and Mischa looks at her inquiringly.
“Let’s go to your place,” Rosa whispers again.
A brilliant idea, she has taken the words out of Mischa’s mouth; today one inspiration follows on the heels of another. They tiptoe out of the room with exaggerated care, the door clicks shut, no one hears it. Outside, it is already getting dangerously dark.
T hen Frankfurter is alone with his wife, without witnesses. All I know is how it ended. I only know the outcome, nothing in between, but I can only imagine it to have been something like this.
His wife finally gets up, at some point. She wipes away her tears, no longer those of the marriage proposal, or she doesn’t wipe them away. She goes to her husband, quietly, as if not wanting to disturb him. She stands behind him, puts her hands on his shoulders, brings her face close to his, which is still covered with his hands, and waits. Nothing happens, not even when he lowers his arms. He stares at the opposite wall, and she gives him a little nudge. She is looking for something in his eyes and cannot find it.
“Felix,” she may have said softly after a while. “Aren’t you glad? Bezanika isn’t so far away. If they’ve come that far they’ll come as far as here too.”
Or she might have said: “Just think, Felix, if it’s true! My head’s in a whirl, just think! Not much longer now, and everything will be just the way it used to be. You’ll be able to perform again, on a real stage, I’m sure they’ll reopen the theater. I’ll be waiting for you beside the bulletin board next to the porter’s lodge. Just think, Felix!”
He doesn’t answer. He gets up from under her hands and goes over to the cupboard. Perhaps he looks like a man who has come to an important decision and doesn’t want to waste any time in carrying it out.
Frankfurter opens the cupboard, takes out a cup or a little box, and finds a key in it.
“What are you going to do in the basement?” she asks.
He weighs the key in his hand, as if there were still something to be considered, possibly the matter of finding the right moment, but the sooner the better. Nothing is the same anymore. Perhaps he tells her now what he has in mind, taking her into his confidence while still in the room, but that’s unlikely since he has never been in the habit of asking for her opinion. Besides, it makes no difference when he tells her; it won’t change anything, the key is already in his pocket. So let us assume that he closes the cupboard without a word, walks to the door, turns around, and says only, “Come.” They go down into the basement.
In these houses of the poor one would formerly never have set foot: the wooden stairs are worn, they creak abominably, but he walks close to the wall and on tiptoe. She follows him uneasily, also softly, also on tiptoe — she doesn’t know why, just because he’s doing it. She has always followed him, without asking; often she has only been able to guess what was to be done, and it wasn’t always the right thing.
“Won’t you tell me now what we’re doing here?”
“Sssh!”
They walk along the narrow basement passage; no need to tiptoe here. The next-to-last cubicle on the right is theirs. Frankfurter turns the key in the padlock and opens the wire door in its iron frame, which is no good as fuel and so is still there. He goes in, she follows hesitantly, he closes the wire door behind her, and there they are.
Felix Frankfurter is a cautious man. He looks for a piece of sacking or a sack with holes that he can tear or, if there is no sack, he takes off his jacket and hangs it across the door, just in case. I imagine that for a moment he puts his finger to his lips, closing his eyes and listening, but there is not a sound. Then he goes to work on the little pile filling one corner of the space, a little pile of useless stuff, a small heap of memories.
At the time they received the notice, they spent two days with their heads together considering what they
“Let’s go to your place,” Rosa whispers again.
A brilliant idea, she has taken the words out of Mischa’s mouth; today one inspiration follows on the heels of another. They tiptoe out of the room with exaggerated care, the door clicks shut, no one hears it. Outside, it is already getting dangerously dark.
T hen Frankfurter is alone with his wife, without witnesses. All I know is how it ended. I only know the outcome, nothing in between, but I can only imagine it to have been something like this.
His wife finally gets up, at some point. She wipes away her tears, no longer those of the marriage proposal, or she doesn’t wipe them away. She goes to her husband, quietly, as if not wanting to disturb him. She stands behind him, puts her hands on his shoulders, brings her face close to his, which is still covered with his hands, and waits. Nothing happens, not even when he lowers his arms. He stares at the opposite wall, and she gives him a little nudge. She is looking for something in his eyes and cannot find it.
“Felix,” she may have said softly after a while. “Aren’t you glad? Bezanika isn’t so far away. If they’ve come that far they’ll come as far as here too.”
Or she might have said: “Just think, Felix, if it’s true! My head’s in a whirl, just think! Not much longer now, and everything will be just the way it used to be. You’ll be able to perform again, on a real stage, I’m sure they’ll reopen the theater. I’ll be waiting for you beside the bulletin board next to the porter’s lodge. Just think, Felix!”
He doesn’t answer. He gets up from under her hands and goes over to the cupboard. Perhaps he looks like a man who has come to an important decision and doesn’t want to waste any time in carrying it out.
Frankfurter opens the cupboard, takes out a cup or a little box, and finds a key in it.
“What are you going to do in the basement?” she asks.
He weighs the key in his hand, as if there were still something to be considered, possibly the matter of finding the right moment, but the sooner the better. Nothing is the same anymore. Perhaps he tells her now what he has in mind, taking her into his confidence while still in the room, but that’s unlikely since he has never been in the habit of asking for her opinion. Besides, it makes no difference when he tells her; it won’t change anything, the key is already in his pocket. So let us assume that he closes the cupboard without a word, walks to the door, turns around, and says only, “Come.” They go down into the basement.
In these houses of the poor one would formerly never have set foot: the wooden stairs are worn, they creak abominably, but he walks close to the wall and on tiptoe. She follows him uneasily, also softly, also on tiptoe — she doesn’t know why, just because he’s doing it. She has always followed him, without asking; often she has only been able to guess what was to be done, and it wasn’t always the right thing.
“Won’t you tell me now what we’re doing here?”
“Sssh!”
They walk along the narrow basement passage; no need to tiptoe here. The next-to-last cubicle on the right is theirs. Frankfurter turns the key in the padlock and opens the wire door in its iron frame, which is no good as fuel and so is still there. He goes in, she follows hesitantly, he closes the wire door behind her, and there they are.
Felix Frankfurter is a cautious man. He looks for a piece of sacking or a sack with holes that he can tear or, if there is no sack, he takes off his jacket and hangs it across the door, just in case. I imagine that for a moment he puts his finger to his lips, closing his eyes and listening, but there is not a sound. Then he goes to work on the little pile filling one corner of the space, a little pile of useless stuff, a small heap of memories.
At the time they received the notice, they spent two days with their heads together considering what they
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