Other People’s Houses (29 page)

Mensch, was du liebst
,

In das wirst du verwandelt werden:

Gott wirst
du, liebst du Gott
,

Und Erde, liebst du Erden
.

Pools of sweat had collected at the back of his knees and made little runnels down his calves.

“Hey, Steiner, look behind you!” Farber called to Paul, and Paul turned and saw how the furrows, which started out parallel, ran indistinguishably into one another across the field.

“Who needs yams,” said bald Godlinger. He came from Vienna and was a
furrier by trade. “We did perfectly well all these years without yams.”

“I’d like to remind you that we did by no means perfectly well in Vienna,” said Paul out of dusty lips. He picked up a hoe.

“What are you doing?” wailed Godlinger. “You’re not going to straighten them by hand?”

“It might make up for lost time,” Paul said, “if some of us would start cutting up the yams.”

“Godlinger, roll
up your sleeves,” said Farber. Godlinger obediently rolled his sleeves up over his pink and hairless arms.

The green tangle out of the barrel seemed to have no beginning or end. They called Paul over, and Paul said they might begin by stripping the mess of leaves and blossoms off the stalks.

The two Dominicans had packed up their tools and stood awhile watching the field full of working white
folk before they took the road toward the native village, which lay in the direction opposite from that in which Mr. Langley had disappeared in the early morning.

Mr. Langley had not returned by late afternoon, when the trainees had all the neat, finger-thick stems laid in the makeshift furrows, so they collected their hoes and walked the mule back to the Batey.

After the white-hot road, the
inside of the barracks felt like a cave—dark and damply cool. Paul found Ilse sitting on the bed, her hair wet. She had spent the afternoon on the beach with Renate and Otto and what seemed like dozens of young men at loose ends. She fetched Paul cold water and a clean shirt. Paul told her about the ruined yam field, and the poem by the seventeenth-century mystic, Angelus Silesius, that had gone
around in his head. Ilse sat on her haunches on the bed, looking up at Paul, who stood in his underwear and raised his chin, like a singer, to recite:

“Man, you will be transformed

To that which you hold worth;

God, if you love God,

Earth, if you love earth.”

He was both delighted and surprised that Ilse had no difficulty whatsoever with the concept of becoming the thing loved, and he told
her how, on the road walking back, he had found the last line for a poem he had been carrying around in his head for years. “I even remember where the first line came to me. Down by the Danube, in Fischamend, there is a footpath.…”

[“
Ich denke und du düngst.…
”]

“I think thoughts, you grow things.

And if my thought in your mind’s night

May seem no matter—”

Paul grimaced. “A very Karl Kraus
sort of pun,” he said.

“… yet my mind brings

To light the seed that you manure.”

Then comes this nineteenth-century sort of idea. Paul suddenly longed for Dolf, who would have recognized each derivation and applauded each happy stroke. Marking his rhythms like a conductor, Paul went on:

“And when our shadows which we cast shall rest,

That in life’s flick’ring light had wildly swung,”

Paul
raised his chin.

“I shall be turned to thought, you into dung.”

[“
Alsdann wirst du zum Dung, ich zum Gedanken.
”]

After supper, Paul and llse gave the slip to Renate, who was bickering with Michel. They walked up the road to see the yam field, and Paul talked to Ilse about Angelus Silesius, and Karl Kraus, about Heine, and his poet friend Dolf. Ilse said, “Renate says you won’t be happy living
in Sosua, because you are an intellectual.”

“Much she knows about
that,
” Paul said.

Ilse said, “I was trying to tell her what you said this morning, how being an intellectual was like looking through spectacles. It’s funny—I understood everything while you were explaining it to me, but I couldn’t explain it to her. She says you’ve known Vienna and you’ll never be able to live without music and
everything—no culture and no books.”

“You can tell Renate from me that I have indeed known Vienna, and that we’re the victims of its culture and its books.” When Paul was excited, the muscles of his mouth seemed to become paralyzed so that the effort of speaking bared his irregular teeth, giving him a look that was almost cruel. Ilse clung to his arm, and he held on to her. Through his painful,
tight lips he said, “It was my Vienna that turned on me. It was my books.”

In the weeks that followed, the trainees weeded and waited for the yams to sprout.

“Godlinger, you should cover your head. You’ll get sunstroke,” Paul said.

Godlinger took out a handkerchief and put it on his bald head, which was turning a dangerously red color, as he walked beside Paul, making conversation, using his
hoe like a walking stick. “When my American quota comes through, my brother and I are opening a fur store in Chicago—quite small, just the family. My wife always says, ‘Strangers don’t work for you; they work against you.’ You can leave some of the weeds,” he said impatiently, waiting for Paul, who had stooped to tear at a tough root with his hands. “A very smart businesswoman, my wife. She stayed
in Vienna to wind up the business and will come straight to America.”

In March, a group of twenty arrived from Switzerland. It included Michel’s huge, fat mother and his brother Robert with his wife and little daughter.

“Any news? Hitler dead yet?” the Sosuans asked.

“No news,” the “Swiss” answered.

“If you happen to need any yams,” Farber said to Mr. Langley, who had brought his new trainees
to the field that Jesús and his partner were clearing for them, “I have a bushel—pink, very good quality—I could let DORSA have cheap.”

Mr. Langley’s face, under its tough outer skin, seemed to have fallen into a chaos of bewilderment. “Yams … I don’t know that we need any more yams.” Then he found firm ground. “Very enterprising of you, though, Farber. Very enterprising, indeed. If you go over
to the office, I’ll tell Mr. Sommerfeld to settle up with you.”

“Farber, Farber,” said Paul, “where did you get yams?”

“From a yam farmer, Paul,” Farber said. “I tell you, Paul, there’s no product for which a good salesman can’t find a market, and no market for which a good salesman can’t find a product. Paul, look at Godlinger weeding.”

Paul looked, and saw Godlinger, with his sleeves rolled
up over his pink arms and a handkerchief tied under his chin, leaning on his hoe talking to Mr. Langley. As they came closer, they heard Godlinger saying, “My brother is in Chicago working in a big fur company, by name of Silverman—maybe you know it?” and Mr. Langley answering, “I’m from Texas myself,” in a pure Frankfurt accent.

“Mr. Langley, one moment,” Paul said as Mr. Langley was swinging
himself onto his horse. “Although I have had some farm training both in Vienna and England, my knowledge is necessarily limited, and in any case inapplicable to this new crop and unknown soil and season.” He spoke with the circuitous courtesy he had used in speaking to his professors at the Vienna University. “I would like to mention, sir, that we would all benefit from more formal instruction.
How long, for instance, does it take the yam to sprout after planting?”

Mr. Langley was shielding his eyes against the sun, looking toward Jesús and his partner, who were clearing the next field for a new group expected from Italy. He said, “How long it takes the yam plant to sprout, of course, depends, as you say, on the soil … the season.… I will talk to you about it when I come back from Puerto
Plata. Two of my bulls are arriving from the States today.”

“Mr. Langley, one other thing, sir,” Paul said, talking very fast as he felt Mr. Langley’s anxiety to get away from him. “What are the chances of bringing my parents to Sosua?”

“Talk to Sommerfeld about a visa,” said Langley, as he set his horse in motion. “That’s his problem.”

“
Was singt der Schwane?
” Farber asked Paul. “Come, Professor,
you and Ilse always have your heads in your Spanish grammar. What’s that black singing?”

Paul listened to Jesús, who stepped rhythmically behind his machete, singing,

“
¿Dónde está Pedro?

Ya no le veo
.

Ya me parece

Que me tiene miedo.
”

Paul translated,

“Where is Pedro?

I don’t see him.

It seems to me

He’s afraid of me.”

“Ask him—maybe he knows how long it takes yams to sprout,” Farber
said.

Paul spoke to the Dominican in the next field, and reported to Farber, “He says they would have come up two weeks ago if we hadn’t ripped off the leaves and shoots. But he saw us do it—I remember him standing and watching from the road. Why didn’t he say anything?”

Jesús said, “They will come up a week sooner, a week later.”

“Why doesn’t Langley tell us these things?” Paul cried, in a
fury.

“
El Señor
Langley
no sabe nada,
” Jesús said. “He doesn’t know anything. About bulls and cows he knows.”

They returned to their work. Walking behind his machete, Jesús sang:

“
El Señor
Langley

El no sabe nada
.

Ya me parece

Que él tiene miedo.
”

Mr. Langley’s two magnificent prize bulls arrived and were corralled. One never recovered from the seasickness of the crossing and died, but
the other was put to work to improve the Sosua stock.

The “Swiss” had planted Farber’s yams, and began weeding. The “English” continued to weed their yams, which had sprouted according to Jesús’ prediction, until Jesús spoke to them from the roadside. “
No se necesita
. The yam plant is hardy and kills its own weeds after the first weeks.”

“Hey, Paul, let’s not tell the ‘Swiss,’” Farber said.
“It might be bad for their morale to have nothing to do with themselves.”

Meanwhile, the “English” joined the holidaying Batey people. Paul and Ilse spent the hot afternoons down on the beach; they studied their Spanish; they swam. Renate, Michel, Otto, and the young men at loose ends roughnecked in the mild breakers, or sat in the sun telling jokes and singing old student songs with new rude
lyrics, or groused.

“Sosua,
ech,
” they said. “I wish the American quota would start moving.”

“That Langley,” they said, “with his phoney American accent. A Frankfurter is what he is.”

They said, “That Sommerfeld, who does he think he is, making us paint the barracks? Doesn’t he have enough
Schwarze
to do it?”

“Sommerfeld knows what he is doing. It took him less than a month to settle the ‘Germans’
in Laguna, to show the rich Americans and his bigwig Dominican friends what a high-powered administrator he is, but in the last eight months, not one single person has got settled.”

“As soon as everyone is settled, Sommerfeld is out of a job. He’s not such a fool.”

“Sommerfeld is certainly no fool,” Paul said, “though he does enjoy maneuvering and disposing of people. But think, what a job—settling
three hundred urban Jews on virgin soil on a tropical island!”

“You think too much, Professor,” someone said.

“Paul, you want to be our representative in the settlers’ council?” Otto asked.

“Thanks, but no. No politics for me.”

“It’s hot,” someone said. “Let’s go for a ride.”

Paul and Use watched the young people scramble up the rocky cliff path on which, presently, Godlinger came slithering
down. Godlinger said, “I’ve been waiting at the administration building since morning, but Sommerfeld didn’t have time for me today. I should try him tomorrow. Did you hear what the ‘Italians’ said about the new pogroms in Vienna? They said they are taking women now. I want Sommerfeld to bring my wife here.”

“I went to see him last week about my parents,” Paul said. “He showed me a list two pages
long of settlers who want visas for their relatives.”

“He said I should try him tomorrow,” Godlinger said. He fell silent, sitting with his head on a pillow of sand, his handkerchief tied under his chin. His mouth fell open, and the corners of his lips drooped in a lonely way; he slept peacefully under the sun.

The yam field was covered with a mass of green leaves and pinkish blossoms. Paul
took Ilse to see the swelling tubers cracking the earth, and, because the evening was sweet, they walked on in the direction of the native village. Presently Use began to tremble. “There’s someone walking behind us.”

Paul looked around. “It’s Jesús, Ilselein. Jesús,
cómo está?
I’ve taken my wife to see the yams pushing up.” Paul fell into step with the Dominican, wanting to practice his Spanish.
“How long does it take for the yams to achieve their full size?”

“Five months, they get very, very big,” Jesús said. “But if I were the
señor
, I would harvest them now. Once they show above the ground they are apt to be stolen. Good night to you and to the
señora.
” Jesús raised his hat to them, and pulled ahead so that they could see his back outlined against the dying brightness from the sea.
His pockets bulged, unmistakably yam-shaped.

In May, Erich Marchfeld, a Viennese doctor for whom DORSA had furnished a makeshift hospital, pronounced Ilse pregnant. She was happy and nervous. Paul was very tender with her. He procured an extra pillow for her feet from the DORSA office; he drew diagrams for her on a piece of paper, to explain the growing of her womb and why it was making her feel
ill.

The prospect of the infant in the “
Badekabine
” and the realization that there was no effective training program in Sosua persuaded Paul to begin application for a homestead. Michel and Otto came in with him. Michel was especially eager, for Renate had promised to marry him as soon as he was settled, saying, “What’s the use of moving into the barracks and then moving again!” Otto kept making
up hilarious lists of what they would need, and Paul found himself both chairman of the group and advocate for the realities. In the second week of June, the “Steiner Group,” as they came to be known, carried their requisitions to the DORSA office. They were asking for five cows and one horse per family, one mule for the group, plus chickens, pigs and a two-wheeled cart, a tool shed for equipment,
a place to store fertilizers, seeds, and crops, a milking shed, and three houses.