talking about?
No, no, said Elie, who in fact meant exactly that. It was a woman who got her husband out. His mother was Aryan—just like Asher Englehardt’s.
How did she meet her husband?
At a Hitler Youth Meeting.
That’s why he got out, said Stumpf. Every young person should go.
Stumpf eyed the square box filled with glasses on Elie’s desk. He moved closer and touched the box with furtive reverence.
Do all these belong to Heidegger? he said.
Just one, said Elie.
How do you know?
Because it’s marked, said Elie. She pulled the box close to her.
Does Heidegger have any eye problems?
He might, said Elie, who knew he was only nearsighted.
Then we have to bring him his glasses.
But not without the letter, said Elie. Or Frau Heidegger will have a fit.
What does she have to do with it?
Goebbels met with her, said Elie. That’s why they wrote these orders.
Goebbels met with Frau Heidegger? He’s much too busy.
But he did, said Elie. They had a very long meeting at the Office.
The tick started again, and Stumpf put his hand on his forehead to press it down. But it kept skittering and jumping as though his forehead was on fire. And now he remembered that all five Scribes should answer the letter—a matter that seemed urgent since he’d heard about Frau Heidegger’s meeting with Joseph Goebbels.
The more Elie went on about needing an answer, the more Stumpf’s tick skittered and jumped. Finally he turned to the Scribes and shouted:
I need to see the five philosophers.
For heaven’s sake, said Elie, leave them out of it.
Letters are their job.
And soon, to Elie’s dismay, Gitka Kapusinki, Sophie Nachtgarten, Parvis Nafissian, Ferdinand La Toya, and Niles Schopenhauer were standing around her desk, and Stumpf was reciting the letter and ordering them to answer it.
But we only answer letters to the dead, said Parvis Nafissian.
Or the about-to-be-dead, said Gitka Kapusinki.
Or the almost dead, said Sophie Nachtgarten.
Heidegger’s different, said Stumpf.
Which is why we can’t answer the letter, said Ferdinand La Toya. It’s against the mission.
Then all five leaned on Elie’s desk and began to talk about Heidegger as if Stumpf weren’t there.
He’s all about paths and clearings in the Black Forest, said Niles Schopenhauer. There’s no way anyone can think about that in this dungeon.
Except you need a lot more than fresh air, said Sophie Nachtgarten. He’s a mystic tangled up in etymology.
I don’t agree, said Gitka Kapusinki. He got a lot of things right. But he has no idea how they work in the real world.
This baffling conversation made Stumpf’s tick jerk and jump. He pounded Elie’s desk and recited the beginning of the letter so loudly the whole room could hear:
With regard to your recent remark about the nature of Being, I wanted to emphasize again that it was the distance of my glasses that made me close to them.
The Scribes laughed, and Niles Schopenhauer said they should translate the letter into their invented language, which they called Dreamatoria .
Stumpf waved his hand at Niles. It grazed him on the cheek.
Remember your place, he said. You’re nothing but a fucking Scribe.
Don’t pull them into it, said Elie. It’s not their fault. If anyone catches us bringing a letter, we’re in trouble, and if we don’t bring one, we’re in trouble.
A paradox! said La Toya.
Indeed! said Gitka.
The notion of paradox was too much for Stumpf. He went over to Sonia and asked her to come upstairs. But she said hearing the letter had made her thoughtful, and she wanted to sit at her desk and think about distance.
Dearest Xavier,
I had a safe journey, with plenty of food. It’s night now. The sky is so bright I can’t see the moon or stars, but I’m sure if you came, we could take walks at night, the way we used to.
Love,
Marie-Claire
The tick continued when Stumpf went back to his shoebox, skittering in tandem with his
No, no, said Elie, who in fact meant exactly that. It was a woman who got her husband out. His mother was Aryan—just like Asher Englehardt’s.
How did she meet her husband?
At a Hitler Youth Meeting.
That’s why he got out, said Stumpf. Every young person should go.
Stumpf eyed the square box filled with glasses on Elie’s desk. He moved closer and touched the box with furtive reverence.
Do all these belong to Heidegger? he said.
Just one, said Elie.
How do you know?
Because it’s marked, said Elie. She pulled the box close to her.
Does Heidegger have any eye problems?
He might, said Elie, who knew he was only nearsighted.
Then we have to bring him his glasses.
But not without the letter, said Elie. Or Frau Heidegger will have a fit.
What does she have to do with it?
Goebbels met with her, said Elie. That’s why they wrote these orders.
Goebbels met with Frau Heidegger? He’s much too busy.
But he did, said Elie. They had a very long meeting at the Office.
The tick started again, and Stumpf put his hand on his forehead to press it down. But it kept skittering and jumping as though his forehead was on fire. And now he remembered that all five Scribes should answer the letter—a matter that seemed urgent since he’d heard about Frau Heidegger’s meeting with Joseph Goebbels.
The more Elie went on about needing an answer, the more Stumpf’s tick skittered and jumped. Finally he turned to the Scribes and shouted:
I need to see the five philosophers.
For heaven’s sake, said Elie, leave them out of it.
Letters are their job.
And soon, to Elie’s dismay, Gitka Kapusinki, Sophie Nachtgarten, Parvis Nafissian, Ferdinand La Toya, and Niles Schopenhauer were standing around her desk, and Stumpf was reciting the letter and ordering them to answer it.
But we only answer letters to the dead, said Parvis Nafissian.
Or the about-to-be-dead, said Gitka Kapusinki.
Or the almost dead, said Sophie Nachtgarten.
Heidegger’s different, said Stumpf.
Which is why we can’t answer the letter, said Ferdinand La Toya. It’s against the mission.
Then all five leaned on Elie’s desk and began to talk about Heidegger as if Stumpf weren’t there.
He’s all about paths and clearings in the Black Forest, said Niles Schopenhauer. There’s no way anyone can think about that in this dungeon.
Except you need a lot more than fresh air, said Sophie Nachtgarten. He’s a mystic tangled up in etymology.
I don’t agree, said Gitka Kapusinki. He got a lot of things right. But he has no idea how they work in the real world.
This baffling conversation made Stumpf’s tick jerk and jump. He pounded Elie’s desk and recited the beginning of the letter so loudly the whole room could hear:
With regard to your recent remark about the nature of Being, I wanted to emphasize again that it was the distance of my glasses that made me close to them.
The Scribes laughed, and Niles Schopenhauer said they should translate the letter into their invented language, which they called Dreamatoria .
Stumpf waved his hand at Niles. It grazed him on the cheek.
Remember your place, he said. You’re nothing but a fucking Scribe.
Don’t pull them into it, said Elie. It’s not their fault. If anyone catches us bringing a letter, we’re in trouble, and if we don’t bring one, we’re in trouble.
A paradox! said La Toya.
Indeed! said Gitka.
The notion of paradox was too much for Stumpf. He went over to Sonia and asked her to come upstairs. But she said hearing the letter had made her thoughtful, and she wanted to sit at her desk and think about distance.
Dearest Xavier,
I had a safe journey, with plenty of food. It’s night now. The sky is so bright I can’t see the moon or stars, but I’m sure if you came, we could take walks at night, the way we used to.
Love,
Marie-Claire
The tick continued when Stumpf went back to his shoebox, skittering in tandem with his
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