The Karnau Tapes (14 page)

*

Sievers himself delivers the opening lecture. His voice is wooden rather than metallic, his subject has something to do with vowel shifts viewed in their historical context. I soon stop listening to what he's saying and concentrate on his intonation. He has a noticeable way of spinning out the vowel E, gulps air, speaks in jerks. Does lecturing make him so nervous that he develops an inadvertent speech defect? He's certainly no rhetorical genius. I hope the same thing doesn't happen to me this evening. Being a newcomer to this circle, I'm to speak last. Sievers is now underlining his remarks with wild gestures. No, they seem to be an integral part of his lecture, he's talking about the correct way to recite: Goethe's poems should be accompanied by clockwise movements of the hand, Schiller's by counter-clockwise. He does his best to compound this absurd form of callisthenics by over-emphasising the metre with his forearm as though hammering in nails. The others hang on his every word, because he is now, with a perceptible effort, winding himself up for his peroration, a whiplash rendering of a sonnet by Weinheber. He delivers it briskly, as if short of breath, or, rather, as if vocally relieving himself of some of the air he has ingested while speaking.

His elderly listeners applaud. Next comes an ethnologist fresh from extensive field research in the Luneburger Heide, guaranteed home of the Nordic type in its purest form. For the moment, it seems, we shall have to be content with the Luneburger Heide, but if we manage to gain unrestricted access to the human material available in Iceland . . . Negotiations to that end are now in progress. The speaker has problems with his standard German, which keeps slipping to reveal a northern accent. He reels off statistics of ear dimensions and neck circumferences, shows us slides of peasants' heads photographed in profile, like mug shots, the hair brushed back to expose the whorls of the ear. Each slide embodies a scale in centimetres.

How dare he reduce Joseph Gall's penetrating analyses to such tedium? How can character be explored with the aid of a ruler? Why was I invited to this meeting at all? What does my subject have to do with the effusions of this mutual admiration society? I'm supposed to speak about my recordings of the human voice and play examples. That's why, for safety's sake, I've copied my fragile tapes on to discs.

I mount the platform and set up the record player beside the text of my lecture. Silence falls, all eyes turn in my direction. My voice is tremulous for the first few sentences, but it soon steadies. I begin with a brief account of my recordings and the circumstances in which they originated: close combat, trench warfare, microphones blown to pieces in no man's land. Everyone looks dumbfounded. A preliminary example: the turntable steadily revolves, the miniature loudspeaker emits a succession of groans and croaks.

'Today, gentlemen, we were told about cranial measurements compiled in the North German area and acquired a knowledge of Rilke's breathing technique. However, while we sit here in this peaceful hall, our boys at the front are dying like dogs.'

I almost let slip something about the waxworks show in the cellars, I've been so bored and infuriated by the previous speakers. Another sample recording.

'When discussing what has helped to shape the German race, gentlemen, you surely don't expect any results from all this nonsense about racial materialism, with its eternal concentration on platinum blond hair?'

My voice is running away with me, I can sense it, and my manuscript is obscured by a disc — the one I've just played and put down in the wrong place. Hastily, I extemporise: 'According to my esteemed predecessor on this platform, the eastern territories will soon become part of the Reich. If all the inhabitants of that vast area are to be brought into line, that process cannot confine itself to imposing certain linguistic regulations and rooting out non-German words, the way we did it in Alsace. I speak from experience, gentlemen, because I was there, and it's nonsense, the whole thing. No fundamental changes can be effected by communal singsongs and elocution exercises chanted in unison. There's simply no point in dinning a new language into people's heads at parades or over the radio until they're addicted to it. Do you really propose to bombard them, for evermore, with monotonous Brownshirt chants and marching songs?'

A murmur runs round the hall. I detect some hostile glances out of the corner of my eye. They're a sworn fraternity, these men, but there's no going back, I can't stop now. I speak over the top of my recordings, changing the discs in quick succession. 'Listen to this, gentlemen, and this, and this. It's childishly simple: our first task, once we start, must be to teach people to listen carefully, because it's not just language that has to be brought into line, it's the voice itself and every sound of human origin. We must get hold of people, every last one of them, and probe their innermost being — an inner self which, as we all know, manifests itself in the voice, the link between the inner man and the outside world. Yes, we must probe the inner self by submitting their voices to close examination like good physicians capable of diagnosing a patient's condition by listening to his heartbeat and respiration. We must tackle the inner self by tackling the voice and adjusting it — indeed, we must not, in extreme cases, shrink from modifying the organs of speech by means of invasive surgery.'

There's a sudden, ear-splitting noise: I've inadvertently knocked the needle off the record with a sweeping gesture. Embarrassed silence, not a movement anywhere in the hall. I take a deep breath, but I've lost my thread and am utterly exhausted. 'Gentlemen,' I say at length, 'thank you for your attention.'

I step back from the lectern, oblivious of my concluding words but aware that I'm trembling in every limb. Muted applause followed by a concerted exodus for supper. I gather my discs together. When most of the delegates have left the hall, a man in SS uniform comes up to me.

'That was fantastic, Herr Karnau.'

He introduces himself: his name is Stumpfecker, personal physician to Reichsführer-SS Himmler, a man of about my own age. He speaks in a clear, steely voice littered with punctuation marks: 'No wonder those old fogies are suspicious of your research, Herr Karnau, they're half asleep. Anyone who adopts such a radical approach to his subject is bound to be an unwelcome visitor in such company. I've only one reservation: have you really thought it out, this vocal atlas of yours? Isn't your collection of sounds too unique to be converted into visual terms without the loss of some important nuances? Doesn't the task of mapping them on paper consume too much precious energy that might be better employed in making recordings that defy any form of graphic representation, that override all petty regulations and transcend the imagination of narrow-minded gentlemen like the delegates to this conference — recordings made in conditions of such absolute freedom that your archive could embrace every nuance of the human voice, however faint?’

*

We go on talking in the dark when the light is switched off. 'Hilde, do you remember that singer who came to dinner with Mama and Papa, the one with the beautiful necklace?'

Hilde shakes her head in the moonlight. 'You mean a necklace of coloured stones, like Mama's?'

'No, shiny white pearls.'

'Mama's got one of those too.'

'Yes, but this was a young woman. She was talking with Papa — she said hello to us before we had to go to bed.'

'No, I don't remember. There are always so many people at Papa and Mama's parties, and nearly all the ladies wear necklaces. And bracelets. Or earrings, at least. It looks nice, wearing jewellery like that. Maybe we should have our ears pierced when we're older.'

'I bet it hurts.'

'Yes, but think of the lovely earrings we could wear.'

'Mama says it's vulgar to wear earrings at our age. Only guttersnipes have their ears pierced, she says.'

But Hilde isn't listening any more. She's asleep already.

*

'Professor Stumpfecker describes you as a clever man. You met him in Dresden recently, do you remember?'

'Of course.'

'Well, he'll be joining us before long. Stumpfecker says your lecture embodied some very interesting ideas that might be worth putting into practice. In order to try them out — '

'Excuse me, but I don't quite understand why you sent for me. This is a hospital, an SS hospital.'

'Well, assuming that Stumpfecker's report to this department is correct, the point you made was that the eastern territories cannot be Germanised in the traditional way, by teaching their inhabitants the German language and imposing German laws.'

'That sounds as if — '

'We must ensure that the East is exclusively inhabited by people with truly German, Germanic blood, isn't that what you said?'

What's the man driving at? Is this an indirect way of calling me up for military service? Stumpfecker knocks and enters. The SS major turns to him.

'Something seems to be wrong here, we're not getting anywhere. Perhaps you'd better give Herr Karnau a brief account of what we have in mind.'

'Where had you got to?'

'The question of Germanic blood.'

'Ah yes. It's like this, Karnau: you said that none of our linguistic programmes and Germanisation procedures, none of our attempts to din the language into people's heads by external means could ever get to the root of the matter, correct?'

'Yes, that's right.'

'Didn't you also say that the German language is in one's blood from birth, so to speak, and that one can't acquire it merely by learning its grammar, vocabulary and rules of pronunciation? That language flows through the human body like a constituent of the bloodstream and permeates each individual cell? That any linguistic adjustment must logically begin with the blood itself? That one must invade a person's circulation in order to get at the thing that renders him human, namely, his voice?'

'Not exactly. What I meant was — '

'Karnau, I have an almost verbatim recollection of your closing words: "Tackle the inner self by tackling the voice, and, in extreme cases, don't shrink from modifying the organs of speech by means of invasive surgery." '

'Well, in theory ...'

'Herr Karnau,' the major chimes in, 'you haven't been summoned here for interrogation. On the contrary, we're thinking of appointing you to head a special research team.'

'Really? What would its terms of reference be?'

'It would develop the line of inquiry you already outlined.'

Stumpfecker again: 'We're thinking of a combination of theorists and technicians. You, as an acoustician, would form the link between the two groups. We, of course, would be represented by myself.' He gives me an amiable nod. 'This whole idea has come as a surprise to you, I know. Sleep on it and we'll meet again tomorrow.'

It all sounds very fishy. Is there any chance of wriggling out of it? I must think up some pretext for regretfully declining their offer, I really must. Just as I'm on my way out the SS major calls after me, quite casually, as if the matter were of no importance:

'Oh yes, Herr Karnau, the formation of this research team will naturally exempt you from military service. As of now, you're in a reserved occupation.’

*

We're playing Brownshirts and undesirable elements, the game we saw them playing in Berlin one day. 'We'll give the orders,' Hilde says, looking at me, 'and the little ones have to obey them.'

The others fetch their toothbrushes from the bathroom and hold them out for us to inspect. Then we make them get down on their knees and scrub the nursery floor. Being in charge, we're allowed to shove them around and even kick them a little. They aren't allowed to look at us while they're scrubbing the floor, they have to look down the whole time. They aren't allowed to look at each other, either. They have to keep staring at their own stretch of carpet. The two of us stand over them with our legs apart and our hands on our hips. 'Go on,' we tell them, 'scrub harder, put your back into it.'

But it's much harder to scrub a carpet than a pavement. Bits come off and get stuck in the bristles, and it isn't long before they're full of fluff. Hilde plants her foot on Helmut's shoulder. 'Get a move on,' she says. 'Faster, cleaner!'

We yell our heads off. Hilde insists on yelling louder than me, but we both notice we're growing hoarse and get really angry with the others. They don't dare say a word, they scrub away without stopping and shuffle across the floor on their knees, faster and faster the louder we shout at them.

But all at once someone shouts even louder than us. It's Mama. The nursemaid must have fetched her. 'Have you gone completely mad?' she says. 'What are you up to? Stop it at once or you'll regret it. What on earth were you thinking of? What do you imagine our guests would say if they heard you? You'll ruin our reputation. Outside with you this minute.'

We slink downstairs and out into the garden. There's a garden party going on, but we don't feel like saying hello to anyone, we go straight down to the lake. We don't speak, Hilde chucks stones into the water. It really wouldn't have looked good if someone had heard us playing that game. No, no one must know what we were doing with the little ones. There are things you can see but you mustn't talk about. Like that opera singer. I mustn't ever say I saw her in Papa's office. I mustn't show it if she also comes to the garden party and I have to shake hands with her. Another thing: no one in the world must know that Papa was nearly killed.

Papa tries to keep it a secret from us, in fact he seriously thinks he's managed to prevent me from finding out what I'm not supposed to know. It didn't occur to him that I might have heard about it when I asked if it was dangerous, the road home from Nikolassee. But he couldn't conceal how scared he was, the time someone planned to blow up the bridge as he was driving over it — the little bridge where there's a specially strong smell of fish and weed in hot weather. Long after the man had been arrested and put to death, no one was allowed to say the word 'fisherman' when Papa was around because that was what the man had pretended to be, a fisherman.