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Erwin is a businessman of sorts. Trusting to a remarkable intuition, he ferrets out and purchases Jewish relics and antiques, then resells them to Jewish collectors in order to fund his perpetual travels. But he has another vocation as well, the secret reason for all his years of peregrination: to hunt down Nachtigel, and to execute him at last. Of his tormentor, and of all who collaborated in the attempted extermination of the Jewish people, he says, "As long as they live, our lives are not our lives." And so Erwin makes his annual round, at times hounded by nightmares and by melancholy, at others solaced by the simple beauty of the world in which he finds himself: "I can sit in a buffet and imagine, for instance, what's happening in distant Hansen, how the snow is falling there and softly covering the narrow lanes. Or Café Anton, where they serve warm rolls in the earliest hours of the morning, with coffee and cherry jam."
And so, too, we follow him, ever more fascinated by his concerns and his memories, ever more apprehensive about the possibility of a confrontation with Nachtigel. For the great year has arrived at last: Nachtigel has come out of hiding. If we are ambivalent about Erwin's plan to kill the killer, Aharon Appelfeld will not tell us which of our contradictory responses is the right one. This is, after all, a story about the hopeless tangling of identities and loyalties endemic to the human condition--about how a victim may become a murderer for the sake of justice, and how a man devoted to the preservation of a precious heritage may be more deeply committed to destroying than to building anew. --Daniel Hintzsche
195 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1991
Since the end of the war, I have been on this line, as they say: a long, twisted line stretching from Naples to the cold north, a line of locals, trams, taxis, and carriages. The seasons shift before my eyes like an illusion. I have learned this route with my body. Now I know every hostel and every inn, every restaurant and buffet, the vehicles that bring you to the remotest corners.The writer, Erwin Siegelbaum, as we shall later discover, travels the rails obsessively. He is more at home in railroad dining cars (where he bribes the waiters to put on classical music) or in station buffets, than in his own home, wherever that may be. The station settings and night journeys reminded me at first of the opening chapter of Italo Calvino's If on a Winter's Night a Traveler, and that strange dreamlike atmosphere remains to some extent throughout. But bit by bit, the scale of the book shrinks. So far from the long international train journeys from Naples to points north, it appears that Erwin is pottering around rural Austria, traveling between villages (all made up, I think) so small that you could hardly imagine them having stations, let alone service by trains with dining cars. Towards the end, a journey of a mere 100 kilometers gets interrupted three or four times, as he stops off at yet one more familiar village or inn. It is like Zeno's Paradox, where the distance is always halved, but the goal remains elusive.