The Boxer (17 page)

“And it has changed?”

“As far as I hear, yes.”

“That’s interesting,” Aron said.

“I know you think that this doesn’t concern me, you made that clear. But you are partially right and partially wrong. I must be allowed to worry about how my employees live.”

The word employees, Aron says, was the most uncomfortable that he ever heard from Tennenbaum’s mouth. In that moment, he says, he felt that he wouldn’t be able to bear working for Tennenbaum much longer. “So, what do you have to reproach me for?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Tennenbaum said. “On the contrary, I am very satisfied. I was told that you haven’t been seen at the Weinstuben since our talk. I am even more pleased about this because, perhaps, I have a small part in it.”

“That’s right,” Aron said, “I don’t go to the Weinstuben anymore. I’ll tell you why: I came to the conclusion that it’s more fun to drink at home.”

Tennenbaum didn’t let this spoil his mood; he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of good spirits that day. “No matter how hard you try, Mr. Blank,” he said, “I will not argue with you. You’d better give up.”

He held out a plate of cookies and posed the piquant question, would Aron like something alcoholic to drink? Aron
naturally
declined. Suddenly Tennenbaum’s tone became businesslike; he said that the preliminaries were now over, he had plans to discuss with Aron. He poured more tea and
made a speech
.

“The purpose of every business is, as you well know, growth. As you also know, in our case there are limits because our business is, from a certain point of view, illegal. We cannot expand unrestrictedly. I have thought of where our future lies, and I came to the conclusion: certainly not at the same level we’re at now. The black market — let’s call the child freely by its name — has to remain restricted. Aside from the possibility of reprisals, it is such that we can’t make plans for the long term; our sources change constantly, and we are always dependent on a thousand coincidences, in both supply and demand. I concede that to date we have not been doing too badly, but it won’t always be this way. Because to the same extent that the economy gradually becomes stable, the bread will be taken from our mouths. Besides, I don’t particularly care for this kind of business; I’m telling you honestly, it is too small-minded for my taste. I’ve decided to shut down our enterprise — sooner or later. I’m sure I told you once that I have good connections with the Allies. To be more precise, I know four, five people to whom I could be useful and who would help me because of that, if it can be done. In short, I have submitted an application for a trade license. I want to start a company that deals with exports and above all imports. For the moment it looks like we’ll be getting the authorization in a few weeks. But I don’t want to stand there with a piece of paper in my hand and nothing else, so certain preparations have already been made. For example, I’ve looked around for office space, for storage room, for example; already there are some business connections, not bad ones by the way. What I’m concerned about now, and this is why I’m telling you the whole story, are good people. How would you like to be head bookkeeper?”

Aron had listened attentively, even with a certain suspense; in spite of his dislike for the man, he still thought that Tennenbaum had a
fine nose
for business. (He looks for a newspaper article in his closet in which, years later, Tennenbaum’s company is mentioned. He can’t find it.) Tennenbaum sat there, his eyes full of expectation, Aron remembers, like someone who anticipates gratitude, or at least an enthusiastic consent. Since Aron’s answer failed to materialize for an inexplicably long time, he asked, “Did that leave you speechless?”

Aron sighed and turned his cup; caution kept him from immediately declaring that he could not picture himself as a collaborator of that kind. Aron found this caution
cowardly
and was embarrassed, yet he couldn’t shake it. He simply hadn’t found the courage, he says, to give an answer off the cuff that to a significant degree would influence his and Mark’s life for the following years. It was certainly reprehensible to have nothing but one’s salary in mind, he easily admits; on the other hand, it was impossible not to worry about it at all, especially in such complicated times.

“I see,” Tennenbaum said, “you need a little time. Sleep on it, but also know that I firmly count on you. Do you have any questions about the details?”

“Yes,” Aron said. “What will happen to the others after the closure?”

Aron listed the names he was familiar with,
all of them employees;
for example, he named Kenik. Tennenbaum smiled again; apparently he found these questions understandable and unnecessary at the same time. “Dear Mr. Blank, I want to make you aware of the fundamental difference that exists between our old enterprise and the new one. Till now we got along using speed and improvisation; that will change. A solid trading company needs qualified employees. Sympathy cannot play a role, it’s all about knowledge and ability. We will have to part with most of our people, but I don’t consider it tragic. First of all, our men have done very well until now and had a chance to put some money aside. And, second, in an economy that gradually strengthens, there is a place for anyone who wants to work. Please don’t mistake me for a welfare institution.”

A
t home, Mark and Kenik were playing checkers. Kenik opened the door, and while they were still in the corridor, he said, “He plays exceptionally well for a seven-year-old. I’m telling you, he has talent!”

Only when he was in the room did Aron understand what Kenik was talking about. He waited for the game to end. Kenik lost for educational reasons, or he played really badly. Then Mark was sent to his room; after his victory he was quite happy to go. Aron needed some peace for Kenik and himself. “What’s your profession?” he asked.

Apparently Kenik didn’t understand his question; after all, Aron knew exactly what he did and what he lived on. Aron had to say, “I mean, what profession did you learn as a young man?”

“Shoemaker,” Kenik said.

“Kenik,” Aron said, “you have to look for a new occupation.”

That was wholly astonishing. Kenik asked, “Why should I? Don’t I live like a king?”

“Not for much longer.”

Aron passed on the news — Tennenbaum’s plans and the predictable consequences. It made sense; there was no place for a veteran shoemaker in a trading company. Kenik sat there
flabbergasted
, unexpectedly deprived of his secure existence. He mumbled words to himself that Aron did not understand — probably he cursed Tennenbaum.

Aron tried to console him by saying that
the likes of us
had already survived worse things; he noticed himself how stiff his words sounded and how they only darkened the mood further. He stopped consoling Kenik, and they cooked themselves a meal.

In the kitchen Aron asked, astonished, “Why are you smiling all of a sudden?”

“I’m smiling?”

“Come on, tell me.”

“I’ve changed my plans.”

“Changed your plans?”

Again Kenik smiled; he bustled around the stove and gave himself plenty of time before he started to talk, his face averted from Aron and in a voice that was broken with embarrassment. Since being released from the camphe’d had only one dream, he said, not extraordinary perhaps, but
what does extraordinary mean?
Even if Aron laughed at him now, he had made this dream his top — indeed his sole — priority. Even his work for Tennenbaum: it was only a means to reach his goal.

“Say no more,” Aron said. “You want to open your own business? A shoe shop?”

“A shoe shop?” Kenik said pityingly. Again he fidgeted at the stove for a couple of seconds; then he confessed that he dreamed one day, as a wealthy man, of moving to Palestine. Now the situation had changed. He stood before the choice, he said, either to give up his dream till later — because how was he going to come into big money quickly if not through Tennenbaum? — or to delete part of the conditions, namely the little word
wealthy
. Palestine remained, he just wouldn’t be a wealthy man but one with meager savings, which he could only hope would be enough for the long trip. Then he was silent, as if he had to give Aron time to grasp the
entire scope
of his words. At dinner he asked, “How about you?”

“You mean, am I going to Palestine?”

That was what Kenik meant. He pushed his plate away and wanted to convince Aron at all costs that a rosy happiness awaited them in the promised land — for Aron, for Mark, and for him. The two of them, he declared, side by side in the land of the fathers, in the land where milk and honey flow. He revealed an attachment to tradition, a Kenikian trait Aron had never suspected before, and that surprised him because it had made no past appearance in their acquaintance. He spoke of millions of like-minded people. They all look like us and think like us and leave each other alone; they were not that old yet, he said, it was still worth making the long trip. And while he didn’t tire of inventing new reasons for their departure, Aron thought, He wants to convince me so that he won’t be lonely there. Kenik enthused until Aron said, “Please stop. I don’t want to go.”

B
efore you continue, tell me why you didn’t want to go to Palestine.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

Aron shakes his head and exhales audibly through his nose, yet I am convinced that he can’t explain what is so absurd about my question. He stands up and turns on the TV in the corner of the room, as if he were turning to a new occupation and had simply forgotten to send me away. He sits there in silence and waits for the appliance to warm up; his face looks thoughtful to me, he’s smiling at something. Then he says quietly, without taking his gaze off the screen, which is still black, “I understand why you ask. You want to hear a confession. You want to hear from me: This is my home, I grew up here. Here and nowhere else do I feel good, that’s why I want to die here and want my son to grow up here.” He looks at me again and his eyes ask, “Isn’t it so?” He says, “Let’s leave open the question about how much this country means to me. Rather, let’s consider how much it meant to me then, in the kitchen with Kenik, for that’s what this is about. If I hated it, you would learn nothing, and if I loved it, you would learn even less. Whenever I heard people talking about it, they sounded ridiculous to me.”

The television buzzes now; Aron zaps through all the channels, none of them is of interest. He turns it off again and comes back to the table. Again he muses a little before he says, “Naturally, you mustn’t take into account what you have heard about Israel since then; don’t forget I was talking to Kenik in 1946. He yearned for Palestine and I didn’t yearn for it, that’s all. I had never thought of Palestine for a second before then. For me it was the same as if someone had asked me if I wanted to go with him to Australia. Why on earth would I go to Australia?”

W
hen does Tennenbaum want to shut down?” Kenik asked.

“It sounded as if it would take a couple of weeks,” Aron said.

Apparently Kenik wasn’t worried about his livelihood anymore; he made no further attempt to convince Aron and was preoccupied only with himself. He smiled into the future, laid his hand on Aron’s arm, and said, “Aron, exciting times are coming.”

Toward evening, when Kenik was about to leave, Aron asked him to postpone the beginning of the exciting times to the day after next because he absolutely needed him to stay with Mark the following day. He had, he said, urgent matters to settle. Kenik agreed.

The next morning, after Kenik had arrived punctually, Aron took the train out to the suburbs. His first destination was the Soviet headquarters. It took him forever to explain to the guard who he wanted to talk to — Aron didn’t know the name of the bearded officer. Finally the man was found; he immediately remembered Aron, though a full three months had passed since their first and only encounter. Aron said he had thought at great length about the offer, and only unfortunate circumstances had prevented him from coming sooner. Yet he was ready now to accept the post as interpreter, if they were still interested in him. The officer remembered that, too; Aron only had to remind him that he had mentioned a post in Berlin. The officer ripped a sheet of paper from his notebook, wrote a couple of sentences, and put a stamp under it all. He called a soldier and ordered him to find an envelope somewhere in the building.

After that Aron went to the home. The weather was splendid, he says, light green spring; the road felt shorter than ever before without a bicycle. In the garden again there were many children. Aron waited until a ball rolled to his feet so that he could kick it back. He asked for the doctor’s office.

The doctor opened the door in his pajamas and excused himself for being asleep so late, he had been on the night shift. He asked about Mark’s health and wondered if there was an urgent reason for Aron’s visit. Aron said Mark was doing fine, he had only come, though tardily, to thank him for everything that had been done to cure his son, by the doctor himself, and everybody else. As a present he had brought a bottle of French cognac — after having considered and dismissed the option of giving him money. He maintained that money could easily be taken as a tip and annoy, whereas cognac was
neutral
The doctor behaved as if the present had nothing to do with his small achievement, which had only been his duty after all. Should Aron need his help again, he said, concerning Mark or anything else, he could count on him. Aron said, “There is something else, Doctor. There’s a nurse here called Irma. I don’t know who she is or what she looks like, but Mark talks about her all day. I’d like to speak to her.”

“Certainly.”

The doctor pulled on his pants, asked Aron to wait, and went out. A little while later he came back, took Aron to the window, and said that the blond woman sitting on the bench below was Nurse Irma, she was waiting for him. “Or would you prefer to meet her in this room?”