The World as I Found It (66 page)

There was an extraordinarily healthy, unkillable presence about Max. On one thigh was a red scald from the flame throwers his shock battalion had used in the war. A bullet had gone clean through the meat of his other thigh, and shrapnel had torn a bite from his left calf. There were mustard gas burns on his back and his left ear was as nicked and crumpled as a tomcat's where shrapnel had shredded it.

Now, other passengers were looking over their magazines at the garrulous German. Children stood on their seats to stare at him. The warm air sweeping in through the window carried his smell, causing those nearby to stir nervously in their berths like horses who had caught scent of a bear. It was a faintly vinegary and beery smell, mixed with the scent of the cheap talc used by the barber that Wittgenstein had taken him to that morning to get him cleaned up for the trip. How do you want it? the barber had asked. Short, said the indifferent Max, who carried no comb but his hand. The barber had not been able to keep him still, and as a result, Max's thick brown hair had been clipped short and erratically. With his long broken nose and little creased, predatory eyes, finely etched and crinkled about the edges with fist cuts, he looked like one of Dürer's stony peasants. For Moore and Dorothy facing him, he was a little too close. His seat creaked with him; he was like a bucket threatening to slop over, uncontainable. They saw dirt caked under his toenails. His legs were hairy and heavily muscled, and his ankles were scratched with thistles. Alarming, too, was that aggressive bulge in his crotch, his thighs spread wide to the world — of this, Max seemed as open and unaware as an animal of its own steeping sex. Huddled beside him, subtle and watchful, Wittgenstein seemed almost birdlike.

At first, Dorothy Moore couldn't quite picture them together. And yet there was an unspoken intimacy between them, as if their separate oddities had knitted together over the years like a human island, populated with its own peculiar flora and fauna. Wittgenstein was distinctly uneasy; each time Max opened his mouth he seemed afraid of an upset. They were about an hour outside of London, the train having fallen into a comfortable shipboard rocking as they passed plump, loaflike hills, narrow sweeps of forest and fields scattered with dirty gray balls that, on second glance, one realized were sheep. They were talking about Russell's school. Dorothy Moore was slowly brushing the underside of her chin with her finger. Comfortably curled into herself in her chaise, handsome and suitably older, she was like a plump cat. I understand you taught school yourself, Mr. Wittgenstein, she said. How old were the children you taught?

She saw Wittgenstein's eyes focused on her, piercing, like pencils. Slowly he was rubbing his pressed hands together, saying, They ranged in age from eight to thirteen. Peasant children, very poor. The village was barely a big ditch. This, you see, was where Max and I met.

Ah, said Moore, nodding. It seemed now that he could connect them.

Dorothy remarked, Isn't that interesting, though. That you and Mr. Russell — philosophers — would spend years teaching children.

I did not turn to it from philosophical interest, said Wittgenstein abruptly. On the contrary, my aim was to turn completely
away
from philosophy. Not wishing to seem overly harsh, Wittgenstein ventured a smile, adding, But I understand what you mean. It amuses me too that Russell should himself be teaching now, following in
my
humble footsteps. Ten years ago, he thought I was quite mad to waste myself on children.

Scoffed Moore, Now people think the same of him.

Be nice, intoned Dorothy, lowering her eyes.

I am being nice, protested Moore. But between you and me, I don't know how he stands it at his age — having all those children underfoot. And from what I understand, Bertie has some wild little Indians. Glancing at Dorothy, he said, I told you Hawney stopped there last year. Moore smiled in anticipation, then said to Wittgenstein, Hawney's a don at King's, a historian of some merit. At any rate, Hawney hadn't been there an hour when he saw one boy push another down a flight of stairs. Bertie told him that was nothing — why, the month before a girl had put a needle in her little brother's soup, then sat there giggling while the little fellow choked.

Oh, quit! protested Dorothy, making a face. You know Hawney hates children.

Oh, does he now? Well, one day Hawney and Bertie are sitting outside when they hear the most dreadful caterwauling. So they run round the house, and there they see a little girl tied to a tree, just screaming her heart out while the other children are busily piling rubbish and sticks around her. Bertie nearly fell over. Oh, she's Joan of Arc, said a little boy. Hawney said Bertie was fit to be tied himself. As they were freeing the girl, Bertie turned to him and said, What am I to do — suspend the teaching of history? Can you imagine if we taught the Spanish Inquisition?

Wittgenstein and this Max were staring at Moore with looks of stern disapproval. Max said, This is not good. The children must have order, always. In Ludwig's school, always there was good order.

Oh? Moore looked at him, bemused. It was extraordinary, to hear this profuse, unrestrained man speak of order.

Eyeing Max with displeasure, Wittgenstein said, I was firm. The children knew what I would tolerate and what I would not. But there is certainly a good deal more to teaching than keeping order.

Indeed so, said Moore with a mischievous nod. Peering over the rims of his glasses, Moore then remarked, Well, I do hope the children are clothed when we arrive.

Oh, go on, said Dorothy, giving him a little nudge with her shoulder.

But it's true! Moore insisted. Hawney said Bertie lets the children run about like little aborigines when it's hot.
I'm dead in earnest
, said Moore, peeping delightedly around the company. Apparently, the local parson and his wife live nearby. Hawney says the children will saunter over to the parsonage to be fed milk and cookies. Oh, just as pretty as you please, they come, and, mind you, not one stitch! The parson and his wife are very good about it, I understand. I suppose they view themselves as missionaries. But it does aggravate Bertie terribly, the religious ideas the children bring back. Hawney says the children are rather fonder of Demeter and fairies than Jesus anyhow.

Now Max was shaking his head in vigorous disapproval, and Wittgenstein was picking a piece of lint from his trousers with a distinct air of distaste. Unable to resist, Moore went on:

I heard another tale, you know. Sucking in his cheeks in anticipation as they looked up, Moore said, Well, when Bertie first opened the school, the parson naturally stopped by to offer his greetings. So he knocked on the door, and when it opened, he saw a little girl. And, lo and behold — Moore slapped his forehead — the child was stark naked. Good God! exclaimed the parson. To which the little girl replied,
There is no God
, and slammed the door in his face.

Wittgenstein laughed with surprise at this, but not Max. Folding his arms in disgust, Max didn't say another word for ten minutes — a long time for him.

Moore, meanwhile, was getting curious. Normally he was not one to pry, but finally, a bit anxiously, he asked Max to divulge what, in England, is considered a somewhat private matter. Moore asked the young German what kind of work he did. An innocent question. A natural question. Max thought nothing of it, and without a hint of humor or irony he replied:

God's work.

But there was a question that Moore and Dorothy did not ask. It was about the cane.

Sensing their curiosity, Max said, Ludwig's stick? You wonder why for is the stick?

Cane, corrected Wittgenstein. I acquired it while I was teaching. Then, with a look at Max, he added, To use as a pointer, not a rod.

Injected Dorothy with a note of relief, Oh, then your legs are all right? I thought it might have been something from the war.

No, no. Wittgenstein brushed this off. I bought it in Vienna one Christmas — 1922, I believe. Quite on impulse.

Sure, cut in Max. To stick at me, with his stick. When Ludwig is angry he pointed at me this stick.

Cane
, corrected Wittgenstein again. And not to point. To punctuate. To punctuate a point.

This is so,
huh?
asked Max, defiantly dropping his jaw with a crazy gleam in his eyes. To puncture — to puncture me he pointed, see? Like the motorcar's wheel to puncture, so?

Not wheel —
tire
.

Wheel, tire — the same. Ludwig don't think I will know this word “punctures,” Dorthe. And so I learn good your words, Ludwig. Puncture Max with your stick, so?

Cane
.

Cane, stick, wheel. The same. The same.

Later, Max took down his pack and started rummaging through it. Moore and Dorothy could not help looking at what was clearly the kit of a seasoned traveler. It was a military pack, stitched and restitched and attached to a homemade wooden frame webbed with strong jute cord and canvas fixed with brass sailing grommets. On the top flap of the pack was a hand-drawn cross, runed and black, like a crusader's cross or the German Iron Cross. Inside, all was as meticulously and economically laid out as an apothecary's cove: fishhooks and other things in watertight bottles, coiled rope and canvas, candles and matches, a sheath knife and hatchet, spare clothes. Max withdrew a book wrapped in oilcloth and proceeded to unwrap it with all the ritualistic care of a man who owns only a few essential things. Even before he untied the string they knew it was a Bible. It, too, had been through a war, and looked it. Battered and mildew spotted, it had a greasy handmade cover made of tallow-hardened sailcloth marked with another black and clotted cross. It was a labor itself, that book. As Max opened it, they could see pages blackened with heavy underlining and spiraling notes in German — indictments written in a heated hand. Seeing that part of the book had been torn away, Dorothy Moore said:

It looks as if you lost part of your Bible.

Not lost, said Max with a snort. I pulled it out. The Old Testament it was. Five years behind I see this is all lies made by the desert Jew. To show God with such filth, yes, and so
cruel?
To make of God such a
murderer?
I say this is
evil
. Men make murder, not God. God does not trick or lie — he does not tell Abraham to kill his son, then break his word. What God would tell Ezekiel to bake his bread over human filth and the filth of beasts? In these books are two Gods, the Jew God and the Christian. Both cannot be.

Wittgenstein sighed with irritation at what was clearly an old argument, saying, Oh, drop it, Max. You're talking nonsense. Who are you to decide what God would do or be, or which God is the true one? The story of Ezekiel
is
disgusting, but it speaks of an experience we cannot comprehend. God is different things to different men.

Sure, Ludwig! said Max, reddening. And what do you say now? You say we cannot know. But truly now, you say I am wrong. How is this? Sure, you are just like me, Ludwig — as bad in your thinking. So take your old murderer Jew God — your bloody Yahweh. God save us from this Yahweh. Thank you, I will eat my bread with bee's honey, not this fool's honey. Not even a dog would eat what Ezekiel did.

John the Baptist was fond of locusts, mused Moore, attempting to inject a note of pleasantry.

Max only shrugged at this. Insects are not unclean. Several times, in hunger, I have eaten such. Worms also. Good for birds, good for Max.

The effect of this pronouncement hung on for a while, but then it faded as Max began talking about his travels. This was a different Max, a sunnier Max, a man with a free wind about him. To hear Max talk, it seemed the world was unbounded and undivided, without mountains or oceans or borders but only the grace to be. In the face of eternity, time was as water to him, with one place quite as good as another. Max was amused by Dorothy's questions about chronology, the pointless accounting of where, when, why and how. That one place was the effect of the last, or that life should devolve from successive occurrences or reasons — this to Max was as foreign as concepts of privacy or property. Stories, faces, kindnesses Max remembered, and he gave of himself freely: anyone who needed his help would have it, and for nothing. Of a place there persisted for Max only the snap of a good apple, impressions of certain curious plants and animals, or memories of the local provender ripening by the roadside. Max's sense of direction was extraordinary. Forgetting roads, mostly oblivious to the sights, he knew with the unerring compass of a migrating bird the declination of the sun and the local constellations visible at that latitude, in the advancing season. He had been many places. He had been to Greece, to the ruins, which for him were holy, even if pagans had built them. He had gone to the holyland, too, and to Palestine. As an ordinary seaman, firing boilers and chipping rust, he had shipped to America, Argentina, Chile. He was fairly good at picking up languages and dialects. For a while in Chile he had even lived among Indians.

Dorothy said, I gather you went to Palestine before you tore out your Old Testament?

Um, before, yes. Gretl, Ludwig's sister, said I should go there, to see. All right. I go. There I work. On their farms —
die Kibbutzim
. These are different people, different Jews. On a different standard they live. Not money but the land. This much I can respect. To build again a … a
Charakter
. For a peoples this is much work.

Now Moore's ears were up. Character? he asked.

Max nodded. Sure, Moore. A people's
Charakter
. To rise — to make of themselves a different life. To grow to men. This is
Charakter, nicht wahr?

This was queer. With his hands folded on his stomach, his eyes half closed and his mouth half open, Moore was now considering what Max had said. For the longest time, Moore sat there, breathing in starts, formulating his reply. Wittgenstein, meanwhile, was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the turn the discussion had taken. Finally, Moore said: