Heidegger's Glasses: A Novel (25 page)

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Authors: Thaisa Frank

BOOK: Heidegger's Glasses: A Novel
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Even the SS men walked rigidly, as if trying not to hurtle into death. The whole camp reminded Asher of a ghoulish Black Forest of Being, a bizarre amusement park, with barracks instead of trees.
The only person who didn’t seem to feel on the precipice of death was Asher’s assistant, Sypco Van Hoot—a large, compassionate man who’d been a successful bank robber in Holland. His generosity confirmed the opinion at Auschwitz that bank robbers were the most trustworthy and straightforward of criminals because they’d always been honest about their motives. Sypco told Asher he’d gotten used to living with danger, so what was the difference now?
Sypco, who knew how to weld, took the lenses and Asher’s instructions to another part of the camp to make frames. He always stopped at a place called Kanada, where inmates, most of them women, most of them beautiful, sorted possessions from new arrivals. Now and then Sypco brought Asher gifts from Kanada—a watch, a pair of shoes, a sweater. Asher gave them to Daniel as barter for food.
Two weeks after he’d been transferred to the clinic, Sypco brought him a suit and a fedora.
So they’re going to shoot me in style, said Asher.
They never shoot anyone in style, said Sypco. It’s too much trouble to take off good clothes.
Gas me in style, then.
They’d never give me anything from Kanada for someone who’s about to die, said Sypco. It’s too much trouble to sort again.
That night no one came to take him back to the barracks. Asher sat at his worktable, sure he was about to be shot. He was astonished and resentful that his instruments still gleamed and kept thinking about his son. After what seemed like hours, an officer brought him beef, potatoes, warm milk, a loaf of bread, and beer—another last meal. Only this time Asher was so used to food, it didn’t occur to him not to eat. The same officer came back and helped him into the suit. When he put the fedora on his head, the officer looked at it critically, adjusting it until he was satisfied. Then they left the clinic.
Asher had seen Auschwitz many times at night, but now he imagined how his own blood would stain the snow. The searchlights would turn it black. By morning it would be pink. By afternoon it would fade to rust. No one would give it any thought except Daniel, who would realize what happened when his father didn’t answer roll call.
The officers’ quarters were filled with drunken singing. One officer walked up to them, raised his stein, and spilled beer on Asher’s shoes.
For God’s sake, said the officer escorting him. If you can’t hold your liquor, can’t you at least hold your glass?
The other officer bowed and wiped Asher’s shoes. They kept walking until they came to a large mahogany door.
You’re honored, said the officer. This is where the Commandant entertains visitors.
Asher entered a wood-paneled room with leather armchairs and a fireplace with a fire—the first fire in four months he was sure wasn’t meant for burning people. The Commandant stood in front of the fireplace, a man in an SS uniform to his right, and Martin Heidegger next to him. He wore a ski outfit and an alpine hat.
What on earth are you doing here? said Asher.
My friend, said Heidegger. I had to see you.
He walked over and put his arms around Asher. My God, he said. How do you spend your time here?
Making glasses, said Asher.
You came all the way for that?
Yes. But it was worth it.
They laughed and entered a realm no one else could follow—the realm of old friends and private jokes.
For a moment there was a festive feeling in the room. But when the Commandant told everyone to sit down and poured brandy, the air was imbued with silence. The silence continued until the SS officer pointed to a 17th-century painting of a man with a ruched collar.
That’s a wonderful Rembrandt, he said.
The Commandant nodded. We went to a lot of trouble to get it.
Everyone should go to trouble to find roots in the past, said Heidegger.
Exactly, said the Commandant.
To
Das Volk
, said Heidegger, raising his glass.
Well put, said the Commandant.
The Commandant cleared his throat, and Heidegger took a paper from his ski suit. It was covered with dried soup and strands of potato peels.
Did you write this letter? he said.
Asher looked at a letter he was sure he hadn’t written. But he saw his own signature. Had he written it in his sleep? The letter was about poetry and the mystery of the triangle and the word
to distance
as in
I distanced myself from the controversy
. He never would have written such a letter. Yet his signature was there. And the wrong answer could get him shot.
I can’t say, he said.
For God’s sake, said Heidegger. I need to know. Because if you wrote this, the whole world has gone mad.
The Commandant laughed. Let’s drink to that, he said. The sanity of the world depends on who answered a letter.
You don’t understand, said Heidegger. This man was my colleague. He brought Leibniz to the modern age. The two of us
think
.
I don’t do that anymore, said Asher.
You mean you
did
write the letter?
At this point three shots rang out. The Commandant walked to a gramophone and put on a Mozart piano concerto in C Major.
I’m sorry for the commotion, he said, turning the handle of the gramophone as though it were a meat grinder.
Well did you? said Heidegger.
What? said Asher.
Write the letter.
It’s been so long.
But you can’t have, said Heidegger. You have a remarkable mind. Believe me, he said, turning to the Commandant. You have no idea who you’re talking to. It’s not just a question of whatever little thing you might have read in school about whether trees make a noise when they fall in the forest. This man understands Leibniz.
The Commandant raised his fists to either side of his head and pulled his hair. Then he poured Asher more brandy.
You can talk freely here, he said to him. You’re a privileged person. Believe me—he addressed the SS officer—this man has been given everything. And he makes wonderful glasses.
I know, said Heidegger. I always go to him. And I never got the last ones he made.
Well, now he makes glasses for officers, said the Commandant. And they’re very pleased with them. He has every assurance of continuing.
Every assurance of continuing
could mean
is just about to be shot
. Asher wondered if his status as a philosopher made his death deserve a witness like Heidegger. The SS officer seemed to share his mistrust because he said there was probably one thing Asher wasn’t sure about at all and this was being able to go on living.
No one gets that anymore—not even me, said the Commandant.
There were more shots outside the window. The Commandant turned up Mozart.
You see? he said. I can’t even ask for quiet.
Then why did you bring me here? said Heidegger. We’re in a room with a fireplace, and my friend looks like a ghost. There are gunshots outside, and we can’t even hear. This whole place is tilted.
How could anything be tilted? said the Commandant. We’re in a pleasant room. We’ve just made a toast to the past. There’s no place that’s safe to talk anymore.
I can think of other places that are safer, said the officer.
Where? said the Commandant. That ridiculous alpine hut where this pontificator lives? Or the street in Holland where they wiped out twenty people for hiding two fugitives?
No one spoke. The phone rang, and the Commandant didn’t answer. When the ringing stopped, he said:
I understand you gentlemen have matters that are best talked about in private. So we’ll leave you in peace. Help yourself to brandy.
He left with the officer, and Asher faced Heidegger alone. The Mozart concerto intensified his sense that he was in Freiburg: his wife had played this piece many times. But he kept himself from lapsing into a feeling of well-being and looked carefully at the man sitting opposite him. Was this really Heidegger, or someone pretending to be? And would a philosophical discussion be a prelude to death?
But this person was so bulbous in his ski suit—indeed it seemed as though the chair was about to extrude him—Asher decided he was really Martin Heidegger.
Martin, he said, leaning over and touching his shoulder, you came all this way.
I had to, said Heidegger. You didn’t answer my letter.
I never got it.
But why did you leave in the first place?
To make glasses.
Did you ever make mine?
Yes, but I don’t know if you got them, said Asher. Don’t you remember I told you to find another optometrist?
I thought you were joking.
I wasn’t.
The Commandant stuck his head in the door and wanted to know if they’d finished their conversation. Heidegger said not at all. The Commandant disappeared, and Heidegger fell silent. Then he said:
What were we laughing about when you first came in?
I can’t remember, said Asher.
Something about
but it was worth it
, said Heidegger, looking around as though he could find the joke. But it had vanished beyond the walls. So he reached for something else.
Did you know I’m not teaching anymore? he said.
You told me, said Asher.
I miss it, said Heidegger.
But you said you were writing.
Not every minute of the day. And it’s hard to escape mortality without teaching.
I thought not trying to escape was the highest calling, said Asher.
It is, said Heidegger. But no one can do that all the time. The hut is darker than it used to be. I can even smell the darkness.
You should write about that, said Asher.
I already have, said Heidegger. What else is there to say?
But Asher didn’t want to explain. He’d lost the marrow of friendship during Heidegger’s visits to his shop. And whatever was left had been destroyed by what he’d seen at Auschwitz. So instead of elaborating, he leaned forward and said:
Martin, I hope you understand that your interest in man’s awareness of mortality has a different kind of meaning in a place where just wearing the wrong pair of shoes can get you shot.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
I’m amazed you don’t, said Asher. I’m amazed you don’t know that people here are forced to remember their mortality in the most horrible conditions. And no one ever asked them if they wanted to think about it in the first place.
How am I supposed to know about things like that? said Heidegger.
The rising timbre of his voice made the Commandant open the door.
Have you gentlemen come to a conclusion yet?
Heidegger said they hadn’t, and the Commandant left. Heidegger stood by the fireplace.
What’s the real reason you didn’t answer my letter? he said.
I told you. I didn’t get it.
Don’t they mail letters here?
No.
I’ve never heard of anything so stupid. Letters should be mailed. That’s what they’re for.
The Commandant opened the door.
You’re shouting, he said. We don’t allow that.
I don’t care what you allow, said Heidegger. You can’t even deliver a letter.
The phone rang again. The Commandant pulled his hair. When the ringing stopped, he turned to the SS man and said:
He’s making a nuisance of himself. The next thing he’ll be yodeling. And the Jew’s heard too much. So take him where you came from, or we’ll deal with him some other way. But whatever you decide about the Jew, this alpine asshole has to go. And understand you’re on your own. All I can give you is a Kübelwagen to the station.

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