons. It had been evening, and they had looked up at the spire, which frankly had something eerie about it in the twilight. The winged dragons projecting from the tower at two levels reminded them of similar ornamentation on churches they knew in Warsaw, and the sound of the bells in the narrow streets around the church was so shrill, the youngest son had put his hands over his ears.

  “Johann Crüger’s ‘Nun danket alle Gott’ and four other melodies are played automatically,” the tireless teacher explained to his now visibly weary and hence somewhat inattentive audience. “But the bell ringing can also be done by hand,” he added in a tone suggesting that this was of the utmost interest. “In the middle of the room right at the top of the tower is a clavier. It’s reminiscent of a piano, but with oversize keys. The bells are controlled by wire ropes connected to the piano. And playing it requires serious strength. It’s not for softies!”

  When Immanuel tried to explain afterward what had happened, he couldn’t, but suddenly he found himself halfway up the tower. He had stolen into the same doorway through which he had seen the small thickset figure disappear, convinced that the pack of seminarists had noticed nothing. They had probably not registered his presence in the church at all. He climbed the first flight of stairs fast and paused on a stone landing. Up above he could hear the sound of hurried footsteps, he was sure. They were intermittently very faint, like soft thuds, and then louder, almost like hammering. Resolutely, he carried on up the steep staircase. When he stopped again to catch his breath, he was already at the height of the roofs of the surrounding houses. The acoustics in the tower were playing tricks on him, and at times he fancied the steps he could hear so clearly were very close. Then suddenly everything was silent, apart from the sound of his own increasingly labored breathing.

  The ascent was hair-raising, more vertiginous than he could have dreamed. A narrow staircase turned like a spiraling funnel, steep and confined, before opening into a tower room so large and bright that its ceiling was just an impression high above, like the heavens. The next flight of steps led on, even narrower and more winding, straight up into the unknown. He felt a cool draft and realized he must be approaching an opening. And sure enough, to his left he could look straight out into the gray light. It was still drizzling, and when he stepped onto the tiny balcony he could look down across the array of Gamla Stan’s rooftops. He let his eye wander over the labyrinth of little streets before resuming his cramped climb inside the tower.

  He passed the huge bells that rang out for worship, their heavy shapes now so still it was hard to believe they could suddenly spring into action. Their earsplitting peal at such close proximity would surely have sent him toppling headlong into oblivion, he thought. But they were already below him, and next he faced a maze of narrow passageways with dark alcoves, sharp turns, and steep wooden ladders. He gripped the thin uprights on the ladder so hard his knuckles turned white, flinching every time the rungs creaked under the weight of his feet. At last, when he had given up trying to fathom how the tower could be so high, his head finally emerged into the small oval room where the bell ringer could sit at his keyboard.

  But sit wasn’t the right word, as he soon realized, because in front of him lurched a figure making jerky, almost mechanical movements, like a crewman on an ocean steamer pulling levers in a wild jig to keep the engine parts going. He heard a scraping noise that seemed to come from the steel strings vanishing upward into the top of the spire. The bells, hung from beams that were only a few meters above their heads, had come to life. Now they were all in motion, obviously controlled by the frenetic dancing of the boy’s limbs, as if they were part of the machine. The vibrations took possession of Immanuel’s body with such force that he almost lost his footing.

  It was truly astounding. The bell ringer’s dance was terrifying but also beautiful. It was like nothing he had ever seen before and difficult to describe in a way that did it justice, as he later became aware when trying in vain to recount the strange incident. And yet he could remember the convulsive movements of the mechanical ballet in detail and with an almost hallucinatory clarity. There was no question but that the gestures made by the bell ringer’s limbs in astonishing symbiosis with the pedals, steel strings, and bells themselves was one of the most wondrous things he had ever witnessed. And the music coming from the twenty-four bells in the tower was of a kind that he could only compare to the great organ concerts in the temple of his childhood. It wasn’t the bells’ usual chimes—no, this music was exuberant and intricate, captivating and complex. The largest bells rang out in unison in a single harsh rhythm, intersected by the quicker, more playful melodies of the smaller bells and the high-pitched trill of the smallest.

  As if bewitched, he was following the swaying bells in the top row when he suddenly noticed they were playing on their own. The bell ringer had disappeared.

  Where had the boy gone in such a hurry? Had he carried on farther up into the spire, beyond the beams, or down the steep wooden ladder Immanuel himself had just climbed? It must have happened while he was absorbed in the sound of the bells, which was decreasing in strength now and fading completely. In the ensuing silence he could hear the wind, strong enough to mak
e some of the steel strings swing to and fro. A flock of pigeons frightened off by the deafening noise returned and made themselves at home among the beams. The sound of their flapping wings filled the room when they collectively changed places. He wasn’t totally sure, but he thought he could hear the thud of footsteps somewhere below him, perhaps where the near-vertical ladders met the top landing and the stairs started. As he began the dizzying descent, he couldn’t believe the speed with which he had managed to climb up these slippery ladders with their far-from-steady rungs. At every creak he was reminded of the dark abyss beneath him; the alarm that gripped him was very different from the feeling he had had on his way up, when his eye had been fixed on the light above, admittedly gray, but light nonetheless. The way down was into darkness.

  Eventually he reached the first stone floor. Now that he was on a firm footing his breathing slowed, and he made much easier progress down the spiral stairs, making it to the bottom of the tower with a sense of relief before stepping through the little door back into the nave.

  The church was now in total darkness and silence, and with great effort he managed to grope his way forward without walking into any of the pillars or pews. He sat down, his legs shaking, in the same place on the back row from which he had first caught sight of the bell ringer.

  He could see the flicker of candlelight by the font, presumably from some of the altar candles. The church was empty, the young seminarists had evidently left, but in front of the altar was a shadow. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was moving in his direction. Yes, it was definitely coming toward him. He heard footsteps, of that there was now no doubt, and he could soon see that it was the elderly gentleman, the church historian, who was approaching. “There you are, my son. I wondered how long it would take,” he said in a friendly but slightly challenging voice, as if he had had to wait a tad too long.

  By now Immanuel could see the cross resting on his chest. “I’m sorry, Father, but we haven’t been introduced.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you since I received the letter. There’s a lot to set straight, Immanuel. God is with you, as your name attests, but there are questions that need to be answered.”

  This didn’t make any sense. How could the priest know his name? The same old man who earlier on, before the adventure in the tower, hadn’t even been aware of him and certainly hadn’t noticed when he vanished up the winding stone staircase. Or perhaps he was wrong; maybe the priest knew very well he had climbed the church tower without permission.

  His reply was brief: “I was looking around in the church. An exceptional altar.”

  “Don’t digress, my son,” the priest said. “Have you gathered your thoughts? What we must talk about is the Jewish faith.”

  Immanuel’s letter, addressed directly to the reverend, in addition to setting out the case for the family’s admittance to the evangelical congregation, had encompassed some possibly unwarranted thoughts on the relationship of enlightened Judaism to Protestant belief.

  “Your father was cantor in the synagogue in Königsberg, and if I’m not mistaken he composed a number of the Jewish hymns sung today in temples all over the world, including the synagogue here on Wahrendorffsgatan. Your letter gives me to understand that as a child in Königsberg you were part of the Jewish community but that you gradually distanced yourself from Judaism, and the reasons you cite are unusual. I really must emphasize this: they are unusual.”

  It was true that, in what was admittedly a rather lengthy appeal to St. Gertrude’s, he had given details of the approaches made by the Jewish community in Königsberg to the evangelical churches in the city. It was common knowledge that the city’s Jews had even declared their willingness to convert en masse to the evangelical faith. Progressive Christianity would soon jettison all obsolete doctrines anyway and become an enlightened religion indistinguishable from that of any reasonable Jew. Clearly the old priest had taken these views seriously and wanted to discuss their deeper meaning.

  The man looked at him searchingly. “Your argument is worthy of consideration and is certainly also historically correct. But is it sufficient reason for our evangelical church to admit the son of a Jewish cantor and his family into our congregation? I am not sure that Reverend Ohly, our minister, would be convinced. But let me reassure you. Reverend Ohly hasn’t read your letter, and it is the church council whose task it is to decide on these issues. So let us please develop your ideas a little.”

  It was almost totally dark inside the church. Immanuel could barely make out the features of the old priest’s face, although they were both now sitting in the pews at the back, with just one row between them. But he could hear every word the priest said distinctly, as if whispered straight into his ear.

  “I regard such ideas as important, especially these days. I wish to remind you of the opposition to Orthodox rabbinical teaching, to Jews dancing in joyous piety. We Christians had Pietism, but its equivalent for Jews was undoubtedly Hasidism. And after orthodoxy on both sides came the joyful dancing. We should be talking about Messianism. But you know all this, Immanuel, and what you are urging now is basically the next step: Haskalah, the Jewish Enlightenment. Isn’t that true, Immanuel; you consider yourself enlightened, and you expect the same of your church?”

  Later this exchange would seem as unreal as the scenes in the tower. It took Immanuel back to the rigorous examinations he’d faced before his bar mitzvah, to long, tedious conversations in the gloomy library, harsh comments. But also to the happy walks through Warsaw with his father, who would explain enthusiastically the difference between the various Hasidic groups living in the city. They would meet them everywhere in the street, the corners of their shirts adorned with uniquely tasseled fringes, the traditional knee breeches, the long coats, and the fur hats. He recalled the curled sidelocks that looked so strange on small boys. Childhood images flashed through his mind, together with the tunes his father had been so fond of humming, wild and rhythmic. His father had loved those songs, working them into his own hymns.

  He recalled how he and his brother used to hide in the tight corner behind the piano. High up in the stack of books on the floor was the beautiful volume Der jüdische Kantor. He remembered maarib, the evening prayer, and his father’s voice softly singing the Hashkiveinu to a melody he had composed himself.

  He was brought abruptly back to the present. Other considerations forced their way in, thoughts that had completely dominated his working day for the last few months. Did he have his passport with him? Yes, everything was in order. It wasn’t stamped with a “J” either, something he had managed to avoid by cultivating his contacts at the German embassy in Warsaw. With the assistance of the helpful envoy at the Swedish legation, Joen Lagerberg, all his travel documents had been issued in time. It had been a journey with more stopovers than they had foreseen when they left Warsaw at the beginning of July. They had left their home in the Żoliborz district and their furniture and other household effects. First came the summer months in Latvia, in the peaceful seaside resort of Majori. The boys had bathed in the Lielupe River in the mornings and spent the light summer evenings roaming along the sandy beaches of the Gulf of Riga. Despite this being the start of their life as refugees, it felt to the family like a summer holiday. After that were several weeks in Helsinki, where they would like to have stayed. The train journey to Åbo should have taken a few hours, but because of all the military exercises and controls a whole day was required. As luck would have it, the boat had also been delayed. Crossing the Baltic Sea in the comfort of the white ferry had seemed like an exciting holiday trip. The boys had been alarmed by all the No Anchoring signs, scared they might have something to do with “Jew.” But they were soon reassured and their good humor restored by the time they landed, right next to the hotel on Skeppsbron where Lagerberg had booked rooms for them.

  Thank goodness their visa was valid for a year. Had it not been for his friend Lagerberg, he would probably never have been in Stockholm. It is questionable whether he and h
is family would have managed to leave Poland at all. But they were here now, and their passports were valid and adorned with the right stamps. It was Lagerberg who had stressed the importance of the family enrolling at once in the German church. Absolutely crucial for any permit extensions in the future, he said.

  Immanuel had converted when he was a student. The deliberations that had led to the decision had been difficult, for his parents too. But all of that felt very distant. He and Lucia had already been members of the evangelical church in Warsaw. Why raise religious ruminations that belonged in the past? He had even proposed the suitability of his father’s hymns to render Christian music in the evangelical cathedral, as if that had anything to do with it. That was a real blunder.

  He checked his breast pocket. Sure enough, his wife’s passport was there. Born in Częstochowa in 1900, German citizen. Like his own, her passport was stamped with Border Recommendation 825 from the Swedish legation in Warsaw, valid for single entry to and residence in Sweden. Twelve months from the date of the stamp. This litany of numbers, always there, even in his dreams, the secret codes of hope and despair. Someone might have woken him in the middle of the night to question him about them. His elder son Karl’s passport was there too, next to his chest. Henrik, the younger one, was included on his mother’s. It was all correct, his friend Lagerberg had assured him.

  Complete silence had fallen on the church, and the old man’s breathing, so palpable before, seemed to have stopped. Had he vanished into the darkness like the boy in the tower?

  “We are Germans, and this is the German church.”

  He could hear nothing except his own breathing and the sound of his own shoes scraping impatiently on the footrest under the pew in front.