Read Heidegger's Glasses: A Novel Online

Authors: Thaisa Frank

Heidegger's Glasses: A Novel (17 page)

BOOK: Heidegger's Glasses: A Novel
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Talia was annoyed when Mikhail said he was going to write the letter Elie wanted him to write and she ought to practice Asher’s signature. She was an expert forger and had made identity cards early in the war, but she resented being part of a harebrained scheme.
What makes you think a letter would get anybody out? she said. Or even that they’re alive?
I have to write it anyway. Stumpf keeps bothering me, and if I don’t, he could turn Maria over to the SS.
You can’t get people out of Auschwitz, said Talia. Look what happened to Aaron in a town square. And it was hard enough to get Maria.
Lodz was a ghetto, said Mikhail. And maybe the story about the Angel of Auschwitz is true. Anyway, I have to write something. And Elie will bring the letter.
Elie’s no Angel of Auschwitz.
She got Maria, said Mikhail. And she has a way with people.
Don’t I know it, said Talia.
She fussed with her hair, which theoretically should have been an Orthodox wig but never had been and certainly wouldn’t be now. She unleashed the clasp and let her hair fall on her shoulders in long red curls.
So you’ll do what she wants, she said.
Suppose a letter had saved Aaron?
But it didn’t, said Talia. And no piece of paper can stop a bullet.
While Talia studied Asher’s signature from the prescription for Heidegger’s glasses, Mikhail began to think about Heidegger’s happiness—or, more exactly, about what would annoy him. These thoughts began to consume every minute of his day. When he went to look at the stars, he hardly talked to Lars at all. And when he came downstairs, he reread Heidegger’s letter to Asher and used a German dictionary to unravel the etymology that Sophie Nachtgarten said was nonsense.
Stumpf had given him the dictionary. He’d said it had more words than any other dictionary in the world, and Mikhail became so obsessed with every word of Heidegger’s letter, he’d begun to believe him: Heidegger played with the word
entfernen
—to distance—as in
I distanced myself from the controversy
. From
entfernen
he had invented
ent-fernen
, which Mikhail took to mean
to get rid of distance
. It amused him that Heidegger played with words. It reminded him of arguments in the Talmud.
Tonight Mikhail looked at the paralyzed horizon outside his window and saw Aries and Chiron and the North Star in a sky that wasn’t real. It gave him the same sense he’d had when he’d once seen a potato cart overturn in Krakow, transforming the street into a vegetable bin. There had been a moment when he couldn’t remember what streets were for—a moment without signposts or moorings. It must have been how Heidegger felt when he hadn’t recognized his glasses.
Mikhail lit a cigarette and waved smoke from the couch where Dimitri was sleeping. How many people had given thought to this matter the way Heidegger had? And did Heidegger have any idea about the gas chambers when he ranted about people not understanding the Being of machines and technology?
He stayed at the window for a long time, trying to imagine the kind of letter Asher Englehardt would write and the kind of letter Asher Englehardt would never write. The first would be thoughtful and intelligent. The second would be nonsense.
He wanted to write the first—if only to reach another mind across his unbearable sense of isolation. But he knew he had to write the second because it could save Asher’s son, who—if he were alive—must be terrified. He remembered Aaron’s eyes right before he’d been shot and replaced it with a memory of Aaron at nine after he’d thrown dirt at Mrs. Mercier’s porch. He was trembling when he got home, and Mikhail told him:
Don’t be scared. Mrs. Mercier likes to yell.
In addition to the dictionary, Stumpf had given him a typewriter—an Adler. Mikhail began to type, avoiding etymology because he didn’t want to make nonsense out of
entfernen
.
While he wrote, Mikhail heard incessant rustling in the main room. It seemed to be talking to itself, as if resuming an interminable conversation it couldn’t have during the day. Maybe it was complaining about the smell of ink and earth. Or maybe it was troubled about the Compound’s mission. He also heard mumbling that sounded like a séance. Stumpf had told him he was going to invoke a button dealer from the 19th century:
One of the respectable dead
, as he’d put it.
Mikhail debated when he came to the part of Heidegger’s letter that talked about the Being of machines. In Krakow he’d had an old Renault that was always breaking down. The car ran his life instead of him running it.
But he couldn’t mention a car because he didn’t know if Asher Englehardt ever owned one. And the only other thing he could think of was the gas chambers. So he didn’t write about machines. Instead he indulged himself by writing something about etymology. Then he invented an imaginary text from the Talmud—but crossed out most of it because he thought he should leave the Talmud out of it. Not that he had faith left in anything.
When he was finished, he read the letter over and saw that it was appropriately ludicrous.
The hidden letter
, he wrote in his coded notebook.
The words we only dream.
What a piece of nonsense, Talia said when she read the letter.
It could save a child, said Mikhail.
I’m tired of saving other people’s children, said Talia.
She pulled the letter away and duplicated Asher’s signature. She didn’t include his last name because Heidegger had only signed
Martin
.
While Talia wrote, Mikhail was aware of Dimitri’s quiet breathing on the couch, the rustling in the main room, and mumbling from the séance. There was a sudden blast of artillery and a chorus of
shut ups
and
use your fucking pen for God’s sake
. It was La Toya, who meant to publish his memoirs after the war.
Then there was silence and no more mumbling. Undoubtedly Sonia’s delectable bum had distracted Stumpf, and it crossed his mind that he wouldn’t show him the letter but bring it straight to Elie. On the other hand, Stumpf had been hovering constantly. And he’d helped save Maria, even if Elie had done all the legwork.
What nonsense, Talia said again when she was finished.
Mikhail said he meant it to be nonsense and took the letter up to the shoebox. He heard the click of seven latches and entered a room rife with incense. Stumpf was so pleased by the letter’s utter incomprehensibility he abandoned Sonia and walked with Mikhail to the cobblestone street. Lars, who was going to take Mikhail to see the stars, raced over to them.
It’s okay, Mikhail said. I’ll go with Stumpf tonight.
Mikhail and Stumpf walked across the clearing, ice cracking under their shoes. Stumpf lumbered up to the watchtower and Mikhail followed. The stars were uncannily bright.
What do you see? said Stumpf.
A world to fall out of, said Mikhail.
What do you mean? said Stumpf. The world is here. He gestured beyond the platform. The woods are all around you. Germany—the fatherland.
He kept pointing toward the woods as though he owned them. Then he said:
It’s a wonderful letter. I’ll deliver it myself.
Not yet, said Mikhail, taking it back. Talia has to sign Asher’s last name. Otherwise Heidegger won’t believe it.
But they were friends, said Stumpf.
Mikhail ignored him and walked back to the shepherd’s hut, hurrying down the incline, with Stumpf heaving after him. After they’d walked down the street and were navigating the pear tree, Stumpf lifted the dictionary off the bench.
You made good use of this, he said.
Mikhail nodded and opened the door. Within moments he felt the dictionary crash on his head and the letter pried from his hands. By the time Stumpf ran to the main room and grabbed the box of glasses off Elie’s desk, Mikhail had lost consciousness. He didn’t hear Dimitri scream. He didn’t know that Lodenstein ran after Stumpf to try to stop him from driving away down the long, narrow road.
THE BLACK FOREST
Dear Martin,
 
I have read your letter with great interest and have been giving some thought to the word Ent-fernen. You are obviously still preoccupied with the element of distancing from objects in order to see them, and, of course, I share your preoccupation. When we don’t see things as there for our use, we see them differently, perhaps as someone from another culture would see them. And for this purpose there is nothing more interesting than the word Ent-fernen.
Yet I fear you are playing with leaves on trees when you should be looking at the forest. (And you, of all people, should know about forests!) The mystery of Being found in falling through the paths is of utmost importance in these times. And paths can become abstract unless they are real paths, and you are actually walking through them. I must tell you that recently I have come upon an ancient text (in the Zohar of all places!), which talks about the Mystery of the Triangle, and for some reason it’s caught my attention. The text reads as follows:
The triangle is the most paradoxical of human situations. It is the secret of all covenants and a cause of betrayal. Indeed, it’s a great challenge to the human heart because it has the power to create incredible good and cause incredible grief, as well as induce states of ecstasy and lunacy. Making a triangle with integrity is in the service of God.
Even though it’s an archaic text, I think it speaks to the need for a clear understanding between people, especially during troubled times. If there are two things, there has to be a third thing to be sure they balance. This third thing is to keep the first two things in place but it should never interfere with the spirit of their interaction.
As for poetry, it can evoke. And I think that poetry often brings people to the heart of experience. But references to etymology, as wonderful as roots are, often escape people.
And you want them to understand, Martin, so they can arrive at a perilous edge from which they dare to leap into new understanding. This is what happened with your glasses, didn’t it? (Your new pair is enclosed, by the way.) You experience them—as much as anyone is capable—as things in themselves, and we must do this with everything, particularly with each other.
 
Your faithful friend,
Asher
BOOK: Heidegger's Glasses: A Novel
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