The Second Son
A Novel
By Jonathan Rabb
Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC
Copyright © 2011
Jonathan Rabb
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-374-29913-2
Chapter One
BARCELONA
There was nothing but heat and sun. And, from time to time, the young
man forced himself to arch his neck just to feel the lines of sweat dripping
down his back.
What had he expected, a German in Spain? It was his job to sweat and
look sickly doing it. His cheeks had gone a nice pasty red, even through a
three-day growth of beard. He wasn't smelling all that good either, but then
neither were any of the others in the row, staring across the plaza, cameras
at the ready, cigarettes hanging limply from parched lips.
The young man had thought about keeping the beard, but he knew his
wife would tell him to shave it off the moment he got back to Berlin. It
would probably scare the boy anyway—"Where's my papi! Where's my
papi!" ringing down the hall, screams and tears before all the presents came
tumbling out of the suitcase. Presents were always good with a boy of four,
even from a father he didn't quite recognize.
It hadn't been that long, he thought. Not this time—had it?
The young man kept his right arm on the crank of the movie camera,
his eye at the viewfinder, as, with his left hand, he tried to grope for the can
of water he had set down somewhere on the cobbled pavement.
He must have looked ridiculous doing it because a voice down the line
blurted out, "You do juggling tricks as well, Hoffner, or is it just the balancing
act?"
The words were Spanish, but it was a thick Eastern European accent
that muddied the sound.
Georg Hoffner pulled himself back from the camera. He brought his
long body upright, blinked the sweat from his eye, and stared down at a fat
Bulgarian with a hand-held Leica strung across his chest. The camera
looked twenty years old, cutting-edge for a Bulgarian.
"Why?" said Hoffner. "You have some balls that need juggling?"
There were a few laughs, those dry uncomfortable laughs that come
with heat and sweat, but almost at once the line fell silent. Across the plaza,
the doors to a vast building opened. Hoffner quickly repositioned himself
behind the camera and peered through the viewfinder. He focused on the
banner hanging above, hastily painted but still impressive:
PEOPLE'S OLYMPICS, 19–26 JULY, 1936, BARCELONA FOR THE PEOPLE,
FOR THE WORKERS
A line of young men and women began to pour out the doors, all
dressed as workers, with red neckerchiefs and berets to signify their exalted
station in life. To be a worker in Barcelona these days, a member of the
proletariat—that was the stuff of dreams. To be a worker athlete—well,
that was pure legend.
The fat Bulgarian snapped his shots as he tried to squeeze past the line
of Guardia Civil: patent leather hats, patent leather boots—patent leather
men with patent leather souls. How these soldiers were managing to stay
upright in the heat was anybody's guess. Still, Bulgarians were never much
good at maneuvering through large Spaniards with cudgels. The Bulgarian
pushed once too often and his camera went crashing to the pavement.
Hoffner heard the moans from down the line, but it wasn't enough to
draw his attention from the smart set of Germans striding across his lens.
Hoffner cranked as they walked, his arm remarkably steady as he followed
them along the plaza. There was something almost Soviet to the way these
boys moved, triumphant and bedraggled all at once, their nobility protruding
from the angle of their heads and the broadness of their chests. He
recognized them from this morning's press conference outside the Olympic
Stadium. It had been a hell of a time getting the cameras into the funicular
and up the mountain, where the smells of wheat and cow manure and
maybe beets—he hadn't been able to place that one—followed the tram
all the way up.
It had been the German contingent on the podium this morning.
The place of honor. After all, they were the ones protesting their own
Olympic games—Hitler's chance to show the world the best of Nazi
Germany. Hitler, however, would have to wait another ten days before
parading his Aryan ideals in Berlin. Until then, it was the worker athletes
here in Barcelona—Germans, Swedes, Russians, English, on and
on—who would remind the world that sport was pure and not meant to
be used as a tool of politics. Hoffner suspected it was a logic only the Left
could follow.
Truth be known, most of these boys hadn't seen Germany in years.
They were Jews and Communists and socialists—exiles living in France or
England—but still they had come to compete as Germans. Proletariat Germans.
Protesting Germans. Take that, you fascist bastards.
The boys reached the buses parked at the edge of the plaza. They
turned and waved to no one in particular and then got on. Hoffner stopped
the crank and stood upright. The Bulgarian was still yelling at the Guardia.
The buses began to move and the Guardia, no less bored, headed off
in various directions, leaving the Bulgarian to shout into the emptying
plaza.
"Come and have a drink," Hoffner said, as he began to fold up the legs
on his camera. "We'll let Pathé Gazette pay for it—what do you say?—and
maybe we'll find you a camera lying around somewhere."
The Bulgarian stopped squawking. He picked up the cracked pieces of
his Leica and headed over. His smell preceded him by a good ten meters.
The bar was down in the Raval section of town, near the water and the
docks, a good place for pimps and drunks and journalists. At two in the
morning there was little chance of telling them apart; now, at four in the
afternoon, it was primarily journalists. And one or two whores. They were
big girls, with big chests, dark black hair like dripping tar, and tight skirts
that hugged the thighs like two thick columns of flesh. The skirts were a
kind of protective measure for men too eager to get a passing hand up and
inside.
"The games are a joke," the Bulgarian said to Hoffner. Two others
were sitting with them, all four drinking what passed for whiskey. "You'd
think if they're going to protest your Nazis, they'd have someone outside of
Spain who actually cares that they're protesting."
Hoffner was reading through one of the letters he had gotten from his
wife. He liked reading them over and over, especially when he was sitting
with Bulgarians and Poles and—he couldn't remember what the dozing
fourth one was, Russian or Czech. What did it matter? These types all got
drunk the same way, spoke the same kind of broken Spanish, and tried
to get the girls for cheap. But they all liked that Pathé Gazette picked up
the bill for the first few rounds. Hoffner liked it as well. He would have to
remember to put in for it.
The Bulgarian said, "You think Hitler cares that a few Communists
decide to run the long jump? Or a socialist can throw a hammer?" The
Bulgarian was fat and small, a winning combination. "I interviewed one of
them. He's here for the chess. Can you imagine it? Chess as Olympic sport?
This one was terribly impressive after he cleaned his glasses and patted
down his bald head. Now that's an athlete."
Hoffner continued to scan the letter. "My son's been reading the front
page of the
Tageblatt all by himself," he said. "Every word."
The Pole was pouring out his third glass. "He likes the news?"
"Let's hope not."
"How long has he been reading?"
"The last few months. He's four and a bit."
"I've been reading much longer than that. Are you impressed?"
"Only if you read better than you write."
The Pole smiled and drank.
The Bulgarian was leaning back over his chair and staring at one of the
girls at the bar. She was staring back with just the right kind of indifference.
The Bulgarian turned his head to the table. "She wouldn't go for less
than ten pesetas, you think?"
"She wouldn't go for it when you asked her last night," said the Pole.
"Or the night before. But don't let that stop you from asking again."
The Bulgarian peered over at Hoffner. "Must be nice to have a wife
who writes letters. And a little boy."
"Must be," Hoffner said distractedly.
"I have one somewhere. A wife. Not the writing type." He leaned forward.
"So tell me, why is it that Pathé Gazette has a German working for
them? It's English newsreel. Shouldn't you be with Ufa-Tonwoche or
Phoebus? One of the German studios?"
Hoffner folded the letter and placed it in his pocket. "Phoebus never
did newsreels."
"So why not Ufa?"
Hoffner took hold of the bottle. "Not too many Jews working out at
Ufa these days." He poured himself a glass. "I'd say none, but then there's
always one or two who've managed to slip through the cracks. Too good at
what they do for some government statute to force them out. I wasn't that
good in the first place." He drank.
"I'm a Jew," said the Pole.
Hoffner poured himself another. "Good for you."
The Bulgarian said, "And Pathé Gazette just happened to have an office
in Berlin? How nice. I'm thinking they haven't had time to set one up
in Sofia just yet."
"Don't sound so bitter," Hoffner said with a smile. "The girl'll think
you don't really want her."
The Bulgarian shot a glance back at the bar. The girl was chatting up
the barman.
The Pole pushed back his chair. "I have an interview with the Swedish
fencing team," he said. "We're very keen on fencing in Warsaw." He stood.
"Anyone interested?"
"Are there women on the team?" said the Bulgarian.
"I imagine so."
"My God. Swedish women in those outfits. And socialists to boot." The
Bulgarian was on his feet. He piped his voice toward the girl at the bar.
"No more negotiating, capitalist. I'm off to the Revolution."
The girl glanced over. She smiled and winked and went back to her
barman.
"And yet she knows I'm a capitalist at heart. How it kills me." The Bulgarian
picked up his rucksack from the floor. It was holding a new Zeiss Ikon,
courtesy of the English Pathé Gazette Company. The Bulgarian had promised
to get the camera back in one piece. Hoffner wasn't holding his breath.
"Fifteen pesetas for an hour," said the Bulgarian, as he hoisted the strap
over his shoulder. "It's a crime."
"Enjoy the Swedes," said Hoffner. He picked up his own bag.
The dozing Czech or Russian opened his eyes. Hoffner stood. He left
a few coins on the table and headed for the door.
His room smelled of wood polish and garlic and stared out at the expanse
that was the Plaza Catalonia. His hotel, the Colón, stretched the length of
one side of the square and seemed to be perpetually in direct sunlight.
Eight in the morning, nine at night, there was no escaping the glare. Hoffner
thought it must have been some sort of architectural coup, but all it did
was make the room unbearably steamy.
He had worked his way through descriptions of the square, the view of
Barcelona, the taste of the food—a letter each day required topics to fill it.
Lotte had written back with things far more compelling: their four-year
old Mendy had remembered to flush the toilet twice in the last three days;
Elena, their cook and nanny, had experimented with Spanish rice (a gesture
of solidarity for an absent father—not a success); Sascha, his brother, had inexplicably
come calling—it was three years since they had last spoken. Lotte
reminded Georg that she had never been fond of his brother. And finally
Nikolai, Heffner's father, had insulted the gardener. Something to do with
the placement of a ladder. Lotte hadn't been terribly clear on the details but,
save for the appearance of his brother, Hoffner was glad to hear that things
were moving along at their usual pace. He would be home soon enough.
Until then, he would continue to live for her letters. He started to write.
My love,
Have I mentioned it's hot? Very hot, and they seem to think that water
makes you less of a man. I wouldn't mind it so much, but I get thirsty
from time to time and they offer wine or whiskey, and I find myself no
less thirsty. Can you imagine it? (I hope you're laughing. I need to
know I'm still wonderfully funny and charming to you.)
I smell awful. There's no reason to bathe (see water reference
above). And yet, among the other journalists, I'm one of the few I can
actually bear the smell of. There's a nice Frenchman who I think has
an unlimited stash of women's perfume, and I'm coming close to
asking him for some, but several Czechs have asked him to dance, so
I think I'll hold off for as long as I can.
I ate bull's tail yesterday. Thick brown sauce. A little like brisket
but stringier. And then apples, I think, in the same sauce. Not quite as
effective. The whiskey was a help there.
I miss you—terribly. I'm amazed I've waited this long to say it.
And Mendy. I try not to think about that. I suppose he's still trying to
be very brave, but I do hope there have been some tears. Selfish of me,
I know, but at least that way I can think I'm not forgotten (yes, there
are always a few lines of self-pity in here, so you'll just have to bear
with me—you always do).
Still, I am finding it fascinating here. All these idealists pretending
to be athletes. I suppose it makes some sort of point. They're all very
kind to me when they find out I'm a German. "Brave, German," they
say. "That'll show Hitler." Of course I don't tell them I work for an
English company. I think it would deflate me a little in their
estimation, and you always get a better reel of film and an interview
when they think more of you than they should.
As for being a Jew, no one cares here. It's almost as if I'd forgotten
what that was like. You say you're a Jew, and they say
Oh and move on
as if you've asked for the salt. There are the few who realize I'm a
German, and the pieces start to click together, but for the most part
there's nothing more to it.
Can you remember what life was like when that was true? Can
you imagine raising a son without having to explain that? They
manage it here quite wonderfully, even with their aversion to water.
Excuses aside, your father and I will have to sit down and have that
talk when I get back. It can't go on. Is he still thinking the racial laws
will be recalled? Is he still trying to stay as quiet as he can? Does he
still shake at night?
I'm sorry. I don't mean to be so shrill about your father, but you
and I both know the time has come.
Did I mention it's hot? And that I miss you—desperately? It is
desperation. I love you beyond all measure. I'm a fool to go away as
often as I do. So let's all go away.
I've been told I'm trying
suquet tonight. No idea what it is. Maybe
fish and potatoes. Think of me when you eat.
Your Georgi
He folded the letter and placed a wrapped piece of chocolate inside for
Mendy. He would post it on his way up to the park. He checked his watch.
He had time for a nap.
The sun was low across the horizon as Hoffner set the camera on a narrow
shelf of stone and tile. He had borrowed a car to make his way up to this
particular park—Park Güell—Antonio Gaudi's homage to sweeping curves
and staggering colors and a mind unburdened by things of this world. It
was like walking through a child's gingerbread fantasy, except here all the
garden walls seemed to be sprouting from trees or dripping from their
branches. Hoffner tried to find a straight line somewhere among them, but
it was pointless.
The city below looked equally untamed, pale stone and arching roofs,
sudden openings here and there where a column or spire might rise from
the disarray. The strangest and tallest was Gaudi's Sagrada Familia, his
unfinished cathedral, whose towers looked to be made of sand, as if a spider
were caught belly-up and struggling to right itself. Farther on stood the
hills and Montjuïc, with its ancient fortress and the new Olympic Stadium.
To the left, the sea.
Somehow, staring out, Hoffner felt a sudden rush of calm. It might
have been the air of a Mediterranean night or the silence all around him.
Or maybe it was just the genius of Gaudi. Whatever it was, Hoffner let
himself take it in.
A couple stopped next to him. They stared out for a few moments and
then moved on. Somewhere, a lute began to play.
The sun spread across the few clouds, and Hoffner bent over and began
to film. It would make a nice opening shot, Montjuïc in the distance, the
sky the rust of early sunset, and the first lights beginning to shimmer inside
the buildings. Hoffner panned slowly across the city until he heard footsteps
on the gravel behind him. They stopped. He heard the flare of a cigarette
lighter, then the snap of the top as it clicked shut.
"Hello, Georg."
Hoffner stopped the crank and slowly stood upright. He turned.
A tall man with a shock of white hair stood staring at him. The man let
out a long spear of smoke and offered Hoffner a cigarette.
"Thanks, no," said Hoffner.
The man nodded once. The hair might have been white, but he was no
more than fifty, and his arms in shirtsleeves showed lithe, taut muscle.
His name was Karl Vollman, and he was an Olympic chess player. A
German. The two had shared a bottle of whiskey a few nights back. Vollman
slid the pack into his shirt pocket and took another long pull.
"It's a beautiful view," Vollman said.
"Yes."
"Just right for your sort of thing." Vollman deepened his voice. "City of
lights, city of dreams—Olimpiada Popular, and Pathé Gazette is there."
He smiled to himself and took another pull.
"No chess tonight?"
"There's chess every night. Later. Down in the Raval. Seedy and smoky.
Just right."
"I met a Bulgarian who finds it rather silly—chess as sport."
"I find Bulgarians rather silly, so I suspect we're even."
Vollman had spent the better part of the past ten years in Moscow,
teaching something, playing chess. He said he liked the cold.
"You just happened to find yourself in Park Güell tonight?" Hoffner
said.
"They say you can't leave the city without seeing it. Here I am. Seeing
it." Vollman looked past Hoffner to Barcelona. "Peaceful, isn't it? Sad how
we both know it won't be that way much longer."
Hoffner measured the stare. Whatever else Vollman had been doing in
Moscow, he had learned to show nothing in his face.
Hoffner said, "I'm sure they'll have a wild time of it when the Olimpiada starts up."
Vollman's stare gave way to a half smile. "Oh, is that what I was talking
about? The Olimpiada." He finished his cigarette, dropped it to the ground,
and watched his foot crush it out. Thinking out loud, he said, "I suppose it's
what you're here to film, what I'm here to do. Much simpler seeing it that
way."
Hoffner had felt a mild unease with Vollman the other night. This was
something more.
Vollman said, "I don't imagine either of us will be in Barcelona much
longer, do you?" He looked directly at Hoffner. "All those fascist rumblings
in the south—Seville, Morocco. Only a matter of time."
Again, Hoffner said nothing.
Vollman pulled out the pack and tapped out a second cigarette. He lit it
and spat a piece of tobacco to the ground.
"Fascist rumblings?" Hoffner said blandly. "I hadn't heard."
Vollman's smile returned. "Really? A German, working for the English,
in socialist Spain just at the moment the fascists are thinking of turning
the world on its head, and he hasn't heard. How remarkable." He gave
Hoffner no time to answer. "What are you, Georg, twenty-nine, thirty?"
Hoffner was twenty-five, but why give Vollman more ammunition?
"Something like that," Hoffner said.
"Then you're still young enough to take some advice." Vollman spat
again. "We both know why you're in Barcelona. Which means the Spanish
know why you're here. And if the Spanish know—well, wouldn't you think
the Nazis would know as well?"
Hoffner didn't like the shift in tone. "And do the Nazis know why
you're here?"
Despite himself, Vollman liked the answer. Again he smiled.
"English, Russians," he said, "Italians, Germans. Aren't we all just
waiting for the Spaniards to figure it out for themselves? And when they
do"—Vollman shook his head with as much pathos as a man like him
could muster—"that's when we take sides. And that's when the real games
begin." He took a last pull. He was oddly quick with a cigarette.
Hoffner said, "You mean when they start killing each other."
Vollman hesitated even as he showed nothing. He tossed his cigarette to
the ground and then bobbed a nod out at the city. "You keep on getting
whatever it was you were getting. When you need more, you know where
to find me."
Vollman started off.
"It's Paris," Hoffner said.
Vollman stopped. He turned.
"The city of lights," Hoffner said. "Not good to be confusing Paris and
Barcelona these days."
Vollman waited. There was no telling what he was thinking. He said
nothing and moved off. Hoffner watched as Vollman stopped for a few
moments by the lute player, dropped a coin in the man's hat, and headed for
the stairs.
Back at his room, Hoffner was finishing his third glass of whiskey when he
placed an empty sheet of paper on the desk. His head was spinning—from
Vollman, from the booze—but there was always one place he could go to
clear his mind.
He began to write.
A ladder?
Brilliant, Papi. Make sure the gardener doesn't take a shovel to
your head the next time.
It's past eleven. They're all heading off for dinner, so you're the best
I can do for company. Don't pat yourself on the back. I've had a few,
and we both know what that does to my letters to Lotte. You won't
tell her.
I can't promise coherence. Then again, there isn't a lot about Spain
these days that inspires it, so I think I won't worry. Oh, and there's
nothing else to tell about the police, except that their hats are ludicrous.
I'd try to draw you one, but it would come off looking like a dying bat
or a headless peacock. Wonderfully appropriate but not terribly
accurate.
So that leaves the politics. Yes, the politics. At last. Just for you. I
can hear you laughing. I had a strangely unnerving conversation
tonight—the place seems to thrive on strangely unnerving
conversations—but there's no point in going into that. Still, it put
me in the frame of mind.
You'd feel right at home. It's like Berlin after the Kaiser, except
here the Lefties manage it without a dinner jacket or soap. They take
the worker thing very seriously. Lots of shirtsleeves and bandanas. It's
Mediterranean Marxism, which has a kind of primitive feel to it—everyone
sweating and opening shirt buttons and going without shoes.
They have rallies all the time and write large, imposing posters with
lots of dates on them. Women wear trousers a great deal, which seems
to go counter to the whole heat-inspired politics of the Left. Wouldn't a
dress be cooler? It makes you wonder how much the cold had to do
with paving the way for Hitler, but that's for another time. (If the line
above is blacked out by the censor, I probably deserved it, so don't
worry.)
I've met anarchists and socialists. I've eaten with Communists
and anarcho-syndicalists and Marxist-nihilists, and something simply
referred to as a non-Stalinist Soviet. I thought the person introducing
me was talking about a kind of napkin until a very earnest young
woman began to spew in a much-too-quick Spanish for me to follow.
Best recourse is just to nod.
The bizarre thing is that they all seem to think they're the ones
running the show. Not together, of course. That would be asking too
much. (At least Weimar got that right for a while.) The socialists hate
the anarchists. The anarchists hate the Communists. And the
Communists have no power whatsoever and seem to hate even
themselves.
I think there's a central government somewhere, but Barcelona
doesn't like to admit that. The Lefties they elected in February—socialists
calling themselves a Popular Front, which is bizarre when
no one really likes them and they're well behind the curve at every
turn—are a kind of mythological beast that shouts at everyone from
Madrid and tells them how to be proper Lefties—who to adore, who
to hate. This week, I think it's the anarcho-syndicalists—I still have no
idea what that means—whom we're all supposed to be burning in
effigy. And that's just the boys who are in their own camp.
It gets much easier when they turn to the Right. There it's basically
two groups that the Lefties scream at—hard-line monarchists and
hard-line fascists, and both of them marching with crosses. Very big
crosses. Vast crosses. Epic crosses. There's a scent of the Crusades in all
this.
The first call themselves Carlists. They want the king back. Very
Catholic. Lots of pedigree. Spanish arrogance drunk on holy water.
The second are the Falangists, a version of Mussolini's Fascisti,
although I suspect they find Hitler just as inspiring. They're relatively
new. I think they invented themselves around the same time the
Reichstag burned. Catholic (as long as the priests tell the people to
follow them). Militarists. And hell-bent on rooting out anyone who
even recognizes the name Marx.
Unlike the Left, the boys on the Right actually talk to each other.
That makes them far more dangerous.
It's only a matter of time before it all blows up. So it's going to be
news, and that means you'll have to bear with me. You'll also have to
make sure Lotte can bear it as well. I need you for that. I'm asking you
for that. Not for too long, I hope. But then there are always those
unnerving conversations.
Anyway, I'm losing my train of thought. And I'm tired. That
seems to be a constant.
I imagine most of this letter is blacked out. I know. My apologies.
Watch the papers. It won't be long. And Pathé Gazette will be there.
Cock-a-doodle-doo,
Georg
He was right, of course. The opening ceremonies of the Olimpiada
Popular, slotted for the nineteenth of July, never happened. Instead, two
days earlier, all hell had broken loose.
"Excerpted from SECOND SON: A Novel by Jonathan Rabb, to be published in
February 2011 by Sarah Crichton Books, an imprint of Farrar, Straus and
Giroux, LLC. Copyright © by Jonathan Rabb. All rights reserved."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Second Son
by Jonathan Rabb
Copyright © 2011 by Jonathan Rabb.
Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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