Chapter 22
July, 1949
Gassmann-Bunke homestead
So it came about that Marcus began the process of extricating himself from his job in Varel so that he could return home to work in the family business. His supervisor, was shocked by Marcus’ decision, as were all his coworkers, given how lucrative Marcus’ position was, and how much room there was for advancement. Everyone knew that you don’t give up a Civil Service post – and the financial and career security that come with it – just like that.
Besides that, everyone at the office knew how happy he was with his position. Marcus had felt so at home working there. He’d felt that this was just the right spot for him: He was respected, and the confidence that arose as a result of that respect lent him a greater feeling of worthiness at home – not that he’d have put it that way, or even consciously recognized it, but that was definitely part of his feeling of satisfaction. So, there was a lot of speculation at the office about Marcus’ reasons for leaving. Certainly, everyone there was aware that now, after the War, even though nearly four years had already passed, many families were still in disarray, with able-bodied workers in short supply.
Indeed, this is exactly the way Marcus explained his departure when he submitted his resignation and gave notice. But despite the objective reasonableness of this explanation, it seemed feeble to Marcus, and felt certain that people would see through him, that they’d see the situation for what it was: proof that he did not have control over his life. It was his father who was calling the shots.
Marcus didn’t want to go through the pain of seeing that realization in his coworkers’ eyes. But that was exactly the way the situation at work began to play out. Although Marcus had hoped to be able to leave immediately upon tendering his resignation, this wasn’t possible: There were protocols to be followed, documents to process, and so on. So, in the course of his last month, Marcus’ tasks diminished as the supervisor began shifting his duties to other officials there. As this happened, Marcus found it increasingly difficult to maintain his image as a strong and independent civil servant. He began to feel a sting of humiliation which grew steadily more intense, as if he’d been fired from his post, instead of resigning.
It was precisely this experience – this feeling of somehow having been shamed – that Marcus had wanted to avoid by leaving his job immediately. Instead, the day after he informed his supervisor of his plans, the news began to spread like wildfire. By the next morning, he noticed all the other officials looking at him – some with curiosity, but most with an air of superiority, and a few even with pity in their eyes. Although some of his colleagues approached him and expressed regret that he’d be leaving, Marcus saw through this false collegiality. He sensed in each man who approached him this way – with a clap on the back or shoulder, or a handshake – an unspoken satisfaction that was rooted in the speaker’s hope that Marcus’ departure would open up room for his own advancement.
Now, Marcus could have viewed these interactions as a sign that the other officials did, in fact, recognize him as a rising star in the Civil Service and, thus, a threat to their own careers. Sensing this, Marcus could, then, have taken pride what he’d accomplished during his four years of service. But Marcus being Marcus, he took their reactions as a slap in the face, as if his colleagues and supervisor – and not his very own father – had been the ones to send him home to the Gassmann-Bunke family homestead. In each conversation with the other men at the office, he felt sure that they were both congratulating themselves on their unexpected good luck, and also – and here was what really stung Marcus – silently expressing their view that Marcus was weak, unable to stand up to his daddy. Marcus glimpsed what he interpreted as this unspoken contempt for him in each of his colleagues’ eyes. No matter how good he was at his work, no matter how much his supervisor valued his contributions, he was still, when it came down to it, subject to Papa’s wishes. “A twenty-six-year-old wet noodle of a boy.” “Not at all a man.” That’s what Marcus imagined they said about him behind his back.
None of the men in Marcus’ office had ever met his father. His supervisor, Mr. Weiss, though, had heard the name Viktor Bunke – which meant, of course, that whatever Weiss knew gradually became common knowledge for all who worked there. But what, exactly, did he know, aside from the name? Mr. Weiss never revealed those details with Marcus, perhaps assuming that the young civil servant knew very well what one of Mr. Weiss’s own superiors had shared with him. But he was wrong on that count.
Marcus, thanks to his father’s insistence on utter secrecy about where and how he had spent the war, knew nothing aside from the fact that his father’s wartime position had kept the family well-supplied with food and commodities that could be sold on the black market. No one in the family had asked for an explanation. Not as far as he was aware, anyway. Did his mother and grandparents know the details? He wasn’t sure. But what he did know was that Mr. Weiss knew something about Viktor Bunke and, as a result of that something, Mr. Weiss had a healthy respect for the man. “Not a man to be defied,” Marcus overheard Weiss telling one of his deputies by way of explaining Marcus’ departure at his father’s request. “A man to be reckoned with,” Weiss told another.
Based on his limited, but powerful impression of this picture of Bunke the elder that Weiss had painted for those in the office, Marcus came to believe that every man there now saw him as Viktor Bunke’s cowardly son – the son who had backed down when push came to shove. So much for free will, Marcus often told himself bitterly as he faced his colleagues’ false smiles and good wishes. But he did this without asking himself why, exactly, he had acquiesced to his father’s demand, given the emphatic defense he’d offered around the supper table of our right to control our own lives. Rather than pondering why he himself hadn’t exercised his God-given free will, though, Marcus jumped right to resenting his father for – as Marcus saw it – depriving him of it. He didn’t see the contradiction between these thoughts and his suppertime assertions a month earlier. If God couldn’t force us to do anything, how was it that a mere mortal father could do so?
Marcus didn’t entertain this line of thought. It was easier to condemn his father than to ask himself, “How is it, exactly, that a father so thoroughly overrides something given by God? And that a son allows him to do so?” These are relevant questions, but neither Marcus, nor Viktor, nor Mr. Weiss, nor the colleagues – nor even the Gassmann-Bunkes, who considered this step undeniably necessary and right – gave any thought to such religiously-tinged queries. Marcus knew only that the pain of humiliation was growing within him with each hour he spent at the office. By the second day after he submitted his resignation, he couldn’t wait for his final month to be over.
That was at work. Upon arriving home each evening, the feeling of humiliation that Marcus experienced all day long shifted swiftly and easily to anger, as he unconsciously sought to assert himself on the home front in a way he was no longer able to do in the office. He picked fights with his siblings over trifles, remained mostly silent with his parents and grandparents, and endured business-related conversations with his father only with the greatest effort, always on the verge of lashing out at the older man physically or verbally. Only with Kristina and Ingrid was he able to exhibit some measure of genuine affection, since he considered them blameless. Besides, now that he was losing his Civil Service position, it felt all the more important to him to hold on to his relationship with the two of them. To show that in some way he was still very much a man. A man to be reckoned with in his own right. So that Kristina would still see him as worthy of her.
This was one of the reasons Marcus was most upset at having to leave his position in Varel: His plan to gradually move up through the Civil Service ranks played a key role in his courtship of Kristina. He was convinced, although he couldn’t have explained why, that he couldn’t win and keep her as just the son of a forester – or now, even worse, as just a forester himself! He needed to stand out from the crowd in some way. Not that there was a stream of men coming to court Kristina, but he sensed that she was beginning to wonder why he hadn’t yet proposed to her. After all, they’d been courting now for two years, and he hadn’t even told her he loved her. Not using those three words, anyway. She hadn’t come out and declared her love for him, either. That in itself made him a bit anxious. He didn’t understand that her position in their household left her feeling like something of a second-class citizen. How, she thought, could she dare to declare herself to him first, even though she was quite sure of her love for him? Not grasping this, Marcus concluded that he hadn’t yet impressed her sufficiently. So, he pinned all his hopes on advancing through the Civil Service to a level where Kristina couldn’t fail to be dazzled by him. But now… How am I to win her now? How can I prove to her I’m every bit a man? Or even more of a man than his father. That would be preferable.
However, this was not such a simple task. There was one incident during that transitional month that entirely erased any doubt Marcus might have had about the truth of Mr. Weiss’s characterization of his father. It was a Saturday, a few weeks before Marcus’ final separation from his job. Marcus, Peter and their father were all in the workshop. Viktor and Peter were standing at one of the workbenches, consulting over plans for a piece of cabinetry that had been ordered. Marcus walked into the building, and for the first moments, just watched his father and brother as they stood conversing, their backs to him. Marcus could hear the friendly tones of their conversation. He saw the intent, respectful way his father listened as Peter, indicating various points in the drawing before them on the bench, explained what he had in mind. Viktor was listening and nodding thoughtfully. When Peter finished, Viktor nodded once more and, laying his hand briefly on his son’s shoulder, and said, “It’s a good plan, Peter. Move on ahead on it.”
“What about the carving, Father? Will you do it?”
“No, Son,” Viktor replied. “You can handle it on your own.”
Peter smiled, and a feeling of satisfaction spread through him. Viktor was a gifted carver, and although Peter had learned at his side from early childhood, Viktor’s skill still surpassed his son’s, and that of anyone else in the area, to be honest. Peter was touched by his father’s confidence in his abilities.
Marcus witnessed this exchange, and something in his father’s tone, the sight of his hand on Peter’s shoulder, and Peter’s smile, brought a rush of anger up in Marcus. As Viktor turned to greet his other son, he detected the fury in Marcus’ narrowed eyes, and took note of his flushed cheeks and tightly-set mouth. Instinctively drawing himself up a little taller and straighter and extending his chin a bit forward, Viktor took a step toward Marcus and put out his hand. Viktor himself recognized this gesture as ill-timed and inappropriate, insufficient, but this was the habit he’d developed during the war when faced with resistant subordinates. There was something about grasping a potential adversary’s hand in a seeming act of respect and even friendship that also allowed him to transmit his own power and take control of the situation. But in this case, Viktor realized too late, when he was dealing not with a subordinate, but with his own son – who, nonetheless, had felt more and more like an adversary these past weeks – the extended hand telegraphed too much formality and distance to have the desired effect of assuring complete control.
Certainly, Viktor understood from Marcus’ expression that his easy familiarity and affection with one son had infuriated the other, but he had no inclination to show Marcus a similar measure of affection. Had that been the case, he would have gone over and jovially clapped Marcus on the shoulder, too. But no. Viktor had calculated the effect of his actions, wishing to exhibit a harder edge with Marcus, so as to show him that he was, if we can use Mr. Weiss’s words here, “a man to be reckoned with”. It was important to Viktor to maintain dominance over Marcus: Fully aware of his son’s dissatisfaction with the shifting situation, and of his general tendency to seethe and cause disruption wherever possible, Viktor felt that a strong hand was necessary if Marcus were to eventually settle in as a cooperative and submissive contributor to the family work.
A different parent – or a parent with a different upbringing, or a different war experience – might have felt that a kinder approach was worth a try, a show of equal affection to both sons, perhaps. But that was not how Viktor saw things. He’d had enough life experience to know that seething resentment that was allowed to grow unchecked or undisciplined was dangerous. Of course, it was best to avoid creating the environment for such resentment in the first place. But that battle had long been lost, where Viktor and Marcus were concerned. Viktor knew that. He also knew full well that once resentment toward you crept into someone’s heart, there was generally little you could do to turn it around, because whatever had caused the ill will hadn’t necessarily been your fault in the first place. So, why spend your time pussy-footing around your son or wife or subordinate, trying this or that to make better what you couldn’t make better anyway? No. Viktor had no patience with others’ resentment. He saw it as a weakness of character, as a choice a person makes to see himself as a victim, instead of as an actor.
Interestingly enough, however, Victor was not bothered by his son Peter’s physical handicap. True, he was frustrated that Peter had been unable to help with the forestry work, but Peter didn’t anger him the way Marcus did. Peter had been injured while serving his country in battle, which was more than could be said of Marcus: He spent the war safe inside the confines of the Censorship Office and never had to face down an enemy. What’s more, when Peter came back too injured to work the forest, he’d thrown himself into the cabinet making, toiling away tirelessly, with never a complaint. Viktor was actually proud of Peter and of how hard he worked to help the family prosper.
Let’s note that whenever Viktor went over these facts in his mind and reflected on the differences between his sons, and between his feelings for the two young men, he conveniently chose not to recall that he was the one who pulled strings to get Marcus that post in the Censorship Office and, then, his position in Varel. Had he reflected on that stage of Marcus’ trajectory, Viktor probably would have concluded that the two sons might have fared better if they’d switched roles: Marcus’ arrogance might well have been tempered by time at the front that would have left him humbled, and grateful to be alive, even on a boring homestead in the countryside. Peter , meanwhile, might have brought a kindness to the Censorship Office which would have benefited all around him and spared him the nagging belief that his wound proved that he had not been a good enough soldier.
Viktor believed he possessed keen insight into his sons’ current patterns of viewing the world around them: Marcus’ overly-high opinion of himself was combined with a conviction that he could in no way be even partly responsible for anything that ever went wrong for him. As Viktor saw it, when things took a direction which felt unfair and unjustified to Marcus, he always saw himself as a victim of others’ jealousy and ambition. Why can’t they just not see my great skill, my unlimited potential, and allow me to fulfill that potential? That’s how Viktor imagined Marcus’ self-perception. But, as intuitive as Viktor was when it came to others, he failed to intuit the insecurity that lay beneath Marcus’ bravado.
He was quite accurate when it came to his view of his other son, however: Peter, unlike his brother, was quick to assume that everything that went wrong was, in fact, somehow his fault. Inattention, insufficient skill, or simply carelessness: These were the behavior traits Peter ascribed to himself, and the way he explained the misfortunes that seemed to dog him. His war injury and his role in Lina’s accident were just two examples. There were others, dating from earliest childhood: the pot of boiling laundry that somehow ended up on the kitchen floor while he and Marcus were wrestling, and the scalding of his (Peter’s) foot that resulted; the goat kid that ended up strangled by its own lead rope after Peter tied it where it could subsequently become tangled in amongst the bushes; and the time Lina fell from the top of the treehouse ladder while climbing up, because he lost his grip on her hand as she was coming up over the top. Luckily she wasn’t hurt, and he begged her not to tell their parents. She didn’t. So, while Marcus early on come to feel he should be the boss of everything and everyone, Peter learned to stay as quietly possible in the background, trying to do as little damage as possible, while also making a great effort to be useful and respectful. If Marcus tended to constantly make waves of tsunami proportions, Peter was more like a backwater fed by gentle runoffs and small snowmelts, but offering no strong movement of its own accord.
Now, Viktor’s view that it wasn’t worth trying to be kind or understanding to those who resented you, because you hadn’t caused the resentment in the first place – this was a view he adopted in the mid-1930s, when his relations with his wife Ethel were particularly strained, and when Marcus began nursing a strong and, as Viktor saw it, unwarranted, grudge against him. The situation was this: Marcus took exception to what he (as just an adolescent!) saw as the ill effects that his father’s decisions had on the life of the family. But Viktor, seeing these decisions as sound and positive, concluded that if his family objected, then that was their problem. Viktor decided that it be wrong for him to capitulate in the face of his family’s resistance when he knew he was in the right. If they wanted to resent him for holding to his principles, then so be it. So it was. And so it continued, up to and throughout the war and, to a certain extent, even following his return home once the war ended. Viktor was a man who made decisions independently and confidently. He did not really care to hear dissenting views, once he made his decisions – or while he was making them, for that matter. That was why he always chose a course of action on his own. When this was possible, of course.
During the war, Viktor had the good fortune to serve under a superior officer whose views nearly always coincided with his own. Only rarely did Viktor find himself tasked with implementing a decision with which he disagreed. But on these occasions, as a fully-professional officer who understood and believed that order needed to be observed and upheld, he carried out his orders. Without any qualms? Without even a hint of resentment? The answer to that question can wait for the moment. Because now Viktor’s son Marcus was standing before him, not grasping his outstretched hand.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to shake his hand, Marcus thought, glancing in silence from his father’s hand to his face. The two men stared each other down, neither wanting to give. Viktor sensed he was about to lose the upper hand. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Before Marcus could say anything, Viktor, who stood half a head taller than his son and was stronger, too, than his wiry appearance suggested, wrapped the proffered arm around the younger man’s shoulder in a smooth motion, and pulled him toward him. Marcus tried to pull back, but Viktor’s grip was firm. Marcus found himself with his shoulder and upper body pressed tightly to his father’s chest, sideways, so that his left ear was directly in front of the taller man’s mouth. Viktor held his son that way for a few seconds, waiting to see whether Marcus would resist. The latter made no effort to free himself, but his whole body tensed. Finally, Viktor spoke, his voice barely above a whisper – Peter on the other side of the room would not have heard what he said – but full of power, nonetheless.
“It’s not worth it, Marcus,” Viktor said. “Believe me. It’s not worth it to fight me. You’ll get nowhere.” He tightened his grip more as he spoke, so that Marcus felt his father’s arm running along his back and holding his, Marcus’, shoulder in a vise-like grip, with his forearm in front. But that was only for a couple of seconds. Then Viktor’s muscles relaxed, he loosened his hold and, stepping back, the father used his other hand to pat the son on the released shoulder, a movement that to Peter, who saw it as he turned, perplexed by the silence behind him, seemed identical to the affectionate pat Viktor had placed on his shoulder a minute earlier. It was not the same, of course. The now light palm on Marcus’ shoulder was a signal to him that things were settled: His father would not tolerate any insubordination or show of disrespect.
“Head out to the aspen grove and help your grandfather and Stefan with the survey,” Viktor told Marcus. Then he strode out of the workshop without even waiting for a reply, leaving Marcus full of anger he was at a loss to know what to do with.
“Morning, Marcus,” Peter said, smiling, not understanding what had just passed between his brother and their father.
It was all Marcus could do to keep from rushing Peter and slamming him against the workbench. Instead, he gave his brother a curt nod, turned, and walked out of the building. He headed down the main path into the forest to join Ulrich and Stefan, but then paused, once he’d gone a good ways into the woods. The blood was pounding in his temples, and his breathing was sharp and shallow. His chest felt tight, and he could feel his face burning. He wanted to regain his composure before his grandfather saw him. But after even a few minutes of standing there, he felt that the rage inside him, instead of receding, was picking up steam. Casting his eyes about the woods around him, he spotted a fallen birch log roughly the length and thickness of his father’s arm.
Marcus picked it up and, bringing it first high above his head with both hands, slammed it over and over again against the forest floor. The repeating, dull thud it produced when it hit against the earth felt satisfying to him. He noticed with curiosity the vibrations that traveled up into his arm from the birch branch following each blow, and he kept pounding the branch until it gradually split into long pieces, until the vibrations flowing from the wood were joined by ever-increasing pain in his arms. Stopping then, Marcus looked at the splintered wood and wondered whether the log, too, felt any pain or discomfort from the beating; and whether the vibrations had spread far enough through the ground that his grandfather and Stefan could also feel them where they were working, deeper in the woods. But that was only a moment’s reflection. Marcus threw the remains of the log to the ground and kicked it for good measure, before continuing on along his path.
Sue Downing 