Literature
of Innocence
“Yes sir.”
“Come to Hollis 15 after class,
Mr. Brandl.” Thomas snickered,
“German rat.”
Wils cast a cold stare back.
When the Yard’s bell tolled the hour,
Professor Copeland closed his book
and looked up at the class. “Before
you go—I know some of you may
leave this very day to fight in
Europe or to work with the Red
Cross. Give me one last word.”
His face, stern for the past
hour of lecturing, softened.
He cleared his throat. “As we
have heard before and will
hear again, there is loss in
this world, and we shall
feel it, if not today, then
tomorrow, or the week after
that. That is the way of
things. But there is also
something equal to loss that
you must not forget. There
is an irrepressible renewal
of life that we can no more
stop than blot out the sun.
This is a good and
encouraging thought.
“Write me if you go to
war and tell me what you
see. That’s all for today.”
And with that the class
was dismissed.
Wils opened the heavy
green door of Hollis Hall
and dutifully walked up
four flights of steps to
Professor Copeland’s
suite. He knocked on a
door that still bore the
arms of King George III.
Copeland, his necktie
loosened at the collar,
opened the door.
“Brandl. Glad I saw
you in class. We need
to talk.”
“Yes, Professor. And
I need your advice on
something as well.”
“Most students do.”
The professor
ushered Wils inside.
The smell of stale
ash permeated the
room. The clouds
cast shadows into
the sitting area
around the fireplace. Rings on the
ceiling above the glass oil lamps
testified to Copeland’s refusal of
electricity for his apartment. The
furniture—a worn sofa and chairs—
bore the marks of years of students’
visits. A pitcher of water and a
scotch decanter stood on a low
table, an empty glass beside them.
Across the room by the corner
windows,
Copeland had placed a large desk and
two wooden chairs. Copeland walked
behind the desk, piled high with
news articles, books, and folders,
and pointed Wils to a particularly
weathered chair in front of him, in
which rested a stack of yellowing
papers, weighted by a human skull
of all things. Copeland had walked
by it as if it were a used coffee cup.
“One of ours?” asked Brandl, as he
moved the skull and
111
papers respectfully to the desk.
The severe exterior of Copeland’s
face cracked into a smile. “No. I’m
researching Puritans. They kept
skulls around. Reminded them to
get on with it. Not dawdle. Fleeting
life and all.”
“Oh yes. ‘Why grin, you hollow
skull—’”
“Please keep your Faust to yourself,
Wils. But I do need to speak to you
on that subject.”
“Faust?”
“No, death,” said Copeland.
His lips tightened as he seemed
to be weighing his words
carefully. His face lacked any
color or warmth now. “Well,
more about life before death.”
“Mine?” asked Wils.
“No. Maximilian von Steiger’s
life before his death.”
“What the devil? Max...he, he
just left for the war. He’s dead?”
Copeland leaned toward him
across the desk. “Yes, Maximilian
von Steiger is dead. And no, he
didn’t leave. Not in the corporeal
sense. All ocean liners bound for
Germany have been temporarily
held, pending the end of the
conflict in Europe.”
Wils’s eyes met Copeland’s. “What
do you mean?” “Steiger was found
dead in his room.”
“Fever?”
“Noose.”
Wils’s eyes stung. His lips parted,
but no sound came out. “You are
sure?” As Copeland nodded, Wils
suddenly felt nauseous, his collar
too tight. He had known Max nearly
all his life. They lived near each
other back in Prussia; they attended
the same church and went to the
same schools. Their mothers were
even good friends. Wils loosened his
tie. “May I have some water, please,
Professor?” Wils finally asked in a
raspy voice. As Copeland turned his
back to him, Wils took a deep breath,
pulled out a linen handkerchief, and
cleaned the fog from his spectacles.
The professor walked over to a
nearby table and poured a glass of
water. “How well did you know Max?”
he asked, handing the glass to Wils.
He took the tumbler and held it
tight, trying to still his shaking