Heir to the Glimmering World Trade cloth - 2004

Details

• Title Heir to the Glimmering World
• Author Ozick, Cynthia
• Binding Trade Cloth
• Edition First edition
• Pages 320
• Language EN
• Publisher Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, Wilmington, Massachusetts, U.S.A.
• Date 2004-09-01
• ISBN 9780618470495

Chapter 1

In 1935, when I was just eighteen, I entered the household of Rudolf Mitwisser, the scholar of Karaism. “The scholar of Karaism”— at that time I had no idea what that meant, or why it should be “the” instead of “a,” or who Rudolf Mitwisser was. I understood only that he was the father of what seemed to be numerous children, and that he had come from Germany two years before. I knew these things from an advertisement in the Albany Star:

Professor, arrived 1933 Berlin, children 3–14, requires assistant, relocate NYC. Respond Mitwisser, 22 Westerley.

It read like a telegram; Professor Mitwisser, I would soon learn, was parsimonious. The ad did not mention Elsa, his wife. Possibly he had forgotten about her.

In my letter of reply I said that I would be willing to go to New York, though it was not clear from the notice in the Star what sort of assistance was needed. Since the ad had included the age of a very young child, was it a nanny that was desired?
I said I would be pleased to take on the job of nanny.

It was Elsa, not Mitwisser, who initiated the interview—though, as it turned out, she was not in charge of it. In that family she was in charge of little enough. I rode the bus to a corner populated by a cluster of small shabby stores—grocery, shoemaker’s, dry cleaner’s, and under a tattered awning a dim coffee shop vomiting out odors of some foul stuff frying.

The windows of all these establishments were impenetrably dirty. Across the street a deserted gas station had long ago gone out of business: several large dogs scrabbled over the oil-blackened pavement and lifted their hind legs against the rusting pumps.

The address in the ad drew me along narrow old sidewalks fronting narrow old houses in what I had come to think of as the Albany style: part Hudson Gothic, part Dutch settler. But mainly old. There were bowshaped stained-glass insets over all the doors.
The lamps in the rooms behind them, glowing violet and amber through the lead-bordered segments of colored panes, shut me out. I thought of underground creatures kept from the light. It was November, getting on to an early dusk.

Frau Mitwisser led me into a tiny parlor so dark that it took some time before her face, small and timid as a vole’s, glimmered into focus.

“Forgive me,” she began, “Rudi wishes not the waste of electricity. We have not so much money. We cannot pay much. Food and a bed and not so many dollars.” She stopped; her eyelids looked swollen. “The tutor for my sons, it was you see . . .
charity. Also the beds, the linens—”

She was all apology: the slope of her shoulders, her fidgety hands twittering around her mouth, or reaching into the air for a phantom rope to haul her out of sight.
Helplessly but somehow also slyly, she was reversing our mutual obligation—she appealing for my sympathy, I with the power to withhold it. It was hard to take in those pursed umlauts sprinkled through her vowels, and the throaty burr of her voice was lanced by pricks so sharp that I pulled back a little. She saw this and instantly begged my pardon.

“Forgive me,” she said again. “It gives much difficulty with my accent.
At my age to change the language is not so simple. You will see with my husband the very great difference. In his youth for four years he studies at Cambridge University in England, he becomes like an Englishman.
You will see. But I . . . I do not have the — wie nennt man das?—the idiom.”

Her last word was shattered by an enormous thud above our heads.
I looked up: was the ceiling about to fall in on us? A second thud. A third.

“The big ones,” Frau Mitwisser said.
“They make a game, to jump from the top of the . . .
Kleiderschrank, how you call this? I tell them every day no, but anyhow they jump.”

This gave me a chance to restore us to business. “And the littler ones?” I asked. “Do you need help with them?”

In the dimness I glimpsed her bewilderment; it was as if she was begging for eclipse.

“No, no, we go to New York so Rudi is close to the big library. Here is for him so little. The committee, it is so very kind that they give us this house, and also they make possible the work at the College, but now it is enough, Rudi must go to New York.”

A gargantuan crash overhead: a drizzle of plaster dust landed on my sleeve.

“Forgive me,” Frau Mitwisser said.
“Better I go upstairs now, nicht wahr?”

She hurried out and left me alone in the dark. I buttoned up my coat; the interview, it seemed, was over. I had understood almost nothing.
If they didn’t want a nanny here, what did they want? And if they had had a tutor, what had become of the tutor? Had they paid too little to keep him? On an angry impulse I switched on a lamp; the pale bulb cast a stingy yellow stain on a threadbare rug. From the condition of the sofa and an armchair, muuch abuseeeed, I gathered that “the big ones” were accustomed to assaulting the furniture downstairs as well as upstairs— or else what I was seeing was thrift-shop impoverishment. A woolen shawl covered a battered little side-table, and propped on it, in a flower- embossed heavy silver frame that contradicted all its surroundings, was a photograph—hand-tinted, gravely posed, redolent of some incomprehensible foreignness—of a dark-haired young woman in a high collar seated next to a very large plant. The plant’s leaves were spear-shaped, serrated, and painted what must once have been a natural enough green, faded to the color of mud. The plant grew out of a great stone urn, on which the face and wings of a cherub were carved in relief.

I turned off the lamp and headed for the front door with its stained-glass inset, and was almost at the sidewalk (by now it was fully night) when I heard someone call, “Fräulein!
You there! Come back!”

The dark figure of a giant stood in the unlit doorway. Those alien syllables —“Fräulein,” yelled into the street like that—put me off. Already I disliked the foreignness of this house: Elsa Mitwisser’s difficult and resentful English, the elitist solemnity of the silver frame and its photo, the makeshift hand-me-down sitting room. These were refugees; everything about them was bound to be makeshift, provisional, resentful.
I would have gone home then and there, if there had been a home to go to, but it was clear that my cousin Bertram was no longer happy to have me. I was a sort of refugee myself.

(Some weeks later, when I dared to say this to Anneliese—“I sometimes feel like a refugee myself”—she shot me a look of purest contempt.) Like a dog that has been whistled for, I followed him back into the house.

“Now we have light,” he said, in a voice so authoritatively godlike that it might just as well have boomed “Let there be light” at the beginning of the world. He fingered the lamp. Once again the faint yellow stain appeared on the rug and seeped through the room. “To dispel the blackness, yes? Our circumstances have also been black. They are not so easeful. You have already seen my nervous Elsa. So that is why she leaves it to me to finish the talk.”

He was as far from resembling an Englishman as I could imagine.
In spite of the readier flow of language (a hundred times readier than his wife’s), he was German—densely, irrevocably German. My letter was in his hands: very large hands, with big flattened thumbs and coarse nails, strangely humped and striated—more a machinist’s hands than a scholar’s. In the niggardly light (twenty-five watts, I speculated) he seemed less gargantuan than the immense form in the doorway that had called me back from the street. But I was conscious of a force, of a man accustomed to dictating his conditions.

“My first requirement,” Mitwisser said, “is your freedom to leave this place.”

“I can do that,” I said. “I’d like to.”

“It is what I would like that is at issue. And what I would like is a certain engagement with—I will not say ideas. But you must be able to understand what I ask of you.”

“I’ve done most of a year of college.”

“Less than Gymnasium. What is this nonsense you write here about a nanny? How is this responsive?”

“Well, your ad mentioned children, so I thought—”

“You thought mistakenly. You should know that my work has to do precisely with opposition to the arrogance of received interpretation.
Received interpretation is often enough simply error. Why should I not speak everywhere of my children? There is no context or relation in which they do not have a part. That is why your obligations will on occasion include them—but your primary duty is to me. And you will try not to disturb my poor wife.”

It seemed, then, that I was hired—though I still did not know for what.

And it was not until a long time afterward that Anneliese confided that there had been (even in that period of crisis unemployment) no other applicants.

Copyright © 2004 by Cynthia Ozick.
Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company.

Perhaps the fullest treatment yet of the European intellectual's flight from Hitler's Germany...one of Ozick's most interesting [works].
Kirkus Reviews, Starred

"Audacious. . .[A] brilliant apostrophe to shattered worlds." --John Leonard The New York Times Book Review

"In language aglow with fierce wit and passionate intensity. . .[Ozick's book] has all the hallmarks of a permanent work of literature." --Merle Rubin The Wall Street Journal

"A novel as scintillating as this one makes the world infinitely new..." --James Marcus Newsday

"A wise, quietly magical book." --James Sallis.
The Washington Post