WALTER ABISH
59
the table having breakfast. No one is ever late for breakfast. The
children watch my brother intently. They wait for him to signal what
kind of a day they can expect. He looks at his watch and purses his lips.
He has two important business meetings first thing in the morning. He
confides everything to Maria. She is blonde and blue eyed like him. She
faces him squarely across the table. She informs him how she intends to
spend the day. Nothing is too trivial to be omitted. The children listen
intently. They are seeing at first hand the life of an adult world unfold.
It
is a real world. Each day their father contributes something tangible
to the world. Each day several buildings all over Germany rise by
another few feet and come closer to the completion that initially had its
roots, so to speak, in his brain. By now, the entire Hargenau family
knows their architectural history, backwards and forward. They know
how an architect must proceed with his work by cajoling, reasoning,
and reassuring his uneasy and nervous clients. The children gaze into
Helmut's blue eyes and are reassured. The English suit speaks for itself.
At quarter to eight he's at the wheel of his car. The children admire
him. His wife admires him. His secretary admires him. His colleagues
admire him grudgingly. His draftsmen admire him. His clients more
than admire him, they attempt to emulate his relaxed approach to
anything that may come up. What they all see is a tall, blond, blue-eyed
man wearing a well-tailored English suit, preferably a plaid suit, and a
solid-colored knit tie that is several shades darker than the button–
down shirt. He shakes hands with a firm dry grip. He never perspires.
Not even on TV with the bright floodlights focused on him. Perfectly
at ease, he addresses the TV audience, the vast German audience,
discussing his favorite subject, architecture. The splendid history of
architecture. Greece, Rome, Byzantium, a slow parade of architectural
achievement culminating in the new police station in Wurtenburg.
Most of Wurtenburg tunes in to listen to my brother, amazed at the
riches he presents for their appreciation, the architectural riches in
their immediate vicinity, the riches of genius. Helmut Hargenau, he's
something else, they say, shaking their heads in amazement.
And his brother Ulrich?
Best not talk about him. One never knows who may be listening.
3.
On my desk is a small framed photograph of my father, taken in his
study. In the background hangs a drawing by Durer. In the lapel of his
jacket is a tiny swastika. The photograph was taken in the summer of
1941, a good summer for Germany. Next to the photograph of my
