Theophil continued to project his Dr. Freud’s image. Initially, I was surprised. It then dawned on me that, prior to our assessment of Kafka’s teens and advanced studies, we had to consider what this period usually meant in a young man’s life.
“Well, why don’t you start the ball rolling, Maestro. I do believe that presently Dr. Freud is entitled to have his say.”
“He does,” agreed Theophil. “In many ways, this period is Sturm und Drang. A primary school leaver is still an unformed child. During his secondary school years, he (or she) experiences puberty. His (or her) sexual urges become pronounced. All the same, he (or she) remains dependent on parents or guardians. As yet, he (or she) is not considered ready to embark on a career. In effect, he (or she) metamorphoses into a young adult. The umbilical cord becomes tenuous. In the Western World, he (or she) frequently remains a dependant even during the years of tertiary education. But, when entering a university or a college, he (or she) begins to form an independent outlook.”
“There is also a cultural revolution,” I added. “A child is eager to listen to the stories told to him by his elders. His critical function is usually still in abeyance. For instance, he is inclined to accept tales, such as biblical stories, at face value. Usually, when a boy (or a girl) enrols in secondary school, the lens becomes sharper. Its turns into a wide angle.”
“Why don’t you give me an illustration from your own life, Peter’le?”
“When the primary school teacher told us about the exploits of the judges, I listened to the tales and liked them. In a way, they made me feel big: wasn’t I a scion of their heroism? The position changed in secondary school. When I read in Judges about Shamgar ben Anat, I was puzzled by the mention of the Philistines. When we covered one of the next chapters – including The Song of Deborah – I noticed that she referred to the days of that person. So, I asked our teacher whether the compiler of the book inserted the earlier reference to render the verse comprehensible. When the teacher yelled that this was heresy, I apologised but remembered the point. In primary school, the teacher’s sharp reaction would have convinced me that I was wrong.”
“Your reaction in secondary school was precocious,” replied Dr. Freud, “but I take your point. Your critical function started to develop and, more importantly, you realised that you were entitled to have your own voice. In this regard, your reaction was typical. With all this in mind, let us turn back to Franz Kafka.”
“Kafka attended the Altstädter Deutsches Gymnasium, a prestigious, rigorous German grammar school, located in Prague’s Old Town Square, which admitted only the best leavers of primary. Studies stretched over eight years. Kafka was enrolled in 1893, when he was ten years old, and completed the course in 1901, graduating with a Matura.”
“Was it a rigorous course of studies?”
“Very much so. The curriculum included Latin, Greek, German literature, history, geography and some science subjects. Many pupils came from middle-class Roman catholic homes. Very few came from Czech speaking homes. Jewish parents liked to send their children to this school, hoping they would be integrated into the German speaking elite. In some years, Jewish pupils constituted three quarters of the intake.”
“How about religion?” asked Theophil, who retained his Dr. Freud image.
“The school followed the Habsburg policy, which was tolerant. Jewish pupils got tuition in the Old Testament, in ritual and even in Talmud. The subject was entitled Wissenschaft des Judentums [Science of Judaism]. The teacher was a Dr. Hermann Wolf, a Rabbi appointed on the advice of the community. There was also some coverage of history, based on the writings of Graetz. The language of instruction, even in this subject, was predominantly German. In later years, Kafka described this course as distant and boring. His observations echoed the views of other pupils.”
“Was there an exception?” asked my mentor.
“There was indeed: Hugo Bergmann, who came from a similar, assimilated home. He treated these teachings as a springboard for deeper studies of Judaism.”
“Well spoken,” approbated Theophil. “You, Peter’le, new Hugo Bergmann and admired him. Tell me about him.”
“Hugo Bergmann became an ardent Zionist. He visited Palestine in 1910 and finally migrated to it in 1920, after Britain obtained its mandate from the League of Nations. He became the librarian and later the rector of the Hebrew University. After retiring from full service, he continued to teach courses on logic. I enrolled in one. The man was brilliant and his Hebrew, acquired after he migrated, sparkled.”
“Understood. Moreover, one point emerges: the subject taught in Kafka’s gymnasium drew some pupils to Judaism.”
“Kafka blames his father for not getting him closer to the hearth. On this point, I am inclined accept the points raised in his famous letter.”
“True,” agreed Theophil. “But Hermann never stopped his son from pursuing an interest. So, all is all, Franz is to be seen as having made his own decision. Like most youngsters of that age, he was forming his views and orientations. In other words, he became an adolescent.”
Seeing me nod, he continued: “Up to now, we talked about the developing mind. Let us now turn to the physical aspect.”
“Wouldn’t this be more in your own field, Dr. Freud, than in a layman’s? Why don’t you start the ball rolling?”
“Very well, although the pattern is rather common. I believe this period in a human’s life – early to mid-teens – is when a young person (boy or a girl) reaches sexual maturity. Physically he (or she) can procreate. Social conventions (or misconceptions), though, seek to keep him (or her) from activity.”
“This is well-known,” I agreed. “Still, most boys and girls learn about what we call ‘the facts of life’ during their primary school days. And there is a further point. Frequently, a young boy or girl has a first experience during the teens or, in rare cases, even earlier.”
“Well,” pointed out Dr. Freud. “What can we surmise about Kafka? We do not have any clear record. Kafka seems to have destroyed materials preceding 1910. Do his biographers and writings tell us anything?”
“Some biographers suggest that his first, purely transactional and non-romantic experience, took place in 1902 or 1904 in a hotel with an unknown girl in Prague. Kafka refers to this event but describes it as awkward and shameful. A different picture emerges from ‘The Stoker’ – eventually incorporated into his posthumously published works as the first chapter of Amerika. At the young age of 16, Karl Rossman is sent on his own to New York following his seduction by the family’s maid in Prague. Details of this affair are described graphically by Karl’s uncle, whom Karl meets when the ship arrives. The uncle relies on a letter, purportedly sent by the maid, who recalls Karl with warmth and wants to ensure that he would be looked after in his new abode.”
“And you think this passage is autobiographical?” interjected Dr. Freud.
“The point is hotly debated by Kafka scholars. Four points strike me. First, the Czech maid would not have had the temerity to write to the uncle – who had by then become a Senator – even if she had managed to get his address. Secondly, she would never have outlined the intimate details we find in the text. Thirdly, the passage in ‘The Stoker’ is far more explicit on physical encounters than any other episode in Kafka’s writings. Finally, the Kafkas employed a live-in maid, one of whose tasks was cooking. Young Franz would have encountered her frequently when his father sent him to fetch a glass of water; a detail highlighted by the uncle.”
“And on this basis of these considerations, you conclude that the passage is autobiographic. Actually, an instance of this sort would be quite usual. Single women like the maid, of about 35 years of age, often showed an interest in the ‘young master’. Lust, desire and dreaming are not the exclusive domain of males.”
“Do you then agree with me?” I wanted to know.
“I agree that you have a sound basis for your argument. And that’s where we ought to rest the matter. But tell me, Peter’le, why does Kafka refer to the boy being exiled? We know that Kafka remained in his parents’ home.”
“This has something to do with Hermann Kafka’s hot temper. If, in one way or another, he came to know about the affair, he would have berated Franz. But he would have never exiled his son and heir. Presumably, he bought the maid’s silence and dismissed her.”
“Is that the likely scenario? Is it supported by any circumstantial evidence?”
“I believe it is. Kafka developed into a highly introverted and reticent individual. Further, entries in his diaries indicate that he regarded sex and sexual impulses as unclean and shameful. And women characters in his writings are frequently seductive and possessive. An ugly scene with Hermann might be an explanation.”
“So now you rely on his famous letter of 1919. Isn’t this inconsistent?”
“I don’t think so. Whilst Franz Kafka’s negative accusations strike me as questionable, his basic description of his father’s hot temper and fierce manner is supported by contemporaries. I have no doubt that, up to a point, we may have to rely on this document.”
“In the ultimate, I agree,” nodded Dr. Freud. “But before concluding our psychological analysis of Kafka’s adolescence, I must refer to one further point. In his (or her) teens a young person tends to fantasize. Masturbation is common. Where a young boy, like Kafka, shares a room with his sisters, he might do so when he alone remains awake. But frequently he feels ashamed or guilty when he gets up. In Kafka’s case, this feeling of shame might have stayed put. It explains why he took such a negative view of sexuality.”
“I have nothing to add,” I told him. Thereupon, Theophil shed the Freud image and, once again, I was in the presence of Peppi. “And now, Peter’le, let us have a good look at Kafka’s record in his gymnasium. Please start rolling the ball.”
“Kafka did well although his grades in subject other than German literature and composition were not excellent,” I told him.
“Do we have any information about his style and about the literary works he covered?” asked Peppi.
“His style was his forté. The works covered by him included the German classics – Goethe, Schiller and Kleist as well as distinguished Austrian authors, such as Grillparzer, Stifter, Theodor Storm and Heine.”
“I don’t want to jump the gun,” said Peppi. “Still, do we know which authors left an impact on him? The information can be gleaned from his diary and letters.”
“Well, there are many entries dealing with the classics. Goethe was admired by him. We know, in addition, that he was impressed by the style and clarity of Grillparzer and Stifter. In a diary entry of February 1912, Kafka expresses his admiration and distance from the latter. In a way, Stifter’s ordered serenity and Biedermeier clarity, provided Kafka with a foil against which to measure his own literary path. Grillparzer left an even deeper impression. Kafka’s “The Hunger Artist” (published in 1922) develops a theme like Grillparzer’s The Poor Minstrel (published in 1848).”
“How familiar was Kafka with contemporary authors. The point is of major importance because it tells us a lot about his general reading habit.”
“Kafka’s diary indicates that he read and watched performances of Gerhart Hauptmann’s plays and was familiar with some works of Arthur Schnitzler. But it is not clear whether he read the latter’s Der Weg in die Freie, analysing assimilated Judaism, and the works of Jacob [Jakob] Wassermann. My impression is that during his Gymnasium years he was too occupied with German classics to devote much time to contemporary writers. Further, he spent much time reading French classics, especially Molière, Balzac and Flaubert. He refers to Zola but disapproved of that author’s naturalistic style. And he read and admired Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy and Gogol.”
“Did his life philosophy start to form itself during this period?” asked Peppi.
“I believe it did. One of his classmates – Hugo Bergmann – kept the customary Friendship Book, in which he asked friends to make entries. Most would have cited a passage respecting friendship and loyalty. In November 1897, Kafka entered a note (in German), to the effect that there is a coming and a going, a parting and often no reunion. The phrase rhymes and is sophisticated and ironic. Kafka has, obviously, realised the impermanence or fleeting nature of life and human relationships.”
“Point taken,” agreed my friend. “But is his sense of alienation also traceable to this period?”
“I believe it is. Two remarkable legal cases would have had this effect. The first was the Hilsner affair, of 1899-1900, in which a Jewish man was accused of the ritual murder (‘blood libel’) of a young Christian Bohemian seamstress. Despite lack of evidence, the man was convicted. The second is the sordid Dreyfus affair, of 1894 onwards, in which a Jewish-French army officer was convicted of drummed up espionage charges. Details of this sad episode were reported in newspapers in Prague. Both cases would have told Kafka all about antisemitism in Central Europe.”
“Do we have any further relevant facts?” asked Peppi.
“I believe there were pogroms during this period. One took place in Bohemia. Kafka was not physically affected but, of course, he knew what was going on. It would, further, appear that some racist remarks were hurled at him during his secondary school years.”
“But Peter’le, do we have any evidence about Kafka’s reaction?”
“An indirect but very telling one. Kafka formed close friendship with two Jewish classmates: Hugo Bergmann and Oscar Pollak. His relationships with other schoolmates were transient. In my opinion, by then he had sensed that he was an odd man out and felt the need to select friends from amongst his own race.”
“Very well then,” summed up Peppi. “We conclude that Kafka’s sense of solitariness as well as his cultural orientation formed during his adolescence. One point need be added: Kafka had an extremely limited command of English. His familiarity with some English novelists, such as Dickens, stems from German translations. Notably, some important works, such as the novels of the Bronté sisters, were not available. And now, Peter’le, let us turn to Kafka’s physique during this important period.”
“Kafka was, as we know, considered an intelligent student. But he was frail and hypersensitive. This contrasted with the rigorous physical culture promoted in schools at that time. Kafka was regarded as being more studious than strong.”
“Was he often confined to sickbed? Did he have to miss classes?”
“No, Maestro. His fragile health did not prevent him from attending school regularly. His complaints were frequent headaches and migraines, some digestive troubles, insomnia and general weakness. Some biographers maintain that much of it was due to Hermann’s overbearing presence and sharp tongue. But here, as you know, I have my doubts.”
“Well, did he engage in any sports during this period?” asked Peppi.
“He did,” I told him. “Young Kafka practised swimming and took part in rowing and hiking. Sport became a source of enjoyment. His adhering to them manifested self-discipline. Notably, he pursuance of sports was at his own initiative. Later, in his diaries and letters, he stressed the importance of maintaining a healthy body.”
“The old Greek ideal of a healthy mind in a healthy body,” summed up Theophil and added: “But Peter’le, did Kafka write during this period any piece that has come down to us?”
“The earliest piece we know of was “Shamefaced Lanky and Impure Heart” attached to a letter Kafka sent to Oskar Pollack on 6 December 1902, when Kafka was already a university student. The piece shows little merit.”
“Does this strike you as significant, Peter’le?”
“Not really. Many writers publish their first works in their twentieth. Most secondary schools, in Kafka’s period and later, leave pupils little time for creative writings. Undoubtedly, many youngsters write poetry even earlier than that. For instance, Hugo von Hofmansthal published his first poem when he was just sixteen years old. But this is the exception, not the rule. Kafka’s talent, or drive to devote himself to writing, did not manifest itself during his years in the Gymnasium.”
“Let us then turn to Kafka’s years at the University,” continued Peppi. “The records show that Kafka enrolled in the German section of the Charles Ferdinand University in 1901. Initially, he studies Chemistry but quickly switched to Law. He completed his course and graduated with the degree of Doctor of Law in 1906. To qualify for legal practice or government service, a graduate was required to undertake one year of unpaid practical training, known as Gerichtsjahr [year at court]. Kafka found this period dull and stifling, an early example of his broader discomfort with bureaucratic and hierarchical structures.”
“I am struck by his initial decision to pursue Chemistry. Science was not his forté.”
“True,” said Peppi. “Well, what is the explanation?”
“I assume it had something to do with family pressure,” I replied. “His family wanted him to pursue studies leading to a career in industry. I assume further that, when he gave vent to his frustration, they, or rather his father, approved of his switch to law. Generally, assimilated Jewish families encouraged youngsters to opt for studies leading to a professional career. Such a step was in line with their pragmatic philosophy. In Kafka’s case, this would further explain the reason for his failure to opt for a Germanist course, although his own grades suggested that this would have been suitable.”
“Very well,” agreed my mentor. “We now know enough about Kafka’s studies. Let us turn to his social life during this period. I have no doubts that this was crucial: it throws light on his later, in many ways tragic, years. Well, Peter’le, I told you as much as is appropriate. Please continue.”
“On 23 October 1902, Kafka attended a lecture about Schopenhauer delivered by Max Brod to a group of students. Kafka approached him after the lecture to discuss some issues. He then accompanied Brod on the latter’s way home. This was the beginning of a lifelong friendship between the two. About a year later, a small Jewish circle started to meet regularly in coffee houses. At around 1905 it became a wider circle, comprising, in addition to Kafka and Brod, the writers Felix Weltsch and Franz Werfel, the blind music teacher Oscar Baum and the critic Willy Haas. They met regularly in the Café Arco.”
“A circle of Jewish, German speaking intellectuals. Does this shed further light on Kafka’s outlook?”
“I think it does, Maestro. Kafka entrenched his position as an assimilated Jew. Do you agree?”
“I’d like to hear your views, Peter’le,” said Theophil and to my surprise assumed the René Descartes image, he had projected earlier in the evening. “Well, aren’t you familiar with this type of circle?”
“I am, rather. But why the change in image, Maestro?”
“Because we now have to assess the situation methodically. So, this image is appropriate.”
“I understand. And you see, Maestro, my parents and grandparents belonged to the very same milieu, and I suspect so do I. As the say, the apple does not fall far from the tree. In consequence my understanding of their milieu may assist us to understand Kafka’s.”
“Why then don’t you elaborate?”
“Very well. My maternal grandfather founded in Vienna a general business, akin to Hermann Kafka’s. I do not have details but gather that neither my late father nor mother had any traditional roots. As far as I know, neither had attended synagogue nor had links with the Jewish community. Still, they belonged to a circle of assimilated Jew. Shortly after the end of WWI, they joined a Zionist orientated club.”
“Were they then Zionists?” asked Descartes.
“Mother joined a Zionist fraternity, known as Hashomer Ha’Zair. Father didn’t. The very thought of giving up his comfortable existence in Vienna and migrating to Israel never crossed his mind. Mother was closer to the Zionist manifesto, but – like most assimilated Viennese Jews – was glad to support the ascent of others.”
“What then drove them to ascend to Palestine in 1939?”
“Nazi persecution. The same is true about many other European Jews. Earlier on, pogroms in East Europe led to exodus. But most Jewish migrants went to the United States. Shalom Aleichem tells their story. Only a trickle went to Palestine, which – until 1917 – was part of the Ottoman Empire.”
“How about your own story, mon cher Pierre?”
“I grew up in Tel Aviv, but somehow never felt fully at home. I adhered to mother’s Central European (or German) cultural outlook. I got on well with my classmates, most of whom came from East European Jewish homes. But I felt distanced. After a spell in Oxford, I opted not to return to Israel. I feel more at home in Singapore than in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem.”
“Let us turn back to your parents’ generation, which is quite close to Kafka’s,” retorted Descartes. “Your father was born in 1900 and served in the Austrian army during WWI. Was the orientation of assimilated Jews like your parents monolithic – I mean: can all be seen as having settled on a single approach?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied after some reflections. “Some members of my parents’ club kept a foot in the traditional camp. For instance, they did not take pork, observed some traditional festivals – such as Rosh Hashanah and Passover – and some went to the synagogue from time to time. I suspect that Hugo Bergman’s family illustrates the point. Hermann Kafka distanced himself further. So did my own father.”
“And what can we conclude about Franz Kafka’s orientation?”
“Judaism remained alien to him. On 8 January 1914, he asks rhetorically: “What have I in common with Jews?” But even earlier on, in 1900 (when he was still in his Gymnasium), he quarrelled about Judaism and Zionism with Hugo Bergman, expressing atheistic views. This led to a rift. Bergman thought Kafka was a socialist.”
“Was he?”
“I don’t think so. Basically, he existed on the fringes without ever committing himself to any cause. ‘I have hardly anything in common with myself and should stand very quietly in a corner, content that I can breathe’: these are the concluding words of the rhetoric question he asked in 1914. They are indicative of his life philosophy. They would not be uttered by a person who embraced any cause.”
“Try to summarise his approach, Peter’le. You are on the right track.”
“The words just quoted, his letters and diary entries project a loner: a person who feels out of place wherever he goes and regardless of his transient impulses. The strength of such a human being is his open mind; but this is also his weakness. He is incapable of committing himself one way or the other. Do I make sense?”
“I think you do; you certainly have studied Kafka’s background and life carefully. Well, let us consider one interesting phase of his life during this period.”
“Do you by any chance refer to his flirtation with Yiddish?”
“Precisely, Peter’le. What do we know about it?”
“A Yiddish theatre group of Lviv (‘Levov’, currently in the Ukraine) performed shows in Prague in 1911. Kafka became a regular attendee and supporter. As most assimilated Jews looked down on Yiddish, he gave a lecture in German at the Jewish town hall. In it, he praised the language as alive, earthy and full of emotional force when compared to the more formalised German and Czech. He defended the group against condescension and presented their plays as an authentic expression of Jewish life, humour and resilience.”
“Was this a turning point in his relationship with Judaism?” asked my mentor.
“It was not. Kafka’s diary entries suggest that, after a while, he found the performances bombastic or melodramatic. Still, he remained a close friend of the group’s leader, Yitzhak Löwy, even after the group left Prague. In Isaac Bashvis Singer’s A Friend of Kafka and Other Stories it is suggested that Kafka’s interest in the theatre was grounded in his infatuation with one of the actresses, Mania Tschissik. Be this as it may, Kafka’s interest in Yiddish and its theatre waned soon after the group departed. As far as I can see, it was not a permanent or firm commitment.”
“We shall discuss later whether Kafka was capable of any commitments. Presently, let us turn to his social life during this period.”
“It centred on his intellectual circle, mentioned earlier on. But we know, in general, that he attended lectures dealing with art, literature and philosophy. Accompanied by Brod and frequently also by Felix Weltsch, he went to theatre performances and concerts, developing a particular love for Wagner.”
“Did he travel during this period, Peter’le?”
“Sometimes he took part in short university-related trips. More often, though, he travelled with friends – mainly with Max Brod and the latter’s brother (Otto) – to countryside retreats and to cultural centres in Europe, including Vienna and Berlin. He tended to visit resorts in the German speaking world, but one trip took him to North Italy.”
“What do we know about his health during this period?” asked Theophil, still retaining his Descartes image.
“He was prone to illnesses and, even prior to his contracting tuberculosis, had a weak constitution. He tried hard to ignore his frailty but had to spend stretches in health resorts and spas. His father – that alleged tyrant – made certain that his son had the means to pursue his interests.”
“How then would you describe our young Kafka?”
“In general, he was considered a shy and reserved person but, at the same time, as having a good sense of humour and a pleasant disposition. On large social occasions, he tended to be silent and withdrawn. But he was considered good company when meeting his circle.”
“What do we know about his sexual life during this period, Peter’le?”
“He did not form any lasting associations. He visited brothels – often in the company of friends – and tended to admire women passing bye. He tells all about it in one a sketch, entitled ‘Rejection,’ in which the narrator observes attractive girls, but feels rejected before he assumes the courage to introduce himself. His diary reveals also that he masturbated. The overall impression is that he regarded sexuality as shameful or even unclean. His biographers have spent much ink in discussing whether he had homosexual or bisexual drives. Whilst some diary entries indicate that he had impulses, there is no evidence supporting a positive answer.”
“Of course not,” augmented Descartes. “The trials of Oscar Wilde (1895 onwards) were covered by Newspapers in Prague and were still fresh in memory. If Kafka had any such tendencies, he would be strongly inclined to suppress and deny them. I am aware that his diary – as translated by Ross Benjmain – may raise eyebrows. All in all, though, it is best to avoid idle speculations.”
“So, this sums up Kafka’s adolescence,” he went on. “Can you hazard a guess as respects the most important moments in that period of his life?”
“On this point, we can be certain,” I replied. “The first would be his seduction by the house maid. The second is his meeting with Max Brod. The ensuing friendship shaped the remaining years of Kafka’s short life.”