Free Disguise by Hugo Hamilton

any religious customs. He merely wanted to belong to the Jewish community in Berlin. And maybe it didn’t matter to him all that much ultimately, because everyone already believed him. They never asked too many intrusive questions because it seemed grotesque to demand identity papers from a Jewish survivor. They were in the process of altering their society with new music and new habits and new forms of tolerance that would make up for all that was gone by. They accepted the fact that Gregor was Jewish, simple as that.
    But as with everything in Gregor’s life, there has always been a question mark floating behind him. Every statement contains a hint of the opposite. Some filament of doubt inside every utterance which calls that very thing into question. They say that every YES contains a NO. Every book title, every line from a song, every clip of dialogue in a movie is always in conflict with itself. Some innate cynicism in the words that shows up the reverse of what was meant. The only strong statement left is the question itself. Who am I? Where do I belong?

Eight
    Gregor first met Mara after a street demonstration in Berlin. He and Martin found themselves on the periphery of a protest, observers sitting on top of an advertising hoarding alongside a newspaper photographer when a baton charge came their way. Policemen came and whacked them around the ankles from below, forcing them to get down. This time Gregor had no defence. It was the photographer who called out with great indignation, bawling out the name of the right-wing paper he worked for. So the policemen apologised to the photographer and turned on Gregor with redoubled hysteria. He received two blows, one to the shoulder, one to the side of the head, before he could limp away around the corner. They must have assumed Martin was with the photographer because he got away unscathed.
    Mara came across them, crouched beside the wall outside a shop, right underneath a cigarette machine. Gregor was naked from the waist up. He had taken off his T-shirt and Martin was holding it up to his forehead to stem the blood. She took them upstairs to the apartment where she lived, bandaged his head and washed his face and chest. She was a nurse, training to become a physiotherapist. She gave Gregor a clean shirt belonging to her boyfriend who was away at the time. Then she tried to teach them yoga andhad them both lying on the floor with their legs in the air to increase the healing power of circulation.
    Afterwards, they drank beer and smoked and talked. Each of them had their own protest stories. She told them about the time she was caught shoplifting and tried to argue that she did it because she disapproved of capitalism. Martin told the story of how he was caught without a ticket on the underground and tried to escape, only to run straight into a newspaper stand on the platform. Mara told them that the apartment had once been raided and ransacked by the police. Martin pointed out that it didn’t help that everything was painted red. Red doors, red window frames, even a red fridge which Mara told them had been turned upside down, literally, in the middle of the kitchen one day when she returned. Gregor announced with great solemnity that he was retiring from protests. He said he was not very good at getting his head broken by truncheons and would leave that to people with bigger heads, like Martin. She asked Gregor if there was anything he did better than getting his head cracked, and when he said nothing, it was Martin who spoke for him.
    ‘He’s a musician,’ Martin told her.
    ‘A musician,’ she said, staring at Gregor.
    ‘I’m lucky they didn’t get my hands,’ Gregor said.
    ‘And a composer,’ Martin added. ‘He’s a Jewish composer.’
    ‘Wow,’ Mara said. ‘And that’s the way the bastards treat you.’
    Martin then retold the story of the autobahn. Mara clenched her fist and shook it towards the balcony. By then, both sides of the street outside