Memoirs of an Anti-Semite by Gregor Von Rezzori Page A

this, however, we were bound by manly agreement not to interfere with Aunt Sophie, indeed, to strengthen and assist her and perhaps at some point protect her from herself. And at such times, of course, we could read in the other’s gaze physical disgust at the Jewish brat, who had managed “insidiously” (as the ironical Stiassny was to put it), “by utilizing the blandishments of Aryan tonal art,” to throw off balance this exemplary, warmhearted, prudent woman who stood so solidly in life.
    It was almost uncanny to sense Stiassny watching me, to sense all he seemed to know about my feelings—and not just Stiassny, either, but just about everyone in the house, with the old butler Geib in the lead, except for Aunt Sophie, who was blind to everything. Bizarre scenes, whose tension was virtually woven from the resonance of the events, kept everyone fascinated, yet not the two oblivious protagonists at the center, Aunt Sophie and Wolf Goldmann, “the lovers.”
    Occasionally, for example, intense practice of a single passage would drag on even though Geib had long since announced dinner, and he would stand at the door to the dining room while Uncle Hubi tactfully inserted little coughs in the pauses during the tempest of sound, or ultimately almost whined, “Sophie, dinner’s been ready for almost half an hour.” But his efforts were in vain. All of us, even Stiassny, were under something like a spell, which weighted down our movements and gave each look so much meaning that no one dared glance at anyone else.
    The mood would intensify until Aunt Sophie finally observed that it was enough for today; then she would turn to Geib and say impatiently, “Isn’t dinner ready yet?” And when Geib answered that it was probably being warmed up for the second time, she would rejoin, “Set a place for young Goldmann!”
    Uncle Hubi ventured to ask casually one evening, “Wouldn’t it be easier if he just moved right in?” Predictably, he was supported by Aunt Sophie, though a bit absentmindedly and mechanically: “Well, that’s quite true, it would be simpler. Why, Hubi’s absolutely correct!” And we all stood and waited to see Aunt Sophie placing her arm around Wolf Goldmann’s frail shoulders and leading him into the dining room, while we, lowering our heads under the stag antlers along the walls, followed the woman and the boy, intensely aware of the symbolism and its justified ludicrousness.
    Stiassny, of course, was in his element. His colorless eyes watched Geib pushing the chair under Aunt Sophie and promptly coming over to show me the same attention. Then, while serving, Geib saw to it that Aunt Sophie did not fill the plate for Wolf, who was sitting next to her—“I’ll serve him myself; it’s easier!”—which would have left me waiting at the lower end of the table. Instead, Geib made sure to serve all the others, and myself, with special care and a discreet nod to the juiciest piece, until it was finally the “little Jew” ’s turn. Stiassny’s beautiful lips then parted in his most ashen smile: “May I offer my congratulations. The loyal vassals have not all defected as yet. The ferment of decomposition has not yet eaten its way through.” He laughed, and Uncle Hubi shushed him, blurting out, “Stiassny, I find that rather distasteful!”
    The old intimacy of kinfolk between Uncle Hubi and myself now grew into a friendship—the lucid and autumnally rich friendship of a boy and an old man, the kind that is cleansed of the passions between people of the same age and entirely given to perceptive kindness and unconditional trust. He took me on outings—inspections in the brewery and the nurseries—and the invitations were ostentatiously proffered whenever Aunt Sophie commented that it was our duty to do everything in our power to enable a genius like young Goldmann to have