For it is hard to discover the winged vertebrates of prehistory embedded in tablets of slate. But if I see before me the nervature of past life in one image, I always think that this has something to do with truth.
–W.G. Sebald
Part One
In early morning, when the house is silent and the sun has not yet risen above the eastern ridges of the Tegernsee valley, it is tempting to think that the heartache that once filled these rooms is gone, vanished with another era. Open the front door, step outside into the morning air—crisp and frosty in winter, moist with dew and the smell of cows at pasture in summertime, walk the gravel path around to the side of the house, sit down on the bench, and watch the shifting hues of dawn on the steep slopes of the Wallberg. The cross on top of the mountain, like the one on the peak of the old farmhouse, has been there for so long that nobody notices it. This morning, you want to take in every detail: the crow calling from a tree at the forest edge, the vapor rising from the sun-warmed treetops, leaning fence posts, peeling paint on the shutters and condensation on the windowpanes, the distant ringing of a bell. The morning gradually brightens and with it a sense that each of these details is crucial; none is more crucial than the simple fact of your presence here. You grip the edge of the wooden bench with your hands, breathe in and out. Your breath condenses and the billowing steam makes you want to go inside and get your cigarettes, but, no, you also want to savor the first tobacco-free moment of the day, so you remain.
Feeling slightly absurd for all this heightened self-consciousness, you smile to yourself; then your smile fades because, no, there is nothing funny or false about this feeling of connection. There is nothing wrong with it, just as there is nothing wrong with supposing you belong to a continuum of human events that links you to a vanished past, part of which you may come to know, and all of which you are free to imagine.
I say you, but I also mean me. In novels, personal pronouns can be misleading. This is not an easy idea to express, and some will call the notion absurd. But why not? Why can’t I be you? Or him or her? At least here, for now, sitting on a bench outside this old Bavarian farmhouse called Wolfsgrub early one October morning in 1934? And if I can be Max Mohr, I can be his wife, Käthe, too—whom he has left sleeping to come downstairs and light the stove.
Picture it. There are, after all, photographs. A great many photographs, piles of evidence that stand for something a little different with each viewing: so lovely, and not at all out of date.
Last night, you went up to the attic to sit for a time at his writing table. On it was a note from Käthe written on an old scrap of saved stationery. The desk is set between two narrow windows and faces the wall. He always wrote at night, so there was no need for a view. You sat down, adjusted yourself on the wooden chair. Once upon a time he kept his empty ink bottles lined up like little soldiers at the edge of the desk. One day, he gave them all to Eva to play with. You held Käthe’s note to your nose. It was not scented, which caused a twinge of regret. It would have been just the perfect gesture. Like you, he was here and not here. He was going away and not going anywhere. She was sad—but also, perhaps, happier than you have ever been.
Liebster. Please know how much I love you. There is nothing more to say. Think how happy we were here together. Try to remember what a lovely place this was. K.
Mohr folded the note and slipped it into his pocket. Käthe must have put it there sometime during the afternoon—when he and Eva were bringing Minna in from the field. His fingers felt thick, his hands large and clumsy. He wanted to go downstairs right away, to be with her until the very last minute. But something kept him. He had passed so many hours at this little desk under the eaves. The larchwood paneling was dark with time. Late at night when the house fell silent, he listened to the creaking rafters, could hear the woodworms boring their tiny holes in the old beams.
TUCK YOUR HANDS, palms flat, underneath your thighs. A shiver of cold concentrates your thoughts of what might have been.
Glance up.
THE PATH LEADING up into the forest stands out clearly in the early morning light. It cuts through frosted grass and disappears into the trees. How much wider might it have become with Mohr tromping up it to work every day? A little cabin to write in. Would he have been thrilled, gone happily off to work deep in the rustling forest? An image flashes, of smoke curling from the cabin chimney, and Käthe down at the house, seeing it rise up through the treetops, and sending Eva up with a freshly baked loaf, some apples, and a piece of cheese to tide him over.
No. That would never be. On his last day in Wolfsgrub, Mohr doesn’t want to think of what will never be, however lovely. He can’t hold on hold on hold on; never give anything up. That would be fatal. Knowing when to let go is more important than fretting about what’s been left behind.
Impatient, you jiggle your legs, shake your head once again at the idea of him scribbling away in a little cabin deep in the forest. You recall Lawrence’s description of the crucifix-studded Bavarian uplands, the wooden Christs presiding over the whole countryside. When Lawrence spoke about Germany and Germans, Mohr always had the feeling he was addressing his Jewish nature, as if he knew what it was better than Mohr did; some secret voluptuousness he engaged in. The trouble with their friendship was not that Lawrence asserted so deep an understanding of Mohr but that he asserted it to everyone except Mohr himself. If he were an anti-Semite—and there were times when he seemed so—he never forswore any friendships because of it. It didn’t seem to matter to him that his opinions could inflict pain. Remember how you felt when you read his first impression of Mohr? A last man, who has arrived at the last end of the road, who can no longer go ahead in the wilderness nor take a step into the unknown.
If only he’d lived to see the unknown that Mohr would come to face.
And not just Max, but Käthe, too.
WHEN SHE CAME downstairs and saw his packed bags neatly stacked in the hall, and the front door slightly ajar, she stepped outside, walked around to the side of the house, and sat down next to him.
“Let’s not be glum,” he said and put an arm across her shoulders, drew her closer. “I will always remember what a lovely place this is.” He smiled and patted his breast pocket, where he was keeping the note she’d written yesterday. “Thank you,” he said and kissed her forehead.
Now they are sitting at breakfast, trying to put the best face they can on the day.
“Can I take a picture?” Eva points to the camera on the table.
“If you promise me one thing.” Mohr draws her onto his lap, whispers into her ear. Eva slides off his lap and picks up the camera again.
“Promise,” she says.
“Promise what?”
Eva glances at her father. “Can I tell?”
“Of course,” he says emphatically.
“That we will come to China soon.”
“Sooner than soon,” Mohr corrects.
“Of course we will.” Käthe’s voice sounds weary. How many times can she repeat such a promise? It isn’t empty, just hopelessly abstract and distant, like China itself.
They sit for Eva’s photograph. Mohr makes a funny face, which causes Eva to laugh. She takes a second one, and this time nobody laughs. Käthe has felt observed by Mohr all morning, lost in her own quiet nowhere, counting down the hours until Zibert comes to drive them all to the train station. The breakfast plates on the table are empty; a few cold sips of coffee remain at the bottom of each cup. They are waiting, but the wait is already over.
All this determined cheerfulness isn’t easy. Eva had come downstairs crying. Mohr swept her up in his arms and they went to the hen-house to fetch some eggs; then he took her upstairs and drew his bath. Käthe watched