Free Memoirs of an Anti-Semite by Gregor Von Rezzori Page A

to either of the duelers if, upon receiving a “bloody,” he twitched even slightly or actually tried to withdraw—that is, evade the adversary’s stroke with his head. If that happened, he was instantly suspended, put under “beer blackball” for the length of his suspension. He was not allowed to take part in any drinking session or wear the colors, namely the cap and the ribbon across his chest; and he was most certainly ostracized from the drinking bouts—all this until he had purged himself of his shame by fighting a new and more difficult match. But he was not granted such a chance for rehabilitation twice. If he chickened out a second time, then he was expelled. His erstwhile brothers cut him dead. He was no longer “qualified to give satisfaction.”
    To my surprise, Wolf Goldmann knew what that was. “They declared us Jews unsatisfactionable,” he said.
    I did not know what to reply. The issue of being qualified came up only if someone was challenged to a duel, I said evasively. Duels were mostly so-called “encounters” and not affairs of honor. They were tests of courage and toughness to determine a brother’s grit. His decency was proved by the many scars he received.
    Wolf Goldmann giggled: “Like Africans. But at least they carve pretty ornaments into their faces.” Besides, I wasn’t telling him anything very new, he said eventually. His father had belonged to a Jewish fraternity when he was a student—one without the ridiculous rites of duels and beer commentaries, but organized for sheer self-defense. It seems that the Jewish students had been harassed so much by fraternity members that they too formed associations, responding to challenges with decisive combat readiness. Each of these Jewish fraternities featured one outstanding fencer who defended the assaulted honor of his brothers. And they did not fence with light rapiers against skulls and cheeks; they fought naked from the waist up with heavy sabers, and they were so nimble that these duels required true swordsmanship—a keen eye, quick wits, and agility. If a dueler was “disabled,” then it was usually because of true inability. The nationalistic German fraternities preferred to avoid encounters with such master swordsmen. That was one of the reasons, said Wolf Goldmann with a grin, why Jews had been declared unsatisfactionable. His father had told him that. Dr. Goldmann himself had been featured as the best swordsman in his club.
    â€œAre you going to learn how to fence too?” I asked.
    â€œI’m not crazy,” said Wolf Goldmann. “I need my hands for other things.”
    At that time, it was not yet apparent to me what he needed them for. In any event, he treated them with conspicuous care. The skills at which boys normally try to excel left him cold. I had presumed that he would not, like myself, attempt to emulate Count Sàndor on horseback; and indeed I hesitated to expect the stableboy to saddle a mount for a Jewish boy from the village. But Wolf showed no ambition in other respects: he did not climb trees, he made no effort to excel in throwing rocks, he did not idly whittle sticks, he did not shoot with a slingshot or a bow and arrow, he did not even whistle through his fingers. My dexterity in these disciplines (my talent with the slingshot had always impressed people) gave me no sense of superiority now; his indifference toward such matters was too great. In fact, I began to feel childish in front of him.
    We established that we were of the same age, nearly to the day. But his sophistication was so far ahead of my own that I had to admit reluctantly that while if I passed the ominous makeup examination in the autumn it might at best smooth the way to my becoming an academic, he indubitably was already a budding intellectual.
    I continued to have qualms about bringing Wolf to my relatives’ home, although I visited his home regularly.