I Loved a German

To The Reader

Some time ago a certain young man vanished – it isn’t known exactly when, why, where or how. He must have been of a fairly ordinary stamp, for otherwise his disappearance would not have gone unnoticed. At least with death, an individual appears more extraordinary when at the funeral mourners remind each other of what a great person he was, even though he was born small and weak, and lived mostly like an insect under the tree-bark. But with a missing man – this missing man, I mean – there wasn’t a single clue as to where to search for him. The people with whom he lived in town supposed that he had temporarily moved to his father’s farm, but there they were convinced that he was still living in town. And when it finally transpired that he was neither in the countryside nor in the town, it was too late to start a search. The police were informed, but they said that it is difficult to search for and find a person if there are no indications of a crime related to his disappearance. In order to assist the investigation, the lady with whom the young man had lodged brought the police a manuscript he’d left behind. But on closer inspection of the manuscript it emerged that it too lacked indications of criminal activity. For even if it were assumed – which is not very likely – that the young man had put an end to his own life or that that the actions or words of a young lady had incited him to do so, that would not have been of the least significance, for that young lady is dead, and the police do not pursue crimes committed by the dead. Moreover, the civilised world has not regarded suicide as a crime for a very long time, but rather as a certain act of personal freedom and independence, and therefore anyone who encourages suicide cannot be prosecuted in law, especially not when the encouragement is an element of a love affair.

To sum up – the manuscript did indicate a particular psychology, but not criminal one such as the police deal with, and therefore it was returned to the landlady. After she’d talked to the man’s relatives, the landlady turned to me because she had heard that I have a keen interest in every kind of psychology, whether criminal or not. As I read the manuscript, I became gripped by various aspects, not least the question of how much the events described correspond to reality. As I continued, this question came into ever sharper focus, especially because in places I found remarks in the margins of the pages, added in pencil and badly erased, such as ”a lie”, “not right”, “fantasy”, “exaggeration”, “quite the opposite” and so on. Likewise the margins of the manuscript were abundantly decorated with question and exclamation marks. Discussing it with the landlady who brought it, I found out that most of the markings were hers, but some were by her assistant. The two of them had read the manuscript several times, both alone and together, and tried to correct it where there was an outright mistake or a misunderstanding. Generally, though, she said, the story corresponded to the truth, and in that sense the present book has a striking authenticity: it could almost be life itself; in other words, it was born to be a story.

As time allowed, I tried for my part to help adjust the manuscript in accordance with the guidance from the landlady and her assistant so that no one should have anything to say against its authenticity. Adjusting it turned out to be very easy, for mostly there was so much contradiction between the landlady’s and her servant’s opinions that finding a golden mean was a mere trifle. If, for example, I asked the landlady, “Was there anything special about Miss Erika the young man seemed to see in her?”, she would reply, “That’s made up! Erika was a perfectly ordinary German girl, a bit naive, a bit wooden and stiff, but of course she wasn’t without a certain attraction as young girls generally have.” The servant answered the same question: “The young miss was much, much nicer than she’s portrayed in this book; the writer couldn’t have had any gift for poetry. I came to love her, and I cried my eyes out when I read here that she had died.” I went on to ask, “Does the letter at the end of the book appear to be genuine?” and the landlady gave this reply: “The letter must be a forgery from beginning to end, or altered in translation, apart from the handbag, because she really did have that with her once” – whereas the servant replied, “The young lady might actually have written a letter like that, only I don’t know anything about the bag and the things that must have been in it.” Finally I was interested to know what they thought of his coloured student’s cap and some other aspects of his life, and I got this answer from the landlady: “I don’t have any opinion on that, because those are mostly my and my husband’s opinions, which the man vanished wrote down.” The servant said, “Well, no, what is there to think! When it came to the colours of his cap – well, he was in a better class and position, wasn’t he? Like some Russian or even a German.” Nearly every question produced the same result. But as to the young lady having pimples on her face and her blonde hair really being a little curly, both were of the same opinion.

You might ask, Why is the book appearing under my name? Before we try to explain that, I have a duty to assure you: everything possible has been done to bring the actual author’s name to light as soon as a suitable moment arises. Initially his identity has to remain unknown, because it’s obvious that, if the people and events described here are at all true, the use of the author’s actual name could be detrimental to him and the other protagonists, all of whom are still alive with one exception. The death of the young man himself has not been established, although it is possible. Yet if some pseudonym had been considered, that would surely have been the first time that a dead person or a suspected dead person, hid behind a false name. Up to now there have indeed been false deaths, but no false names of the dead.

Use of my name as the author of the book was prompted on the one hand by economic considerations and on the other by literary and artistic ones. The former were emphasised understandably by those who were hoping for an income from the book, the latter by me personally. You see, I thought that if the book appeared under the young man’s real or assumed name, the protagonists’ origins would be uncovered, and other things would inevitably come to light. Thus a great deal would be added to literary science drawing attention to the writing but lessening interest in the book itself. It is strange that people are more interested in the location of Carrara marble or some kind of clay than in the images shaped from such marble or clay. People are forever being seduced by the logic that a work of art is explained and appreciated if it is known what it is made of and where its material came from. So it is quite understandable that we had a writer living among us who thought that no great works could be created, if there weren’t any factories manufacturing fountain pens used by people like us.

Since the book is now appearing as a work of my own, scarcely anyone will believe that there is anything true about it. They would rather think that it is all made up, purely fiction and imagination – that never in the world did there live such a student and korporant, such a landlady, such a servant, such a “German girl” or her grandfather. However mistaken that opinion, the reader will equivocate: firstly they have a chance to evade the literary-artistic science which examines, instead of a created image, holes in the clay, shards of marble or fountain pens, and secondly they will get a taste for the real life you get in fiction. This last point is especially important because the history of the young generation, and even more so the historical novel and cinema, take immense care to ensure that fiction is accepted as reality.

By using my name we were also attempting With my name we were also considering achieving certain results in literary policy. If the book had appeared under some stylish new and unfamiliar name, critics would certainly have expected something new or unfamiliar in it. And if they didn’t find it, they would have said, “What’s the point of this stylish new book and name, if everything else is old?” It is quite certain that they would not have found it, for finding something new in a book, if its author is not your friend, is just as difficult as seeing a thing you’ve stumbled into – only philosophers can manage that. But would any philosopher in Estonia behave like a critic? It would have been even worse if the newness of the name had been matched by the same kind of content, because neither a reader nor a critic like new things: for the former it spoils the entertainment expected of reading; for the latter it makes it more difficult to write reviews priced by the line. Therefore the critic, whether old or young, functions by force of nature like a guardian. Whether a biped human, a quadruped dog or a feathered bird in an Indian village, he makes a loud shrill noise when he smells, hears or sees anything unknown and strange. By putting my name on the book, we hoped the book would have a relatively ordinary reception: the old guardians would growl appreciatively on getting acquainted, looking downwards so to speak, because the maker always stands on a lower level than the consumer or critic of the object; the younger ones, who don’t know me, raise angrier voices, smelling something foreign which does not need to be appreciated, merely disdained.

Finally the landlady was able to convince me that the appearance of the book under my name would be useful not only to the book, the reader and the publisher, but to me as well: to the book for its literary credentials, to the reader for being more to their taste, to the publisher for business reasons, but to me for moral ones. She said I had always written about love without encouraging moral improvement, as if this were some sort of unnatural phenomenon. This book could be read as a story of how a love can remain within moral bounds if it is the right one. If the book bears my name, there will of course be gullible people who think, however wrongly, that it was written by me, and thus they could quite easily conclude that I too subscribe to a moral basis for love. That would be useful to me too, she argued. And the benefit to me would be even greater, and my rehabilitation on the basis of love would be more complete, so for that reason she wanted me to make certain adjustments to the text. For a start I should erase the scene where the young man seizes the helpless girl by the waist in the park, although he himself has fallen to his knees. Secondly, instead of a “German girl” I should put in a “fine Estonian lass”, because there are still some among them who have natural curls in their blond hair, thus protecting the fictional value of the book. Thirdly, instead of the German grandfather there should be a stout old Estonian gentleman. Fourthly, the entire letter should be removed, or at least only those parts that speak of the child and the spirit should be left in, because, she said, real love was only concerned with those two matters. When I objected that this would distort the truth, because this book is a factual account, the lady replied, “That’s of no importance. It may be a factual account, but such things should be left to the holy book and the newspapers; a book that appears under someone’s name should be moral.” I went to great lengths to ensure this book was published as the young man had written it. If it really does bring me misfortune, as the landlady predicted, there is nothing I can do about it; I have acted according to my conscience.

In short, the names are the only pure fiction in this book, both those of the author and those of the protagonists; all the rest are things that happened here in Estonia. Where a name is missing, it is at the wish of the relevant person. For example, the landlady did not want a pseudonym for herself, and remains without any name at all. Her husband followed the same practice. Their will be done. The servant’s name is what she chose for herself, with her mistress’s approval of course. The inventor of the young man’s name is his sister. I deleted the grandfather’s name on my own initiative. I hope this hasn’t detracted from the book’s value too much.

As editor of this book, I have nothing more to say; the rest will become clear in the reading, and anyone who doesn’t read this book will require an explanation. May God have mercy on them.

I give the floor to the young man who vanished.

A.H.T.