Katerina

11

LIKE ALL JEWISH FUNERALS, Henni’s was gloomy and confused. The people ran about next to the gate of the cemetery and spoke in panicked tones. I stood at the side. This strange tumult made my sadness congeal within me.

A tall man with an active demeanor told at annoying length about how he had learned about Henni’s death at night and how he had succeeded, he and his two friends, in renting a car and arriving here. In a corner, Henni’s manager spoke about disruptions of that season’s programs and about the compensation he would have to pay to the owners of concert halls who had sold tickets in advance.

About ten men had gathered, and now they were waiting for the bereaved mother.

“Where can one obtain a cup of coffee? Without a cup of coffee I’m lost,” called out a man dressed in an exotic coat and wearing a broad silk cravat.

“There are nothing but graves here,” another man answered clearly.

“Henni will forgive me. She’ll understand me. She too was addicted to coffee.”

“The funeral begins at ten.”

“Jewish funerals never begin on time. There’s a buffet not far from here. Won’t you join me?”

“I’ll do it on the run.”

All the faces were foreign to me; during the last year very few people had visited the house. Henni had a single sentence on her lips: “If this is your inner consciousness, if this is what your heart tells you to do, who am I to stand in your way?” She used to recite that sentence hourly. After she spoke it, there would be a silence, and then she would repeat it. That was on a Saturday when Izio hadn’t returned home, and Henni knew what had been done could never be undone. She sank to the ground, moaning in tears. I, for some reason, reproached her and told her, “You mustn’t weep that way for people who are still living.”

Now everything had come to an end. A few Jews in tattered traditional dress scurried between the office and the graves. From time to time, they would accost someone and ask for a contribution. One of the nonreligious men said out loud, “Leave me alone,” recoiling with repugnance, as though that Jew had wanted to touch him.

Time raced by, and the mother hadn’t arrived. The men stood at the office door, asked questions, and grumbled. The most annoying of all was Henni’s manager. He said, “We can’t wait forever. There’s a limit to patience.”

“By all means, telephone.”

“To whom? To God?”

“To her mother.”

“Did they inform her?”

“I assume so.”

“For whom, then, are we waiting?”

“For the mother.”

“And if they didn’t inform her?”

“Ask the burial society, don’t ask me.” The clerk’s patience had snapped.

The head of the burial society didn’t respond. He sat in the other room and read a newspaper.

“This is Jewish order. Jewish order is warped, confused, and wicked,” said the manager, and left the office doorway.

Afterward, the manager and his two assistants burst in and demanded: “The funeral must start now. The funeral must start immediately.”

“And who will pay?” The head of the burial society lay down his cards on the bare table.

“Who’s supposed to pay?”

“The relatives or friends of the deceased, and if there are none—his employers. Is that too difficult to understand?”

“I, for example, don’t understand it.”

“It’s very simple,” said the head of the burial society in a voice as chilly as ice. “Maintaining the cemetery costs a fortune. Somebody has to pay, right?”

“Should the mourners pay? Now, with the dead woman lying before them?”

“There’s no cause for embarrassment here. Money is money everywhere.”

“And if we don’t pay?”

“We’ll leave the body unburied, if that’s the mourners’ wish.”

“Now I understand,” said the manager. “It’s not a question of her mother but of money.”

“Gravediggers have to eat too, sir. By the way, to whom have I the honor of speaking?”

“What difference does that make?”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

Now matters proceeded very listlessly. Neither the clerk nor the head of the burial society left the office. The sky became covered with clouds, and a thin drizzle sprinkled down. Fatigue gradually overcame me. Had it not been for the rain, I would have sat down. I tried to remember Henni’s face, but I couldn’t see a thing. Finally, my old cousin Sarina appeared before me. I knew she wanted to torture me, and I closed my eyes.

While we were standing there, the manager burst back into the office, shouting, “I won’t wait anymore. I’m going. Cheats rule over the Jews. Everything is money. Henni was and shall always remain dear to me. I despise ceremonies. Everybody knows that I built up a magnificent career for her. You can take her body but not her spirit. She deserves another kind of funeral, a quiet one, like among the Christians. At any rate, you’ll not bury me here. I’m going to have my body cremated. I don’t believe in resurrection.”

The officials didn’t seem astonished, and they didn’t react. The manager now mixed in another matter: the death of a young violinist. The violinist had died in a hotel, and the burial society had demanded an exaggerated fee for the burial.

“I see you also talk about money,” said the head of the burial society, without excitement.

“I’m allowed to. I collect money for artists. Without me, there wouldn’t be any art in the provinces. The provinces would languish. Who would bring young pianists here, young violinists, and famous lecturers? Who? Who pays them? You just take. You’re just robbers.”

“We also serve the community.”

“A horrible service, a monstrous service, an evil service. I’m going. I don’t want to be in the company of bloodsuckers. Come on,” he said, and turned toward the exit gate. His two assistants joined him, and they went out.

“Just to avoid paying. That whole act just to avoid paying. We know your kind.” The head of the burial society rose to his feet.

Now only seven people remained, neither relatives nor friends but anonymous people who had heard Henni play and been enthralled.

“Did you know the pianist?” a woman addressed me.

“I was her housemaid,” I revealed immediately.

“Marvelous,” said the woman. “I was present at all her concerts. She was a great pianist. It’s a shame she wasted her energy traveling. An artist must appear in his native city and not wander about. In the provinces they don’t know how to appreciate music. Aren’t I right?”

“Death isn’t the end,” I told her, for some reason.

“It was easier for my father and mother. They were believing Jews and resigned to their fate, but we—how can I say it?—are different.”

“Don’t you believe in God?”

“I believe, and sometimes wholeheartedly, but it isn’t an unbroken faith, just flashes. It’s hard to explain. You speak a fine Yiddish. How did you learn it?”

“I spent most of my years with Jews.”

“A strange nation, the Jews, aren’t they?”

The day grew dimmer, and there was no movement. For a moment it seemed as though it would remain that way forever. We would stand there, and the clerks would sit in their office. From time to time someone would go to the door and ask a question. The official would answer or refuse to answer, and the hands of the clock wouldn’t move.

While everyone was standing there, tired and mute, the head of the burial society came out of his office and announced: “The funeral of Henni Trauer will start at once. We are simple people. We never studied in academies, but we aren’t corrupt; we won’t leave the body unburied.”

As the last word left his mouth, the gravediggers came out, bearing the coffin. What had happened, and why just now, no one inquired. The handful of people standing near the doorway hurried and ran to catch up with the grave-diggers.

Prayers were rattled off, half swallowed, and it was clear to everyone that the gravediggers were doing their duty and no more. I have seen many funerals in my lifetime, but I have never seen such a hasty one as this.

After the funeral, a few beggars came out of their lairs and shouted, “Charity will save from death!” No one gave them a penny. Everyone fled the place as though from a fire.

The funeral guests dispersed, and I remained in a street bustling with people. My body was heavy, and it was hard for me to go on. That night I took refuge in a Jewish tavern. A few drunken peasants were immersed in merry chatter and didn’t disturb me. I sat and drank glass after glass, andI wept.

“What’s the matter?” The owner came over to me.

“I’m very tired and have no place to stay.”

“No matter,” the man said. “You can sleep here. I’ll give you a mattress right away.”