Chapter 2: Mayhem and the Brotherhood of Man

1. The Locum and his Provocation

After his reunion with Peppi, Dad had to travel to Italy. On his return to the old Bavarian capital, Dad took the train to Peppi’s station. Upon disembarking, he saw a strange figure mounting the podium.

“Where is Peppi Stölzl?” he asked the new incumbent.

“I’m standing in for him this morning,” came the laconic reply.

“I was hoping to see him here today.” Dad let his disappointment show.

“He’ll be in a bit later; why not wait for him?”

By the end of this short exchange, Dad was glancing at the locum with mounting unease. Though not as broad shouldered as Peppi, the locum was even taller than the friendly giant; and he had no paunch. His face, though, did not match his young physique. His eyebrows sat at an irregular angle, his neatly trimmed goatee lent his countenance severity, and his sharp facial features, hollow cheeks and firm chin made him look fierce. Any remaining thoughts about trifling with the man were quelled by his probing and unflinching eyes. The impervious stare passed through Dad like a gust of icy wind.

As Dad moved down the platform, a metallic rattle announced the approach of a train. Dad watched as it pulled up along the platform and gradually came to a halt.

“Let’s see how you like my performance, Tommy Berger,” Dad heard the locum say. Looking up in amazement, Dad saw the locum’s beckoning hand summoning the passengers to hurry out of the train. At the very same moment he shouted not the appropriate “Raus” but “Rein, Rein, Rein!”.

Instantly the eager commuters, who had been shuffling about impatiently, leapt through the open doors of the wagons, colliding with the disembarking passengers. Unsurprisingly, angry scenes took place, especially as everyone thought he was in the right.

Being a peace-loving individual, Dad turned to ask Peppi’s locum to call a halt to the undignified proceedings. What he saw, though, made him gasp. The locum had grown in size. Indeed, he appeared taller than any mortal Dad had ever encountered. Their eyes met but, before Dad found his voice, a gust of wind and the clatter of wheels announced the approach of the next train. Startled by the sight of disorderly crowds on the platform, its driver failed to apply the brakes in time. With a sharp bang his locomotive smashed, albeit slowly, into the last wagon of the stationary train.

Panic stricken, a group of longhaired men from Provence wearing light blazers, polo-necks and black trousers jumped out of the train. They had just arrived from France and were making their way to the stadium to support their team in a match with the Bavarian titleholders. Forming a phalanx behind their leader and brandishing sturdy and neatly folded umbrellas, carried on the pretext that it just might rain, the Frenchmen looked around them suspiciously. Their leader’s expression hardened as a group from Garmisch-Partenkirchen, adorned in braces, Lederhosen, boots and grey hats with green feathers emerged from another carriage. Yelling “Les Bosch, Les Bosch!” the French leader raised his umbrella and charged, with his group following closely behind him. The headman of the Bavarian group was no chicken! Ignoring his Pflicht [duty] to pacify foreign guests, he raised his mountaineering stick, shouted “Sieg Heil”, and gave battle.

Within a few moments, pandemonium raged on the crowded platform. As was to be expected, many locals joined their Bavarian brethren. So did some Austrians – who recalled affectionately the era of the Anschluß. All Frenchmen, Belgians, Dutchmen, a few dark gentlemen from Morocco and a number of Scotchmen threw themselves behind the Provençals.

Desperate to find a way of stopping the violence, Dad turned again to the locum Station Master. What he saw made his blood freeze. The locum had now grown to twice the size of any man Dad had ever seen. Worse still, his right hand swayed as if he were conducting a philharmonic orchestra; and his sardonically smiling face was turned upwards, focusing on a spot well beyond Dad’s horizon.

Overcoming his fright, Dad was about to address the eerie performer when a loud scream for help made him turn back to the platform, where two young louts had set on a middle-aged man. One punched him repeatedly whilst the other was trying to tear a briefcase out of his hand. Nobody on the platform heeded the besieged man’s clamours and, in no time, he was down on the ground with the two youths trampling mercilessly all over him.

2. Shelter and Speculation

Fearing for his own life, Dad rushed over to the locked door marked ‘Herren’. When his plea to be admitted met with no response, he looked at the nearby ‘Damen’. At first, his sense of decency dictated that he stay away; but another shriek of terror from a fresh victim spurred him into action. Preferring to risk prosecution for importuning to a spell in the city hospital with a broken neck, he hammered desperately on this second door, begging the good people inside not to forsake him. Initially, Sesame refused to budge. Then, suddenly, it swung open and Dad catapulted into the arms of a thick-set man with a friendly face and a fine moustache.

“Quick, you help block door,” said his saviour in a heavy Russian accent. Obligingly, Dad (who was a practical thinker) removed the pole from a broomstick and, with the Russian’s help, forced it under the door handle. They then detached a panel from one of the cubicles. Having positioned one end of the panel against the door, they pressed the other end into a depression in the floor.

“And now,” said the Russian, “we make windows fast; and we have Red Army bunker.” Remembering his manners, he added: “I Pavel Ivanovitch Popov, but friends call me Pasha.”

“And I am Robert Berger; but everybody calls me Tommy,” said Dad, shaking Pasha’s outstretched hand.

Dad helped Pasha to shut the windows in the cubicles. Once the barricading operation was complete, Dad looked around him. He soon spotted a number of men of all colours and creeds who, like himself, had sought refuge in a singularly inappropriate place. Amongst them were an Orthodox priest and a Haseed.

“But, Rebbi Mendel,” said the priest to the Haseed, “why is a man of your scholarship and devotion so concerned about a little eruption like this? Didn’t the Good Lord provide this … shelter … for our protection?”

“It’s not us that I worry about,” sighed Rabbi Mendel. “I fear for the fate of the world, Father Constantin. I believe the War of Gog and Magog has begun; and it will be followed by the Last Day of Judgment.”

“But, Rebbi Mendel,” said Father Constantin, “why do you fear the Last Day of Judgment? Don’t you want Jesus to come back to Earth?”

“Well, Father Constantin,” said Rabbi Mendel shyly, “we … as perhaps you know … do not really believe in Jesus.”

“True,” conceded the priest, but persisted unabashed: “But you, too, believe the Messiah will come.”

“So, we do; and we pray for it,” agreed Mendel.

“So why worry? Remember what will happen when He favours us.”

“Oh, yes,” said Rabbi Mendel. “All nations will accept the Lord; and there will be peace all over the world; and we shall have the Brotherhood of Man; and Jerusalem will be rebuilt.”

“So why the fear?”

“But before this, Father Constantin, there will be the War of Gog and Magog: all nations will wage war. So, all people of the world will experience sufferings, humiliations and deprivations; and thousands will die.”

“But, Rabbi Mendel,” pointed out Father Constantin soothingly, “not everybody will perish; and surely your devotion will stand you and your family in good stead. So don’t you worry. Instead, let us pray together that the Brotherhood of Man will come soon.”

At this point, Dad, who was a secular man, lost interest in the conversation. For a while he observed how Pasha and the other fugitives took turns to peep through the keyhole. Then, at Pasha’s invitation, Dad too had a go. Shocked by what he saw, he rushed to one of the cubicles and threw up.

“You alright, Tommy?” asked Pasha, who had followed him and was repeatedly slapping him between the shoulders.

“Yes, I’m fine,” said Dad when he recovered his breath. “But you saw what’s going on out there, Pasha. They’ve turned into savages!”

“Yes, Tommy,” said Pasha sadly. “This is why in Kolkhoz [commune] we teach our children all men equal. And we must toil for Brotherhood of Man!”

Their conversation was interrupted by a fresh attempt by someone on the outside to gain access to the fortified latrine. Pasha, Dad and the other occupants threw their weight against the door. They were still holding this position when, at long last, they heard the unmistakable shriek of a police whistle and an imperious voice shouting commands through a megaphone. Taking another peep, Pasha pressed his handkerchief firmly into the keyhole and yelled anxiously:

“Quick, quick: tear gas!”

Using their jackets and waistcoats to seal all the gaps around the window-frames and under the door, the escapees took their cue from Pasha, who breathed slowly and deliberately through his nostrils with his hand over his mouth. The uncontrolled coughing and anxious screams coming from the platform bore witness to what was going on outside.

Eventually the tumult ceased and the commands from the megaphone died down. After a while, Pasha retrieved his handkerchief and, gingerly, sniffed the air around him.

“Is clean,” he concluded. “We better get ready.”

They did their best to conceal the damage done to the place. The panel, though, refused to slip back into its original position in the frame. “I think best is … tactical retreat,” said Pasha resignedly. “If we wait around, perhaps Kulaks [capitalist authorities] ask us pay repair.”

Back on the platform, Dad and Pasha looked around them. “It’s all over now; no more riot. But think, what a stupid waste!” observed Dad.

“Was stupid; but not waste, Tommy! You see, this is important lesson to us!”

“What about?”

“Human nature. You give them excuse to quarrel and they fight – can be for no real reason.”

“You may be right, Pasha,” nodded Dad.

“Of course am right. My faith, Tommy, is Dictatorship of Proletariat; and my big dream is Revolution spread to whole world, Tommy!”

“But, honestly, Pasha – can you really see this happening?”

“Perhaps not our life; but one day must come. Marx, he said so; and Marx always right!”

“Perhaps,” said Dad dubiously.

“Is not ‘perhaps’; I tell you – one day old order go and new take over; and when come, we have Brotherhood of Man.”

“But isn’t this what all religions assert?” Dad exclaimed.

“Is so. Perhaps their first teacher also Communist? But real Brotherhood of Man not dream of religion. It come with Dictatorship of Proletariat, Tommy, because Proletariat believe all men equal before State!”

He was about to continue but was cut short as the large clock on the platform chimed the hour. “Is late, Tommy,” he said anxiously, “today we meet Mayor of Munich; must hurry. But I tell you, Tommy, you come see me in Kolkhoz. We have party and dance. You, Tommy, good man. You learn accept Revolution! So, see you again soon, Tavarish [Comrade] Tommy!”

3. Metaphisical Discourse with Theophil

For a while Dad reflected on the events of the last hour. They appeared incongruous: the mayhem on the platform, the strange assembly in the lavatory and – last but not least – postulations of the Brotherhood of Man by both temporal and religious zealots. He asked himself: “what did they mean”? Did Pasha, the rabid socialist, refer to the very ideal postulated by the Priest and the Rabbi? Dad was intrigued. For the moment, though, his immediate task was to find out what had happened to Peppi.

He was about to turn in the direction of the Station Master’s office when his glance fell on the podium. His feet turned to stone; he stood paralysed, staring at the strange locum who had grown to a colossal size. His uniform was stretched to its limit and, even as Dad watched, it metamorphosed into a loose black toga. At the very same moment the locum’s face became sharper and his eyes acquired a red tinge. His demeanour, though, became more relaxed and friendly and his smile was enhanced by an amused twinkle.

“Is it really you, Respected Sir? They told us a lot about you in primary school and in the gymnasium,” said Dad with trepidation.

“Yes, Tommy Berger, I am who you think I am! But fear not – I mean you no harm,” his voice was mild, even gentle.

“What shall I call you: Mephisto, Lucifer or, perhaps, Archangel?”

“I prefer to be called Theophil. It is the name by which I am known to my friends. My enemies can call me what they like: they do not count.”

“But why are you here? Surely, the fate of humans is of no consequence to you!”

“I like to watch people who interest or intrigue me; mainly out of curiosity.”

“So, you are an observer – a searcher for truth,” said Dad warmly.

Theophil nodded. “You have a keen intellect.”

“Will you then permit me to ask you a question?”

“Of course, Tommy! Why do you think I have revealed myself to you?”

“Am I the only one who sees you?” Dad was perplexed and forgot his main query.

“Quite so, Tommy. Well, look around you” said Theophil. To Dad’s surprise all on the platform were going about their business without casting even a glance at either of them. Occasionally, someone came so close as to brush against them but, invariably, did not make contact.

“They could see the locum when I made them see me,” explained Theophil. “Presently, though, it is best for us to remain undisturbed and out of your dimension. Well, let’s hear your main question, Tommy.”

“It concerns the Brotherhood of Man. I’ve just heard it postulated by two religious men, and, in addition, it is an objective of a politically inspired fellow. Obviously, the notion is supported by so many divergent groups. But can it ever materialise?”

“To tackle the problem, let us define the issue. What is the Brotherhood of Man?”

“To me it sounds like a dream,” said Dad, awed by the intensity that crept into the other’s voice.

“I suspect you mean: ‘a state of perfection Man seeks to attain’ or an ideal,” suggested Theophil. Responding to Dad’s nod, he proceeded in the same profound tone: “The question then is whether Man has the attributes needed to achieve his object.”

“For generations Man dreamt of flying. Those who tried were often ridiculed. All the same, some persisted. Eventually Mankind got there,” responded Dad. “It was a victory of the mind. This is what our Philosophy Teacher said.”

“I agree with him. And the human mind is a powerful tool. But can the Brotherhood of Man be gained by an application of rational thought?”

“I should say ‘no’. We must have the emotive drive to get there,” averred Dad.

“Do you think mankind has this drive?”

“Please tell me,” responded Dad humbly.

“Let’s try together, then,” said Theophil, who had by then shrunk back to the size and shape of a tall man. “Tell me, my friend, what are the main characteristics of the fine citizens of Munich: and the Germans generally?”

“They respect uniforms, obey orders, do their Pflicht [task] and defend their rights,” responded Dad readily.

“And are these evil attributes?”

“Not really,” reflected Dad. “People who respect uniforms and obey orders are law abiding citizens. And society thrives when its members do their duty.”

“How about insistence on, and protection of, rights?” asked Theophil.

“When applied within reason, it is a positive trait. People who don’t stand up for what is right are doormats.”

“So why the riot?”

“Is it because the people of Munich, the Germans, are extremists?” asked Dad.

“But shouldn’t a fine attribute be taken as far as possible?”

“That is what I find hard to understand. Even love, when taken to extremes, becomes oppressive!”

“What then, Tommy, is our conclusion about the qualities you mentioned?”

“They remain fine attributes only when exercised in moderation!”

“And how about negative traits, such as lust and envy?” asked Theophil.

“Passion, which is part and parcel of lust, is also a component of love. And the wish to do as well as your neighbours entails progress.”

Initially Dad could not fit the pieces of the jigsaw together: they seemed random and shapeless. Then, with a flash of comprehension, he went on feverishly: “Are you telling me, Theophil, that good and evil are separated by a narrow – often invisible – line?”

“Well, what do you think, Tommy Berger?”

“It would explain,” Dad answered, “why faith, with its noble core, often leads to cruelty and tyranny. Innocent people have been tortured and massacred in the name of creed and ideology!”

“Is the Brotherhood of Man then attainable, Tommy?”

“Even if it were attainable, it would not last. Man is driven by emotions as much as by his mind; and emotions which are noble today can turn nasty tomorrow.”

“Well put,” Theophil said approvingly. “Man has taught himself to fly. One day he may reach remote galaxies. He has unveiled many secrets of the universe. And he has split the atom. But he will never manage to introduce harmony and order into his environment and society: his emotive makeup is the obstacle. So the Brotherhood of Man will remain an ideal, a notion of perfection, unattainable by imperfect – yes, by flawed – beings.”

“So this is what you set out to demonstrate this morning, Theophil. You have established that when passions are roused, reason is defeated. But then how many of us got your message? Even a bright spark like Pasha failed to catch on. And, to tell the truth, I should not have seen the light without your guidance.”

“I know, Tommy; but when nudged, you saw it. And so did someone else!”

“Who …?” started Dad, and came to an abrupt halt. “So that is why you looked upwards. You scored; and it pleased you.”

“It did,” conceded Theophil. “In an intellectual discourse carried out from the Beginning, I have – once again – proved my point!”

“As you did aeons ago when you encouraged Eve to taste the forbidden fruit of knowledge!”

“I like your choice of words, Tommy. Eve was tempted by curiosity and desire. So I asked her: ‘why not go ahead – what is there to stop you?’ And she listened.”

“And she went ahead. But then, couldn’t you direct us also to the Brotherhood of Man?”

“I cannot guide you through a cul-de-sac: it is impassable.”

“Could He remove the imperfections which block us?”

“Remember what Peppi and you used to say on this subject in your school days?”

“We thought,” Dad stammered, “that the flaws in our world showed He too was imperfect. So, perhaps, He too cannot guide us to the Brotherhood of Man, which denotes a state of perfection.”

“But need you be perfect to create or generate perfection?” asked Theophil.

“Can an artist create what isn’t in him? So, all in all, the Brotherhood of Man will remain unattainable,” Dad concluded sadly.

“So it will,” agreed Theophil gently. Then, in an even more benign tone, he added: “You have pleased me, Tommy Berger; you have not shied away from the truth. You are entitled to a wish … no, no, you needn’t ask me to protect Peppi against the consequences of my little prank. Theophil requires no scapegoat, and so Peppi shall come to no harm. Let’s have a concrete wish, Tommy.”

Unsurprisingly, Dad took his time. Should he ask for a large fortune or for a passionate episode in his Indian Summer? But he discounted these: at his age, such benefits or adventures were best avoided. His one wish was to spend his remaining years comfortably and uneventfully in his old hometown.

“I long to be back in Vienna, Theophil. I want to go back to my old Kaffee, order an Apfelstrudel and read the papers whilst I sip my coffee through heaps of whipped cream. I want to walk again in the Vienna Forest, go to the Volksoper [the popular opera], to the theatre and occasionally to a concert,” said Dad shamefacedly.

“But will you be able to forget what had happened during the War?”

“It was a period of madness,” said Dad with conviction. “Now that it is over, life can start afresh. Also, Theophil, my Viennese friends stood by us! They’ll welcome me back. But I cannot make a new start in a divided Vienna. Under the Russian yoke, it is not my old native land.”

“You shall be back in your old Vienna in a matter of months. Your Dora and Peter’le will stay behind in Tel Aviv for the time being. Don’t let their misgivings stop you!”

“Thanks, Theophil, I am grateful to you,” said Dad.

“You’d be surprised how many of your compatriots have voiced the same wish in their prayers to Him. They too will go back because Vienna is and will always remain Vienna. And don’t look askance if you spot me next to you in the Volksoper. I, too, love Strauss and Léhar,” said Theophil.

For a few moments they gazed at one another – the metaphysical being and the man to whom he had chosen to reveal himself. Theophil could well understand Dad’s craving for peace and anonymity. The days when Dad hoped to climb Everest were long gone.

“You’ll have a comfortable existence in your new Vienna,” promised Theophil.

“I trust you.”

“I am gratified. But now I must be on my way. And you, Tommy Berger, have an errand to run. Peppi is at a crossroads. His future depends on the outcome of the next few minutes. He may rise high or remain an obscure drifter. You have to assist him because I must not intervene.”

“Will I see you again, Theophil?” asked Dad.

“I am afraid not, Tommy Berger. I reveal myself to a human more than once only if we strike a special bargain. In your case, a pact is better avoided.”

“Farewell then, noble Theophil. You have taught me more than I thought I could ever learn.”

“It has been my pleasure,” said Theophil, and vanished.

4. Peppi’s Resolve

“I’m back on earth,” Dad murmured to himself as someone bumped into him. Acknowledging the latter’s excuses with a polite smile, Dad proceeded in haste to the Station Master’s office. To Dad’s surprise, Peppi rose from his chair as if he had been asleep.

“You are really back, Tommy,” he yawned, rubbing his eyes. “I had a funny dream about some riot on my platform and that you hid in the women’s toilet together with some very strange characters. When the riot was over, you had a crazy chat with an odd being who looked like … the devil!” He paused for a moment. “What a dream!”

“It wasn’t a dream, Peppi,” said Dad.

“Tommy, don’t tell me all this really happened! Nonsense: I must still be fast asleep!”

“No, Peppi: you were not dreaming. In an inexplicable manner your eyes saw what I had perceived. It is as if we had a joint vision. And what is that strange bottle – there beside you on the table? It doesn’t look like Slivovitz.”

“That odd locum gave it to me. You see, he came into my office and handed it to me with a smile. I fell fast asleep after I took a sip.”

“A Mickey Finn?”

“It tasted like tea with rum.”

“May I have a look?” asked Dad.

The bottle was made of a black opaque material, too light to be ceramic and too heavily grooved to be glass. It looked alien. To Dad’s surprise, the cork refused to budge when he tried to remove it.

“You’d better think twice before you take a sip,” said Peppi anxiously.

“I only want to smell it,” explained Dad. “Mind if I try?”

“Not at all,” said Peppi. Instantly, the cork gave way, and a fine aroma filled the room.

“Peppi, it smells delicious. Are you sure it made you fall asleep?”

“I didn’t sleep too well last night, Tommy. So perhaps it wasn’t the drink after all. Want to try a drop?”

Gingerly, Dad raised the bottle to his lips. He was startled when the liquid gushed into his mouth like water from a fountain.

“The bottle likes you, Tommy,” said Peppi, amused.

“It’s a potent drink,” said Dad when he regained his breath. “But it’s not liqueur! It’s some sort of a tonic. Mind if I have another drop?”

Dad’s face brightened after the second sip. A wave of confidence engulfed him, culminating in a sense of inner calm. The hurdles of everyday life and the fear of tomorrow faded into the distance.

“You look just like you did in the old days, Tommy,” said Peppi, perplexed.

“I feel it. And let me tell you, Peppi: I know that once again I can conquer the world.”

“Is it this drink?”

“Why don’t you take a sip? It’s your bottle,” Dad said, proffering the bottle.

The cork slipped out readily. Peppi sniffed the aroma appreciatively and took a hearty swig, then another.

“Tommy, I feel like a new man – I have a new heart!” Peppi looked excited, elated. “It’s the same euphoria I felt after my first … eh … experience! Well, Tommy, both of us could do with a snack. But, before we get out of here, why don’t you have another sip from this bottle?”

Obligingly, Dad partook. He was about to have yet another when an inner voice urged caution. “I think this is as far as I go,” he said.

Peppi reinserted the cork. By then, his demeanour had undergone a remarkable change. Peppi had always been an exceptionally tall and good-looking man, but his appearance was marred by his ingratiating smile and the self-effacing demeanour he assumed in his everyday life. Now an aura of distinction, of well-being, descended on him. The drifter from Vienna’s working classes had turned into a self-assured individual, aware of his standing.

“Tommy, you must help me write my letter of resignation. I’m not going back to the station,” said Peppi over their first drink in the Kneipe.

“But why, Peppi?”

“Because I’m sick and tired of being the chief clown in that stupid circus. I have been coasting all my life and it’s high time I do something I like.”

“The beer garden?”

“We’ll have to keep it for a while. We need the money. But do you know what I’ve always wanted to do?”

“You wanted to own a good business of your own, Peppi.”

“Not just any type of business. My dream was to have an antiques shop of my own! Didn’t you know?”

“I knew you loved antiques of all sorts. I remember how we used to stop and stare through the windows of Vienna’s main dealers whenever we passed by. But, Peppi, why didn’t you go and get a job in one of them?”

“I tried,” said Peppi. “But they wouldn’t have me. My accent was too common. They had no room for a working-class boy.”

“You never told me,” protested Dad.

“What would have been the use? But now, Tommy, I know I can do it. I shall simply apprentice myself to one of the leading shops in town.”

“Isn’t it too late in the day?” asked Dad anxiously. “You are two years older than me …”

“I’m 53!” smiled Peppi. “So what? I’ve stashed away some of the money I made during the War. And Helga will be supportive. She doesn’t like the beer garden. But she’d be proud to be the wife of a leading art or antiques dealer! And I know I shall make it, Tommy: where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

“Go then, by this – thy strength!” Dad exclaimed. Then, highly embarrassed, he added: “I don’t know what made me use these words, Peppi. It was as if an invisible person prompted me.”

“I think I know who it was,” said Peppi warmly. “And I am glad to have the blessing of both of you.” Pausing for a moment, he went on: “So come on, let’s draw up my letter of resignation.”

They drafted the letter over the next two drinks. When they were done, Peppi shrugged his shoulders and said: “I’ll be glad to see the last of that lousy uniform.”

Time stood still as they sat in silence at their table in the Kneipe. Each was recalling their youth in Vienna, the years of separation, the struggle for survival and their unexpected reunion.

Peppi broke the spell. “Tommy, will you really go back to Vienna when the Russians get out?”

“Yes, Peppi. And you?”

“I’m pretty sure Helga would refuse to leave Munich. But even if she did, I won’t go back.”

“But why?”

“Look, Tommy: in reality, Vienna was your home much more than mine!”

“Peppi!” protested Dad.

“Yes, Tommy, so it was. Oh, I know: you are a Jew and I’m a Viennese of the old stock. But, in truth, your position was better than mine.”

“In what way?”

“The Jews of Vienna were outside our class structure,” said Peppi. “No matter how persistently you kept knocking, some doors would remain firmly shut. The nobility, the gentry and the army frowned on you and some professions used their numerus clausus to exclude you. In the old days, you couldn’t have become a notary or an ambassador. But the arts, many professions – including medicine – and the business world welcomed a gifted Jewish kid. I, by contrast, was a working-class boy. My chances of rising in the world were slim. The foreman’s job at old Rosenberg’s was all I could traditionally aspire to. The partnership was the ultimate.”

“All the same, Peppi – you were an insider whilst I was kept outside.”

“Quite so! But like most Jews of your generation, you were content to remain a successful entrepreneur with a niche in your own community. It didn’t matter to you that you were on the fringes. I, Tommy, was not satisfied with my lot of an insider in the lower echelons of the pyramid.”

The waitress hovered in the background, indicating that they ought to order another drink. To Dad’s relief, Peppi decided against a further Slivovitz and settled for a cup of black coffee. For a while they continued to talk about the old days and their respective plans for the future. This time it was Dad who broke the spell, explaining that he had to prepare for another trip to Bologna.

“After that, I have to fly back to my family in Tel Aviv,” he told Peppi. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back in Munich.”

Peppi stood at the door until Dad disappeared round the corner. Stepping back into the Kneipe, he ordered another cup of coffee but, as soon as the waitress turned her back, got hold of his odd-looking bottle. The cork loosened obligingly.

“Thanks, Theophil,” he said, taking a hearty swig.

“You are welcome,” he mind was told.