The Gustav Sonata (15 page)

Roger has lost so much weight that his police uniform no longer fits him. He says to Erich, ‘I look ridiculous. I look like an idiot in fancy dress.'

Erich tells him he must begin to eat well again and invites him and Lottie to dinner. Emilie says she will cook roast pork and knödel with red cabbage, followed by Nusstorte, her speciality dessert. They will serve a strong French red wine, which Erich can buy cheaply and in quantity from a former colleague at the Police Academy, who opines to Erich that ‘wine smells of the earth and police work smells of the sewer'.

The table in the sitting room of the apartment at Fribourgstrasse
61
is set with a lace cloth. It's a warm autumn evening – too warm to light a fire in the grate – and the French windows are open.

In recent days, Erich Perle's heart has started to beat faster. He can't seem to control it. He's aware of it all the time – the thump of blood in his ears, an agitated ticking in his wrist – and he knows it's because he's afraid. He finds himself seeking out the familiar and the ordinary, to soothe this frantic heart. The gentle sound of traffic passing down Fribourgstrasse is reassuring, and he tells himself that nothing has changed in Matzlingen if the cars and scooters are going by at their usual, obedient pace. All that has changed is within himself. He is no longer the man he thought he was, the kind of man who reveres the laws of his country – his beloved Switzerland, whose moral code is unimpeachably high – and who would never break them. He's now a criminal.

He keeps telling himself that it all happened because of Liebermann, because of Erich's compassion for a man who only longed to join his little family, who – if he had been sent back into Austria – would have faced death. Wouldn't other men – even other policemen – have been moved to falsify documents, to break the law, to save a man who had done nothing wrong? Surely Erich's crime is rendered neutral by the saving of souls? Isn't it?

But he can't get his mind off what he's done. He wonders if he should have saved Liebermann alone, but sent all the others who followed him back to the border, steeling himself not to think about their likely fate. The particularity of Liebermann was what informed his decision. He was moved. He was weakened by his compassion for a man his own age, with a little son named Daniel. And surely one date falsification would never have been detected? But the stack of false dates is going to come to light, one way or another. Erich now understands that he's put his career – even his life – in jeopardy.

Before Roger and Lottie arrive for dinner, Erich opens one of the bottles of red wine. Emilie is basting the roast pork, in the kitchen. Erich stands by the French windows, drinking and smoking a cigar. He feels the wine begin to calm his heartbeat, so he pours another glass. By the time Roger and Lottie arrive, he has drunk four glasses very fast and has begun to be unsteady on his feet, as though the salon of the apartment had become a seagoing yacht, headed suddenly out of harbour.

But the sensation is not unpleasant. It feels to him that this altered Erich, this unsteady person on a drifting boat, has been relieved of the normal obligation to behave with decorum. He then thinks about the word ‘decorum' and finds it ludicrous.

He says aloud that everybody's responsibility to behave well this evening has been nullified. ‘
Nullified!
Another stupid word! But it will serve.'

He sees Lottie look anxiously at Roger. He notices, as though for the first time, how very pretty Lottie Erdman is and he says to Roger, ‘I hope that now you're well again, Roger, you're not neglecting Lottie.'

‘What do you mean?' asks Roger.

‘Lottie is a gem. She is a Rhinemaiden! I hope you're taking care of her.'

‘Of course I am.'

‘In every way. I mean in bed as well.'

Lottie blushes, touches her breasts in a flustered gesture, gives Erich a shy smile. Roger shakes his head with exasperation. ‘I'll forgive you for saying that, Erich, because I think you've had quite a lot of wine already, but what Lottie and I do in bed is none of your concern.'

Erich fumbles to relight his cigar, which has gone out. ‘
Concern!
' he says, choking on the first puff. ‘Very far from a stupid word! On the contrary, a thoughtful word. But where does “concern” begin and end? My friends, that is
the
great question of our times: how far are we to go, in showing concern for our fellow human beings? We strive for indifference. As members of the police we are
taught
to feel it. But is not indifference a moral crime?'

At this moment, before Roger or Lottie can attempt any reply to this, Emilie comes in to say that the dinner is ready. The aroma of the roasted pork now perfumes the air. Erich loves pork. The crunch of crisp pork crackling in his mouth, releasing the fatty juices within it, has, he thinks, an almost sexual pleasure about it. But tonight he feels a sudden dismay at the idea of the four of them sitting round their comfortable table, gobbling pork and knödel. He thinks of Liebermann and his little family (who would never have eaten pork in their lives) and wonders where they are and if the IF have helped them, or if they're starving in the mountains somewhere.

He follows his guests obediently to the table. Emilie's cheeks are bright red from the heat of the kitchen and he thinks how this redness doesn't suit her and how, tonight, he would like to make love to the adorable Lottie Erdman. He gets an erection at the mere idea of it and sits down abruptly, covering his lap with a linen table napkin. He pours wine for Lottie, gazing, as he does so, at her large breasts and inadvertently spilling wine onto the lace cloth.

‘Be careful, Erich!' says Emilie.

He doesn't apologise. He thinks wearily how many times he has had to apologise in his recent life and how tired he is of always being in the wrong. As he receives his plate of food, before he's touched a morsel of it, he blurts out, ‘You should all know that, really and truly, I am fed up with thinking of myself as a criminal!'

They stare at him. Lottie looks anxiously at Roger. Emilie dabs her hot face with her napkin.

‘Please start your supper,' she says.

‘Or not,' says Erich. ‘Don't start it! Don't let yourselves enjoy the crackling. Think of the crunch of it as bones breaking. Human bones …'

Roger puts down his knife and fork. He says calmly, ‘What is the matter, Erich?'

‘I told you,' says Erich. ‘I'm tired of my actions being criminalised. I did what any man – any man who has an ounce of compassion in his heart – would do. If you'd been there, Roger, you would have done it. But you didn't see Liebermann. You didn't see his sorrow. Why should he be made to abandon his family?'

‘Who is Liebermann?'

‘A doctor. A Jew. With a wife and child already in Switzerland. He missed the entry deadline by eight days. Eight days! And the IF thought I would send him back into Austria – send him back to die. I expect they could hear his bones crunching! But they reckoned without me. They reckoned without Erich Perle, the criminal!'

There is silence in the room. Steam from the plates of rich food still rises. And Erich then realises abruptly that he is going to be sick. He stands up and lurches out of the room, but doesn't reach the lavatory and vomits in the hallway.

Lottie goes very white. Emilie gets up to go to help Erich. As she reaches the door, Roger says quietly to her, ‘I understand what he's done. I understand.'

FOR SEVERAL MONTHS,
he seems to be safe, but then in May
1939
two security officers from the Justice Ministry in Bern arrive at Matzlingen Police Headquarters.

Why two? Erich wants to ask. Did somebody tell Bern that this man, this loyal Assistant Police Chief, might be violent, might need restraint?

He is taken to the Interrogation Room, walking past the benches where the Jews sat and waited to learn their fate. It is hot and airless in the room. Erich wipes sweat off his brow and asks for a window to be opened, but one of the Justice Ministry men says, ‘There's no need. This won't take long.'

Heat seems to exacerbate the too-fast oscillation of Erich's heart. Sometimes, there is an accompaniment to the blood-beat and this is an aureole of pain, spreading across Erich's chest and up into his throat, threatening to choke him. Now, he wants to loosen his tie, but he knows that he must remain ‘correct' in front of these officials.

He waits. Then, he sees arrive in front of him, on the scarred wooden table, a stack of refugee registration forms, bearing the falsified August dates and his signature beneath.

‘There you are,' says the older of the officers. ‘Will you confirm, please, that it is your signature on these forms?'

Erich stares at the forms. He can remember how his hand always shook as he signed them. Images of the people begging him to help them filter through his mind: women with huge, terrified eyes, girls on the threshold of beauty, grandfathers cradling young children to their chests, men weeping with joy and disbelief when the false dates were written in …

Erich clears his throat. Sweat runs down his back.

‘Yes,' he says. ‘This is my signature.'

‘Good,' says the younger man. ‘We told you this wouldn't take long. We are here to inform you that, as from this moment, you are suspended from the Police Service. Your crime is the falsification of entry dates into Switzerland of Jewish refugees, to which these forms bear testimony. You may take your personal belongings from your desk, but no police property, of course. We can only add that you may eventually be prosecuted, for Criminal Infringement of a Justice Ministry Directive. This prosecution is currently under consideration. Meanwhile, your pay and your police pension are forfeited, and the minister himself wishes us to convey to you his extreme displeasure.'

Erich thinks of Jakob Liebermann opening wide his arms and saying, ‘God will bless you, Herr Assistant Police Chief! God will give you a long and happy life!' and how he, Erich, knew, as he signed Liebermann's form, that this was exactly what he had just signed away – the blessing of God, the long and carefree life …

‘Please may I ask you one question?' says Erich quietly.

‘Certainly. Go ahead.'

‘How do you know that these dates are false? Who told you that I falsified them?'

The security officers exchange glances.

‘That information is classified,' says the older man. ‘All you need to realise is that you have put your country in danger by deliberately flouting its laws.'

‘I did not intend to put my country in danger. I was concerned with saving human life.'

‘Admirable, in most circumstances. We all have kind hearts, do we not? But Germany will no longer tolerate an open policy in Switzerland towards Jewish refugees. We risk being punished for it by a German invasion. This would be the end for our unique and beautiful land. And people like you will be held responsible. Oh, and by the way, at the end of the month you and your wife will have to vacate your police apartment on Fribourgstrasse.'

‘Where are we to go?'

‘I've no idea. That's up to you. You will be given two weeks' pay. This was urged upon us by your superior, Herr Police Chief Erdman, and we did not object. We are reasonable men. We suggest you use the money very wisely. But none of that is our responsibility.'

Erich is escorted back to his desk. His police badge is removed and immediately he misses the heaviness of it, as if the metal somehow protected his sick heart. He looks towards Roger Erdman's office, foolishly nurturing some hope that Roger would intervene to save him, but Roger is not in his room.

Outside his own office, in the Communications Room, he can hear the sound of typewriters and quiet conversation: police work going routinely on, as though nobody has noticed what is happening to Assistant Police Chief Erich Perle – nobody has understood that his life is ending.

It is not yet
10
a.m. when Erich leaves Police Headquarters. At the bottom of the steps, he pauses and looks back at the heavy door with its decorated ironwork grille and at the flagpole above it, from which the Swiss flag hangs limp in the May sunshine. And he thinks how much he has loved what these things symbolised. That is the word for it:
love.
Walking in through that ornate door with pride every single morning, as if the door
belonged to him.
And so comfortable in his profession that he sometimes caught himself boasting about it, just as he had boasted about it to Emilie on the day he met her at the Schwingfest.

He carries a few possessions in a paper bag: a photograph of Emilie in Davos, a half-full box of cigars, a desk calendar, a tarnished inkstand.

He begins to walk away from the building. He's still wearing his police uniform. He smiles bleakly to think that even the men from the Justice Ministry baulked at sending him out into the street wearing only his underpants. And he feels grateful that he has been left with this one substantial relic of all his years of service and thinks how sincerely he has deserved this. Yet he knows the world in which people deserve things or do not deserve them is passing away. Europe is at war. Fairness is now becoming a word without meaning.

He can't imagine what words he is going to use to tell Emilie what has happened. He thinks that the right words probably don't exist. He wonders how long it will take for Emilie to realise that they have fallen into poverty in a single day.

She stands by the unlit fire and the sunshine of the May morning bathes the room with flat squares of light.

She wants to say to Erich, ‘The man I married was Assistant Police Chief Perle. He told me his age and his rank on our first meeting. How can I be reconciled to any other man but this?'

He looks pathetic to her, standing there with his paper bag – large and foolish. She knows that what is expected of her – what she even expects of herself – is sympathy and comfort, yet she can't bring herself to move from where she stands, facing him, with her fists tightly clenched.