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Chapter 5

The Viennese Smile

Devil knows what I did with my train ticket! I look for it nervously: the Austrian ticket inspector is waiting.

“No problem,” he says in his musical Viennese drawl, “I’ll come back later, OK?”—And he leaves.

To me, the name “Vienna” is a synonym for classical brightness, hundreds of books and operettas, uncounted anecdotes and, concentrated in one place, the wisdom of the world and all its stupidity. Old Vienna—praised by the whole world: Vienna, city of perpetual joy, waltzes, operettas, smiles, and fun.

A visitor comes to see the swirl of ballroom dancing in the open areas of the city—even in the morning, to hear its citizens speaking German in the lilting dialect of Strauss in the open market—which market?

Oh yes, the flower market.¹ What other market in Vienna can compare with it?!

Those who read the Baedeker travel guide get the impression of a city in which everyone talks with a smile on their face, the policeman accompanies the prisoner to jail with sprightly, Fledermaus-like operetta steps, and calls him Herr Gefangener (Mr. Prisoner).

The whole world talks about, and believes, this. But I have never heard the most important quality of this city discussed or commented on, perhaps because it is taken for granted: its essential nature and quality of courtesy, not found anywhere else on earth.

Is it possible to summarize all aspects of this quality with one short word, “courtesy?” I don’t think so: because it is more than just that. If I could describe Vienna in one word—it would be “trust.”—Trust in one’s fellow man, trust in his humanity, rectitude, and essential child-like simplicity.

The Viennese put the entire stupid, evil world to shame—a world in which everyone suspects, and is suspected of, fraud, lies, pursuit of profit, and deception for a piece of moldy bread.

Yes, this is Vienna: city of trust.

Last night I passed through all nine infernal Dante-esque levels of paper examination, unpacking, and luggage fines from both Italian and Yugoslav loutish authorities—suddenly the Austrian train supervisor appears, and says simply: “No problem: I’ll come later, OK?”

By contrast:

The Jewish mailman in Tel Aviv brings me a letter from my sister abroad: the postage is insufficient and I have to add twelve mils.² I look for coins in my pockets but don’t have any. As if “by accident,” he leaves, taking the letter with him, saying simply:

“When you have the money, you’ll get the letter.”

Then he disappears.

That memory is still a sore point with me. By contrast, the Austrian train conductor arrives a second time: when I still can’t find my ticket, he smiles and says in Wienerisch:³

“You’ll find it eventually.” He doesn’t stand grimly waiting for me to find it, doesn’t warn or caution me fiercely, doesn’t even register me in the book of fines or kick me off the train and take me to the station superintendent or the police.

All he says is:

“Nu, you’ll find it eventually,” in exactly the same musical drawl as the Austrian postal official in Trieste when I didn’t have enough small change for the telegram, which she simply sent off on credit. The same accent and mentality that apparently haven’t changed despite all the convulsions of war or even new postwar borders.

Perhaps the Viennese attitude to life and people is related to their easygoing dialect.

Might it be possible to adapt this dialect to Tel Aviv? I am sure that Bialik the poet would agree, but I’m not sure about Avronin the strict grammarian.⁴ We would have to promise Avronin diplomatically to weigh the merit of every tiny grammatical detail although we know that this would never work with the Viennese drawl.

My first impression of the city is not at all threatening. At first, I thought that it was just an isolated feeling, and that surely the war and its accompanying upheaval must have brought death and desolation to Vienna as well. I have heard rumors of German carpetbaggers and the inflammatory effect of Bolshevism. With all these troubles, why should Vienna retain its sense of trust, its genuine smiles, and humanity?

Travelling from the station through the city, getting in and out of taxis, entering my hotel and arranging everything with the hotel staff—I am immediately struck by the miracle: Vienna has not “suffered” from the war and its sacrifices—not one bit. I remember what my grandfather once said to me:

“The most beautiful Austrian song is the song from the operetta Vienna remains Vienna:

Summer comes and summer goes

And then winter returns

With its biting winds,—

Kings come, kings go,

There is a time for everything,—

But Vienna—is always Vienna!

Even in the midst of raging storms and earthquakes,

Vienna will stand forever!”⁵

How true. This very evening I am going to see and hear Hansi Niese, after an interval of seventeen years!⁶ I have been walking through the noisy streets of Vienna for the past two hours. Despite everything, I feel a sense of disappointment, compassion, and mourning.

The city is just as beautiful as before. The eye and ear drink in the multicolored hum of technology, which intoxicates the senses like finest wine.

So what darkens all of this for me?

Viennese women are exactly as they were before. Their charm does not just lie in their beauty, fabled “chic,” or Germanic vigor. Viennese women are simply and wonderfully—childlike and sweet.

Their sweetness lies in their ingenuousness, but their simplicity is anything but stupidity. A child is not stupid—he is naïve, and this naïveté gives a child exceptional wisdom and sharpness of wit. As Wordsworth says, a human being is nearest to God when he is a child.⁷ Viennese woman make the streets shine and smile with childlike optimism, compared to the mocking laughs from Moscow, Rome, London, and the League of Nations (which preaches disarmament but practices the exact opposite).

But despite all this, something is darkening my horizon in this beautiful city. What can it be?

It takes several days walking around here, before I understand what it is:

the sun!

It’s not Vienna, but I myself, who have changed. Seventeen years ago, I simply came from one European city to another—from Budapest to Vienna; but now I come to Vienna from the Land of Israel: from a land of sunshine to a city of shade. During an entire week here I have not seen the sun even once—seven whole days without the sun’s splendor.

My friend Tartakover is surprised to hear my complaint.⁸

“Just the opposite: winter this year is dry; there have been no clouds in the sky for at least two months.”

I look—he’s right.

Not only that—there is no sign of snow in the city.

Yes, the sun is visible somewhere in the sky, together with blinding winter snow in places like Semmering and on the outskirts of Grinzing.⁹ But in the city itself—I have to walk around through many winding streets for an entire hour to find a little light.

There isn’t a cloud in the sky—but instead of grey or white clouds, the city is submerged in a grey fog—a mournful mixture of smoke and fumes.¹⁰

The entire city resembles a basement cellar. During the day you see the sky through narrow streets and tall buildings, and at night not a single star comes to the rescue. Where are Vega, Arcturus “the guardian,” and Algol “the demon” glittering in the night sky?¹¹

By 5:00 p.m. it’s already dark, and at 7:00 a.m. I have to get dressed by electric light.

I look upwards: what kind of God dwells in such a murky sky?

The prophets were surely not born under such a sky.

Maybe there are no prophets here, but look deeper, my friends. The following are extracts from my diary of those days:

— The restaurant owner personally visits each and every customer, asking whether they have any complaints or special requests.

— The owner of the luxury hotel in which I visit one of my acquaintances helps me with my coat when I get up to leave.

— During the intermission, the movie theater owner passes through the hall asking if the audience likes the show, and if anyone has any comments, noting them all down in his book.

— The trolley car conductor doesn’t have any change, and allows me to travel with the coins that I have. I ask one of my fellow tram passengers where I should get off. He answers: “at the fifth station from here.” We pass several stations and I prepare to get off, but eight passengers say to me simultaneously: “Excuse me, sir, not yet: please get off at the following station.”

I see that the group of eight includes two officers. These men have looked after me the whole time, ensuring that I get off at the right station!

— I ask a policeman standing in the square for street directions.—He looks in his booklet with detailed city diagrams, and tells me exactly what I need to know.

While I am preparing to leave, an old woman says to me: “Please, sir, come with me: I am walking in that direction.”

— The proprietress of the pension where I am staying treats me to breakfast in bed including a banana, and adds smilingly: “To remind you of your homeland.” (I have been staying with her for about two weeks, and have only spoken to her once before: when I rented the room)

— The film breaks down in the movie theater—immediately the owner appears, explains the reason for the interruption to everyone, and asks their pardon for it.

— A rich woman of my acquaintance wishes to go somewhere, but her own car is currently being used, so she wants to travel by taxi. I go to the taxi rank: she asks me to call a specific taxi number, but it isn’t available, so we get into another. Suddenly the taxi with her requested number appears. We apologize to the driver of the first taxi, get into the second, and drive off. When we get out and she pays, I hear her telling the driver: “I’ve owed you this money for a week. Thank you.”

— I go for a drive in an acquaintance’s car—it’s driven not by their chauffeur but by the owner’s wife or son. Why?—“Because the chauffeur is a person too, and he doesn’t drive us for pleasure, day or night.” So, to compensate, she takes the chauffeur, his wife, and children out for a drive in her husband’s car, and not only on Sunday: on weekdays as well.

— I buy a tramway ticket, travel one stop, and ask the conductor where I should get off. “Get off here, and change to another tramline sir: this is not the right one for you!”—He takes the ticket, gives it to another passenger, and gives me my money back.

— In the kosher restaurant Winia nobody pays on Sabbath—everyone eats on credit. I ask the restaurant owner:

“What happens if a new customer comes in on the Sabbath?”

“We always have new customers” he answers—“what’s new about that? Everyone pays their bills after Sabbath ends, not one person owes us any money, nor ever has.”

— Young girls show the people to their seats at the great circus. I ask one of them:

“Has anyone ever sat in a seat that didn’t belong to him?”

“How can that be?”—One girl answers me in amazement—“how can someone sit in a place that isn’t his?”

— I cross the road to take a second tram and ask the conductor which is the right one. He gets off his own tram, takes me where I need to go, and explains everything to me in detail, making sure that I don’t get lost. Then he unhurriedly gets onto his own tram again. The passengers wait calmly until he returns: no grumbling, no surprise, just the most normal thing in the world.

— A policeman notes down the name of a driver for some minor misdemeanor—they both smile and laugh, as if telling one another an amusing story.—

I make these notes not to draw the conclusion that in Vienna there are no cheats, liars, and bad people, no bitterness, transgressions, court hearings, arguments, or anger, like in the rest of the world. I note only my own personal experiences, as living proof that things like this do occur in Vienna, even though they may well be isolated occurrences.

I make these notes, because in Tel Aviv things like this happen as well. However, in Vienna, I do not see them in the country of prophetic morality and idealism, but in a country where thousands of swastikas wave in the streets and houses.¹²

I remember my grandfather’s bitter expression, said in a moment of holy anger:

“Only a nation of villains like Ahab, Jezebel, and Jeroboam the son of Nebat would have felt constrained to expel Elijah, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel from their midst!”¹³

However, he quickly sweetened his bitter opinion, in his profound way:

“On the other hand, only a holy nation is able to protest so tenaciously and eternally against their own transgressions through prophets like Elijah, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel!”

The presence of prophets testifies to a nation as full of sin as a pomegranate is with seeds—but also with an elevated sense of remorse.

No matter what, I am deeply envious of this city of Vienna. I pray:

“Lord of the Universe, I am prepared to do without future prophecy, if only we could live in a Tel Aviv like this!”

Perhaps morality without prophets is better than prophets without morality!

Perhaps a simple childlike smile—with a hint of lightheadedness—is better than an anger-filled prophet with a touch of National Socialist morality?—

“Vienna remains Vienna.”

But not in everything.