You Can't Go Home Again by Thomas Wolfe
"But Franz! Surely you must know who your father is--you must have heard his name."
"My Gott, yes!" he cried. "Zat is vhat makes it all so funny."
"You mean you know him, then? He is living?"
"But of gourse," said Heilig. "He is living in Berlin."
"Do you ever see him?"
"But of gourse," he said again. "I see him every veek. Ve are quite good friends."
"But--then I don't see what the trouble is--unless they can take your job from you because you're a bastard. It's embarrassing, of course, and all that, both for your father and yourself--but can't you tell them? Can't you explain it to them? Won't your father help you out?"
"I am sure he vould," said Heilig, "if I told zis sing to him. Only, I cannot tell him. You see," he went on quietly, "my fazzer and I are quite good friends. Ve never speak about zis sing togezzer--ze vay he knew my mozzer. And now, I vould not ask him--I vould not tell him of zis trouble--I vould not vant him to help me--because it might seem zat I vas taking an adwantage. It might spoil everysing."
"But your father--is he known here? Would these people know his name if you mentioned it?"
"Oh Gott yes!" Heilig cried out gleefully, and snuffled with bitter merriment. "Zat is vhat makes it all so horrible--and so dret-fully amusing. Zey vould know his name at vonce. Perhaps zey vill say zat I am zis little Chew and t'row me out because I am no Aryan man--and my fazzer"--Heilig choked and, snuffling, bent half over in his bitter merriment--"my fazzer is zis loyal Cherman man--zis big Nazi--zis most important person in ze Party!"
For a moment George looked at his friend--whose name, ironically, signified "the holy one"--and could not speak. This strange and moving illumination of his history explained so much about him--the growing bitterness and disdain towards everyone and everything, the sense of weary disgust and resignation, the cold venom of his humour, and that smile which kept his face almost perpetually puckered up. As he sat there, fragile, small, and graceful, smiling his wry smile, the whole legend of his life became plain. He had been life's tender child, so sensitive, so affectionate, so amazingly intelligent. He had been the fleeceling lamb thrust out into the cold to bear the blast and to endure want and loneliness. He had been wounded cruelly. He had been warped and twisted. He had come to this, and yet he had maintained a kind of bitter integrity.
"I'm so sorry, Franz," George said. "So damned sorry. I never knew of this."
"Vell, zen," said Heilig indifferently, "I may tell you zat it does not matter. It really does not matter." He smiled his tortured smile, snuffling a little through his lips, flicked the ash from his cigarette, and shifted his position. "I shall do somesing about it. I haf engaged one of zese little men--zese dret-ful little people--vhat do you call zem?--lawyers!--O Gott, but zey are dret-ful!" he shouted gleefully. "I haf bought one of zem to make some lies for me. Zis little man wiz his papers--he vill feel around until he discover fazzers, mozzers, sisters, brozzers--everysing I need. If he cannot, if zey vill not believe--yell, zen," said Heilig, "I must lose my chob. But it does not matter. I shall do somesing. I shall go somevhere else. I shall get along somehow. I haf done so before, and it vas not too terrible...But zese fools--zese dret-ful people!" he said with deep disgust. "Some day, my dear Chorge, you must write a bitter book. You must tell all zese people just how horrible zey are. Myself--I haf no talent. I cannot write a book. I can do nozzing but admire vhat ozzers do and know if it is good. But you must tell zese dret-ful people vhat zey are...I haf a little fantasy," he went on with a look of impish glee. "Ven I feel bad--yen I see all zese dret-ful people valking up and down in ze Kurfürstendamm and sitting at ze tables and putting food into zeir faces--zen I imagine zat I haf a little ma-chine gun. So I take zis little ma-chine gun and go up and down, and ven I see one of zese dret-ful people I go--ping-ping-ping-pingping!" As he uttered these words in a rapid, childish key, he took aim with his hand and hooked his finger rapidly. "0 Gott!" he cried ecstatically. "I should so enchoy it if I could go around wiz zis little ma-chine gun and use it on all zese stupid fools! But I cannot. My ma-chine gun is only in imagination. Wiz you it is different. You haf a ma-chine gun zat you can truly use. And you must use it," he said earnestly. "Some day you must write zis bitter book, and you must tell zese fools vhere zey belong. Only," he added quickly, and turned anxiously towards George, "you must not do it yet. Or if you do, you must not say some sings in zis book zat vill make zese people angry wiz you here."
"What kind of things do you mean, Franz?"
"Zese sings about"--he lowered his voice and glanced quickly towards the door--"about politics--about ze Party. Sings zat vould bring zem down on you. It would be quite dret-ful if you did."
"Why would it?"
"Because," he said, "you have a great name here. I don't mean wiz zese fools, zese stupid people, but wiz ze people left who still read books. I may tell you," he said earnestly, "zat you have ze best name here now of any foreign writer. If you should spoil it now--if you should write some sings now zat zey vould not like--it vould be a pity. Ze Reichschriftskammer vould forbid your books--vould tell us zat ve could no longer read you--and ve could not get your books. And zat vould be a pity. Ve do so like you here--I mean ze people who understand. Zey know so vell about you. Zey understand ze vay you feel about sings. And I may tell you zat ze translations are quite marvellous. Ze man who does zem is a poet, and he luffs you--he gets you in, ze vay you feel--your images--ze rhythmus of your writing. And ze people find it very vonderful. Zey cannot believe zat zey are reading a translation. Zey say zat it must haf been written in Cherman in ze beginning. And-0 Gott!" he shouted gleefully again--"zey call you everysing--ze American Homer, ze American epic writer. Zey like and understand you so much. Your writing is so full of juice, so round and full of blood. Ze feeling is like feeling zat ve haf. Wiz many people you haf ze greatest name of any writer in ze world to-day."
"That's a good deal more than I've got at home, Franz."
"I know. But zen, I notice, in America zey lull everyvun a year--and zen zey spit upon him. Here, wiz many people you haf zis great name," he said earnestly, "and it vould be too dret-ful--it vould be such a pity--if you spoil it now. You vill not?" he said, and again looked anxiously and earnestly at George.
George looked off in space and did not answer right away; then he said:
"A man must write what he must write. A man must do what he must do."
"Zen you mean zat if you felt zat you had to say some sings--about politics--about zese stupid fools--about----"
"What about life?" George said. "What about people?"
"You vould say it?"
"Yes, I would."
"Efen if it did you harm? Efen if it spoiled you here? Efen if ve could no longer read vhat you write?" With his small face peering earnestly at George, he waited anxiously for his reply.
"Yes, Franz, even if that happened."
Heilig was silent a moment, and then, with apparent hesitancy, he said:
"Efen if you write somesing--and zey say to you zat you cannot come back?"
George, too, was silent now. There was much to think of. But at last he said:
"Yes, even if they told me that."
Heilig straightened sharply, with a swift intake of anger and impatience. "Zen I vill tell you somesing," he said harshly. "You are one big fool." He rose, flung his cigarette away, and began to pace nervously up and down the room. "Vhy should you go and spoil yourself?" he cried. "Vhy should you go and write sings now zat vill make it so zat you cannot come back. You do so luff it here!" he cried; then turned sharply, anxiously, and said: "You do, of gourse?"
"Yes, I do--better than almost any other place on earth."
"And ve alzo!" cried Heilig, pacing up and down. "Ve do so luff you, too. You are no stranger to us, Chorge. I see ze people look at you ven you go by upon ze street and zey all smile at you. Zere is somesing about you zat zey like. Ze little girls in ze shirt shop yen ye vent to buy ze shirt for you--zey all said: 'Who is
George made no answer. So Heilig, still walking feverishly up and down, went on:
"Vhy should you do it? You are no politician. You are no propaganda Party man. You are not one of zese Gott-tam little New York Salon-Kommunisten." He spat the word out viciously, his pale eyes narrowed into slits. "May I now tell you somesing?" He paused abruptly, looking at George. "I hate zese bloody little people--zese damned aest'etes--zese little propaganda literary men." Puckering his face into an expression of mincing disdain, advancing with two fingers pressed together in the air before him, and squinting at them with delicately lidded eyes, he coughed in an affected way--"U-huh, u-huh!"--and then, in a tone of mincing parody, he quoted from an article he had read: "'HI may say so, ze transparence of ze Darstellung in Vebber's vork...' U-huh, u-huh!" he coughed again. "Zis bloody little fool who wrote zat piece about you in Die Dame--zis damned little aest'ete wiz zese phrases about 'ze transparence of ze Darstellung'--may I tell you somesing?" he shouted violently. "I spit upon zese bloody people! Zey are everyvhere ze same. You find zem in London, Paris, Vienna. Zey are bad enough in Europe--but in America!" he shouted, his face lighting up with impish glee--"O Gott! If I may tell you so, zey are perfectly dret-ful! Vhere do you get zem from? Efen ze European aest'ete says: 'My Gott! zese bloody men, zese awful people, zese demned aest'etes from ze Oo Ess Ah--zey are too dretful!'"
"Are you talking now of Communists? You began on them, you know!"
"Veil now," he said, curtly and coldly, with the arrogant dismissal that was becoming more and more characteristic of him, "it does not matter. It does not matter vhat zey call zemselves. Zey are all ze same. Zey are zese little expressionismus, surréalismus, Kommunismus people--but really zey can call zemselves anysing, everysing, for zey are nozzing. And may I tell you zat I hate zem. I am so tired of all zese belated little people," he said, and turned away with an expression of weariness and disgust. "It does not matter. It simly does not matter vhat zey say. For zey know nozzing."
"You think then, Franz, that all of Communism is like that--that all Communists are just a crowd of parlour fakes?"
"Oh, die Kommunisten," said Heilig wearily. "No, I do not sink zat zey are all fakes. And Kommunismus"--he shrugged his shoulders--"vell, zen, I sink zat it is very good. I sink zat some day ze vorld may live like zat. Only, I do not sink zat you and I will see it. It is too great a dream. And zese sings are not for you. You are not one of zese little propaganda Party people--you are a writer. It is your duty to look around you and to write about ze vorld and people as you see zem. It is not your duty to write propaganda speeches and call zem books. You could not do zat. It is quite impossible."
"But suppose I write about the world and people as I see them, and come in conflict with the Party--what then?"
"Zen," he said roughly, "you vill be one big fool. You can write everysing you need to write wizout zese Party people coming down on you. You do not need to mention zem. And if you do mention zem, and do not say nice sings, zen ye can no longer read you, and you cannot come back. And for vhat vould you do it? If you vere some little propaganda person in New York, you could say zese sings and zen it vould not matter. Because zey can say anysing zey like--but zey know nozzing of us, and it costs zem nozzing. But you--you have so much to lose."
Heilig paced back and forth in feverish silence, puffing on his cigarette, then all at once he turned and demanded truculently:
"You sink it is so bad here now?--ze vay sings are wiz ze Party and zese stupid people? You sink it vould be better if zere vas anozzer party, like in America? Zen," he said, not waiting for an answer, "I sink you are mistaken. It is bad here, of gourse, but I sink it vill be soon no better wiz you. Zese bloody fools--you find zem everyvhere. Zey are ze same wiz you, only in a different vay." Suddenly he looked at George earnestly and searchingly. "You sink zat you are free in America--no?" He shook his head and went on: "I do not sink so. Ze only free ones are zese dret-ful people. Here, zey are free to tell you vhat you must read, vhat you must believe, and I sink zat is also true in America. You must sink and feel ze vay zey do--you must say ze sings zey vant you to say--or zey kill you. Ze only difference is zat here zey haf ze power to do it. In America zey do not haf it yet, but just vait--zey vill get it. Ve Chermans haf shown zem ze vay. And zen, you vould be more free here zan in New York, for here you haf a better name, I sink, zan in America. Here zey admire you. Here you are American, and you could efen write and say sings zat no Cherman could do, so long as you say nozzing zat is against ze Party. Do you sink zat you could do zat in New York?"
He paced the floor in silence for a long moment, pausing to look searchingly at George. At length he answered his own question:
"No, you could not. Zese people here--zey say zat zey are Nazis. I sink zat zey are more honest. In New York, zey call zemselves by some fine name. Zey are ze Salon-Kommunisten. Zey are ze Daughters of ze Revolution. Zey are ze American Legion. Zey are ze business men, ze Chamber of Commerce. Zey are one sing and anozzer, but zey are all ze same, and I sink zat zey are Nazis, too. You vill find everyvhere zese bloody people. Zey are not for you. You are not a propaganda man."
Again there was a silence. Heilig continued to pace the floor, waiting for George to say something; when he did not, Heilig went on again. And in his next words he revealed a depth of cynicism and indifference which was greater than George had ever before suspected, and of which he would not have thought Heilig's sensitive soul was capable.
"If you write somesing now against ze Nazis," said Heilig, "you vill please ze Chews, but you cannot come back to Chermany again, and zat for all of us vould be quite dret-ful. And may I tell you some-sing?" he cried harshly and abruptly, and glared at George. "I do not like zese Gott-tam Chews any more zan I like zese ozzer people. Zey are just as bad. Ven all is going yell wiz zem, zey say: 'Ve spit upon you and your bloody country because ye are so vunderful.' And yen sings are going bad wiz zem, zey become zese little Chewish men zat veep and wring zeir hands and say: 'Ve are only zese poor, downtrodden Chews, and look vhat zey are doing to us.' And may I tell you," he cried harshly, "zat I do not care. I do not sink it matters very much. I sink zat it is stupid vhat zese bloody fools are doing to zese Chews--but I do not care. It does not matter. I haf seen zese Chews yen zey vere high and full of power, and really zey vere dret-ful. Zey vere only for zemselves. Zey spit upon ze rest of us. So it does not matter," he repeated harshly. "Zey are as bad as all ze ozzers, zese great, fat Chews. If I had my little ma-chine gun, I vould shoot zem, too. Ze only sing I care about more is vhat zese dret-ful fools viii do to Chermany--to ze people." Anxiously, he looked at George and said: "You do so like ze people, Chorge?"
"Enormously," said George, almost in a whisper, and he was filled with such an overwhelming sadness--for Germany, for the people, and for his friend--that he could say no more. Heilig caught the full implications of George's whispered tone. He glanced at him sharply. Then he sighed deeply, and his bitterness dropped away.
"Yes," he said quietly, "you must, of gourse." Then he added gently: "Zey are really a good lot. Zey are big fools, of gourse, but zey are not too bad."
He was silent a moment. He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray, sighed again, and then said, a little sadly:
"Veil, zen, you must do vhat you must do. But you are one big fool." He looked at his watch and put his hand upon George's arm. "Come on, old shap. Now it is time to go."
George got up, and for a moment they stood looking at each other, then
"Good-bye, Franz," George said.
"Good-bye, dear Chorge," said Heilig quietly. "Ve shall miss you very much."
"And I you," George answered. Then they went out.
* * *
40. Last Farewell
When they got downstairs the bill was made up and ready, and George paid it. There was no need to count it up, because there never had been a cheat or error in their reckoning. George distributed extra largess to the head porter--a grey, chunky, sternly able Prussian--and to the head waiter. He gave a mark to the smiling boy beside the lift, who clicked his heels together and saluted. He took one final look at the faded, ugly, curiously pleasant furnishings of the little foyer, and said good-bye again, and went swiftly down the steps into the street.
The porter was already there. He had the baggage on the kerb. A taxi was just drawing up, and he stowed the baggage in. George tipped him and shook hands. He also tipped the enormous doorman, a smiling, simple, friendly fellow who had always patted him upon the back as he went in and out. Then he got into the taxi, sat down by Heilig, and gave the driver the address--Bahnhof Am Zoo.
The taxi wheeled about and started up along the other side of the Kurfürstendamm, turned and crossed into the Joachimtalen-strasse, and, three minutes later, drew in before the station. They still had some minutes to wait before the train, which was coming from the Friedrich-strasse, would be there. They gave the baggage to a porter, who said he would meet them on the platform. Then Heilig thrust a coin into the machine and bought a platform ticket. They passed by the ticket inspectors and went up the stairs.