Foreplay Hannah Arendt, the Two Adornos, and Walter Benjamin: A Play 9780299283346, 9780299283339, 0299283348, 029928333X

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c a r l d j e r a s s i was born in Vienna and immigrated to the United States in 1938. He is the author of many literary works—including Four Jews on Parnassus, Cantor’s Dilemma, The Bourbaki Gambit, This Man’s Pill, and the plays An Immaculate Misconception, Sex in an Age of Technological Reproduction: ICSI and Taboos, Ego, Calculus, Phallacy, and Oxygen (coauthored with Roald Hoffmann)—that have been translated into sixteen languages. He is emeritus professor of chemistry at Stanford University and recipient of many awards and honors, including the Serono Prize in Literature, the National Medal of Science (for the first synthesis of a steroid oral contraceptive), the National Medal of Technology, the Great Merit Cross of Germany, an Austrian postage stamp issued in 2005, and the American Chemical Society’s highest award, the Priestley Medal. Djerassi lives in San Francisco, London, and Vienna.

Foreplay

by the same author Fiction The Futurist and Other Stories Cantor’s Dilemma The Bourbaki Gambit Marx, Deceased Menachem’s Seed NO

Poetry The Clock Runs Backward

Plays An Immaculate Misconception Oxygen (with Roald Hoffmann) Calculus Ego (Three on a Couch) Phallacy Sex in an Age of Technological Reproduction: ICSI and Taboos

Nonfiction The Politics of Contraception Steroids Made It Possible The Pill, Pygmy Chimps, and Degas’ Horse From the Lab into the World: A Pill for People, Pets, and Bugs This Man’s Pill: Reflections on the 50th Birthday of the Pill Four Jews on Parnassus—A Conversation: Benjamin, Adorno, Scholem, Schönberg

Scientific Monographs Optical Rotatory Dispersion: Applications to Organic Chemistry Steroid Reactions: An Outline for Organic Chemists (editor) Interpretation of Mass Spectra of Organic Compounds (with H. Budzikiewicz and D. H. Williams) Structure Elucidation of Natural Products by Mass Spectrometry (with H. Budzikiewicz and D. H. Williams) Mass Spectrometry of Organic Compounds (with H. Budzikiewicz and D. H. Williams)

Foreplay Hannah Arendt, the Two Adornos, and Walter Benjamin

Carl Djerassi

The University of Wisconsin Press

The University of Wisconsin Press 1930 Monroe Street, 3rd Floor Madison, Wisconsin 53711-2059 uwpress.wisc.edu 3 Henrietta Street London WCE 8LU, England eurospanbookstore.com Copyright © 2011 The Board of Regents of the University of Wisconsin System All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any format or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the internet or a website without written permission of the University of Wisconsin Press, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews. Printed in the United States of America Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Djerassi, Carl. Foreplay : Hannah Arendt, the two Adornos, and Walter Benjamin: a play / by Carl Djerassi. p. cm. ISBN 978-0-299-28334-6 (pbk.: alk. paper) ISBN 978-0-299-28333-9 (e-book) 1. Arendt, Hannah, 1906–1975—Drama. 2. Adorno, Theodor W., 1903–1969—Drama. 3. Adorno, Gretel—Drama. 4. Benjamin, Walter, 1892–1940—Drama. 5. Interpersonal relations—Drama. I. Title. PS3554.J47F67 2011 812´.54—dc22 2010046467

These plays are fully protected by the author’s copyright and any filming, reading, or performance of any kind whatsoever must be cleared beforehand with the author ([email protected]). Cover photographs: Hannah Arendt, courtesy Peter Rüdel, Heinrich Böll Stiftung, Bremen; Walter Benjamin, Foto Studio Joël Heinzelmann, courtesy Walter Benjamin Archive, Akademie der Künste, Berlin; Gretel Adorno, courtesy Theodor W. Adorno Archive, Frankfurt am Main and Hamburger Stiftung zur Förderung von Wissenschaft und Kultur; Theodor W. Adorno, courtesy Theodor W. Adorno Archive, Frankfurt am Main and Suhrkamp Verlag.

Preface Hannah Arendt (1906–75), Theodor W. Adorno (1903–69), and Walter Benjamin (1892–1940) justifiably are considered towering giants of the twentieth-century German intellectual scene. Arendt, a famous political theorist, and Adorno, one of the founders of the Frankfurt School of Social Theory and internationally recognized sociologist, philosopher, and musicologist, disliked each other intensely, but both admired, even worshipped, Benjamin. Adorno’s life-long womanizing (openly admitted to his wife Gretel, who even typed some of his love letters) and his intense preoccupation with his dreams are well documented, as is the range of the deeply personal and extensive correspondence between Benjamin and Gretel Adorno. It has also been claimed that Benjamin carried a briefcase with him on his flight from France to Spain where he committed suicide in September 1940. The briefcase and its contents (though frequently speculated upon) were never found. Those are facts, as is the relationship between Hannah Arendt and the philosopher Martin Heidegger. And why do I start with these facts in an introduction to my eighth play? Because in preparation for my last book, Four Jews on Parnassus—A Conversation: Benjamin, Adorno, Scholem, Schönberg, I spent over three years on biographical research in the archives and published literature of the protagonists. Prior to that time, most of my literary writing dealt with the behavior v

of scientists and their cultural tribal practices based on my own knowledge as a working scientist for over half a century, which I illustrated for a general readership in the guise of fiction. This is why I coined the descriptive term “science-in-fiction” in order to differentiate it from science fiction. Four Jews on Parnassus neither dealt with scientists nor with fiction, but rather constituted carefully researched biography, which I chose to write in the rarely used dialogic literary format. Why dialog? Because my life as a scientist has imprinted me with certain tribal characteristics from which I wished to depart, one of which is that dialog is not allowed nor used in scientific written discourse. Yet from the time of the classic Greeks until the seventeenth century, dialogic writing was a respected European literary format used by scientists (e.g., Galileo) as well as humanists (e.g., Erasmus). Nowadays, it is virtually limited to plays, which was the original reason why I turned to playwriting some thirteen years ago. The book, Four Jews on Parnassus, represented an interregnum in my literary writing in that I embarked on a historically accurate biography in dialogic format in order to represent a humanizing view of my protagonists. Once finished with that book, I started to speculate about aspects of their personal lives and actions, which I could only do if I discarded the shackles of a biographer and assumed the freedom of a fiction author. Accordingly, I chose the role of a playwright, focusing on the theme of jealousy—professional and personal—that I had encountered in my biographical research. Hence, the nature and the depth of jealousy displayed by some of the persons, the putative contents of Benjamin’s lost grip, and the blackmail of my fictitious Fräulein X are pure invention on the part of a playwright, who also happens to be the author of a nonfictional, biographic account of my heroes.

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Cast theodor (“teddie”) w. adorno (in his sixties) gretel adorno his wife (in her sixties) hannah arendt (in her sixties) walter benjamin (in his early forties) fra¨ ulein x a scholar (in her late twenties or early thirties)

Time Late 1960s

Scene 1 (1967. t e d d i e a d o r n o reclining on a “Freudian” sofa and basically free-associating, looking up to the ceiling rather than at g r e t e l a d o r n o , who sits across from him with a notebook and pencil in her hand. A small table is by her side. She does not write.) 3

teddie: Amazing how many of my dreams deal with sex these days. gretel: I, for one, am not amazed. t e d d i e : Why should you be? I’ve never kept anything from you. gretel: That’s too absolute, too all-encompassing. t e d d i e : Well . . . how about “virtually nothing”? (g r e t e l shrugs, but says nothing.) All right . . . take this down. I dreamed that I had gone to a bordello . . . a fancy one: red damask, plush sofas, chandeliers, deep carpets. Rather Parisian . . . which is strange, considering how seldom I was in Paris. gretel: You mean Paris . . . or Parisian bordellos? t e d d i e (leans forward, surprised by interruption): Now what made you ask that? g r e t e l : You said you wanted to publish it. (Lifts notebook.) teddie: Eventually. gretel: I just wanted to be sure of the facts. So did you mean Paris . . . or Parisian whorehouses? t e d d i e : I said “bordello.” This was no ordinary whorehouse. g r e t e l : I stand corrected, because my Teddie, the connoisseur, certainly knows the difference. But which was it? Paris or bordello? teddie: Neither. It was just a dream. Now let’s continue. The Madam sits behind a desk—Louis Quatorze—inspecting me through her lorgnette. g r e t e l : You’re sure it was a lorgnette rather than ordinary glasses? t e d d i e : Gretel, stop kibitzing! We’ll deal with such details when you’ve typed it all up. (Beat.) But of course it was a lorgnette . . . she used it to point at me. And then, imagine what she did: shoved a piece of paper in my direction and asked me to fill it out. It was a questionnaire with the

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most amazing questions. Personal ones: the last book I had read . . . my favorite film . . . whether I played any musical instruments . . . did I prefer tennis over skiing . . . whether I snored . . . ? I stopped reading and asked whether she was joking. “No,” she said, “every new client has to fill these out.” g r e t e l : I could have told her about your snoring. But also how you’d have answered the tennis versus skiing question. t e d d i e (irritated ): Instead of being amazed that a Madam would ask me to complete a questionnaire in a bordello, you are telling me how to answer it? gretel: Because you wouldn’t have resisted entering the conventional wisecrack about sports: “Whenever I encounter even the slightest urge for sports, I immediately lie down until the feeling passes.” teddie: Quite correct. Too bad, I didn’t dream it. But now to continue. I told her that I considered such questions preposterous, considering why I had come. “Irrelevant,” she replied. “Before you can select a partner, we need to know whether you meet our standards.” “What standards?” I asked. “Every kind,” she replied. “Aesthetic . . . dialectic . . .” (g r e t e l , who had not written down a word and had continued to look down at her notebook, suddenly looks up, her hand reaching to her mouth to hide an impending laugh.) “hermeneutic . . . psychoanalytic . . . linguistic . . . and of course hygienic.” I was so taken aback that I started with the last. “What hygienic standards? Whether I brush my teeth or take a daily bath?” That’s when she really floored me. “We take those for granted . . . including regular use of a bidet.” gretel: But you never use a bidet. t e d d i e : Few people in America do . . . not even German immigrants.

Scene 1

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gretel: You told her that? t e d d i e : Of course not. But I made the mistake . . . in my dream that is . . . of simply saying “no bidet!” Period! Basta! “Surely you know what a bidet is?” she asked after making a disapproving scratch with her pen on the questionnaire. Before I could even tell her not to raise such idiotic questions, she proceeded to lecture me. (Sarcastically mimics her voice.) “A bidet is used to wash one’s genitalia and anus . . . including inner buttocks, although occasionally people also wash their feet and even babies in it. But never confuse it with a urinal. Never!” (Reverts to his usual voice.) Stupid asshole! g r e t e l : Now, now Teddie. (Lifts the notebook.) You wouldn’t want such language in your book. teddie: All right. How about “presumptuous bitch”? gretel: I’d tone it down to “insolent witch.” t e d d i e : If you keep interrupting, I’ll forget the rest of the dream. (Beat.) It turned out she wasn’t finished yet with bidets. (Sits up to face g r e t e l .) Do you know where the word bidet comes from? gretel: Are you asking me or did she ask you that? teddie: Both. (Beat.) So do you? gretel: From the French. t e d d i e (irritated ): Of course. But etymologically speaking? gretel: No idea. And now you will tell me? teddie: Nag! gretel: There is no need to become offensive. t e d d i e : Offensive? Bidet comes from the French word for nag . . . meaning a horse . . . not you, Gretel. You mount a bidet the way you would be riding a pony. gretel: Where on earth did you learn that? teddie: From her. gretel: I think I’ve had it with this dream.

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teddie: Not yet. You simply won’t believe what she said next. (Switches to mimicking voice.) “Do you own a penis washing machine?* If not, then I can recommend the model our girls prefer. Otherwise, our rates for fellatio are tripled.” (Long pause, while gretel, still silent, attempts unsuccessfully to repress incipient hysteria.) Now, will you read this back to me. gretel (looks at her notebook): I can’t. teddie: What do you mean you can’t? You disapprove? Because I called her an asshole? I’ll follow my dream editor’s advice and switch from “bitch” to “witch.” It’s not the first dream I had about bordellos or prostitutes. You never complained before. So what’s different today? (gretel just shakes her head.) Gretel! Out with it! gretel: Don’t you remember what you told me the other day? teddie: I tell you lots of things every day. Give me a hint. g r e t e l (opens her notebook, turning some pages and then starts reading): “The more dreams are related or repeated, the greater the danger that they can’t be distinguished from reality.” That, my dear husband, is a quote. Unless I am mistaken, you will use it as justification for actually publishing those dreams of yours. Incidentally, an argument your publisher won’t resist. teddie: And why should he? g r e t e l : You’re right: why should he? He accepts everything you send him irrespective of content. So why not your dreams . . . recorded by your loyal wife, who won’t even be identified as coeditor?

* Schwanz-Wasch-Maschine in Adorno’s Dream of December 17, 1967.

Scene 1

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t e d d i e : Now that was nasty . . . and unnecessary. Gretel, what’s come over you? You really are starting to nag. (gretel shakes her head, but remains silent.) Gretel! Answer me! (She puts the notebook and pencil on the small table and walks over to the sofa where a d o r n o is reclining. She moves his legs so as to provide space for her to sit down) gretel: Remember your dream about the difference between equibrium and equilibrium? teddie: Vaguely. And what about the difference? g r e t e l : You said “equibrium” is the innermost equilibrium. t e d d i e : That was just a dream. There is no such thing as equibrium. g r e t e l : My dear husband, I beg to differ. Basically all we talked about during the last few minutes was the retention of one’s equibrium. teddie: Whose equibrium are you referring to? gretel: Mine, of course. Since I was never able to affect your equilibrium— teddie: Meaning that I’m too cocksure? gretel: Bravo! I couldn’t have put it more accurately. To cope with your cocksure equilibrium, I had to maintain my own tenuous equibrium. teddie: And for that you have now stopped taking dictation? g r e t e l (rises and gives t e d d i e a kiss on his forehead ): I thought you’d understand. Now let’s reverse roles. (She motions him to get up and when he does so, reluctantly, she points to the chair by the table.) Let me lie down and dictate to you. teddie (reluctantly moves to the chair): Your dreams? gretel: Who knows? (Pause.) Ready? teddie: But I have terrible handwriting. gretel: I can read it . . . and so can you.

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teddie (shrugs his shoulders as he picks up notebook and pencil ): Go ahead. g r e t e l : First a question. (Beat.) A question I’ve never asked you directly. teddie: Yes? gretel: How jealous are you? teddie: In general . . . or of you? gretel: Well . . . both. teddie: Professionally, I’m very jealous. gretel: We both know that. I mean, otherwise. teddie: Of you? gretel: Well, yes . . . for instance of me. teddie: Never! gretel: Good. And of other women? teddie: It depends. gretel: Could you elaborate? t e d d i e : I could, but I won’t. You were going to tell me about the tenuous nature of your equibrium. (t e d d i e fades into darkness as lights shine on g r e t e l and soon thereafter on wa l t e r b e n j a m i n sitting on the opposite side. He is reading some letters.) g r e t e l (in warm, intimate tone): My dear Walter Benjamin, A thousand thanks for your* lovely letter. Please do not hold my delayed answer against me and keep writing . . . (Long pause indicating passage of time.) wa lter (somewhat shyly): Ms. Karplus, my dear, I trust that you† will not hold it against me if I ask you for a very private and very burdensome favor . . . (Long pause indicating passage of time.)

* In German, Ihre. † In German, Sie.

Scene 1

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g r e t e l : My very dear Walter Benjamin, You* asked whether I would prepare an inventory of your† personal books since you won’t be able to return to Berlin. I am so sorry to learn that your brother has already been arrested by the Gestapo. (Long pause indicating passage of time.) wa lt e r : Gretel, my dearest. I am overwhelmed by your‡ willingness to oblige me. I know what a burden this may turn out to be . . . (Long pause indicating passage of time.) g r e t e l : Walter, dear Walter, This was an invitation I could not possibly resist. I have already started and you have no idea what excuses I had to make to Teddie . . . (Momentary light on teddie, who looks shocked.) and to others . . . even my parents . . . to explain my sudden absences, since no one knows what I am doing. But just collecting the books you asked for . . . just holding them in my hands . . . made me feel as if I were actually touching you. wa lt e r : My very precious Gretel, your words cause me to melt like a warmed candle. Surely, you understand now why you are the only person I could even ask. Certainly no relatives. Use your judgment . . . and your discretion. (Sudden bright light on t e d d i e , who throws down the notebook and walks over to the couch.) t e d d i e : Enough! What’s going on? First . . . what about this sudden Sie-Du ping pong? gretel (smiling): I thought that would register. t e d d i e (explosively): Register? Did I hear right: register? You mean this was deliberate?

* In German, Du. † In German, Deine. ‡ In German, Deine. 10

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g r e t e l (coolly): I don’t know what “this” refers to. But if you are fixated about my addressing Walter as du— teddie (interrupts): And he doing the same! g r e t e l : That you should discuss with him. Surely, you don’t think that I would shift without serious deliberation from the formal Sie to the informal Du— teddie: Calling someone Du within weeks— gretel (interrupts): It wasn’t weeks— teddie: All right . . . months— gretel (interrupts): It wasn’t months— teddie: Years? gretel: No plural. teddie: One year? gretel: One week. teddie (outraged ): One week? Seven days from Sie to Du? g r e t e l (mock innocence): Why not? Just because you always persisted calling our dear Walter Sie? teddie: Because we are adults . . . and not children. g r e t e l : In that case, ascribe the Du to a sudden childish informal gesture of mine. t e d d i e : One adult woman addressing an adult man within one week as Du instead of Sie is neither childish nor informal! gretel: So what would you call the motivation? teddie: Postcoital! gretel: Teddie! So you are jealous! t e d d i e : We are discussing your behavior . . . not my jealousy. g r e t e l : In that case, explain to me the operational feasibility of postcoital consummation between Walter and me while he was in Paris and I in Berlin? teddie: You are limiting yourself to geographical coitus. gretel: Are we suddenly moving into coital dialectics? t e d d i e : No dialectics . . . just simple interrogation. Psychic coitus by definition must be more intimate than physical. gretel: I agree. teddie: Is that all you have to say?

Scene 1

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gretel: What else do you wish me to add? t e d d i e : Well, if we are going to discuss the shift to Du at the coital level, how about telling me about the foreplay that Walter indulged in? gretel: This is becoming too personal. teddie: Walter’s foreplay is too personal for a personal discussion between husband and wife? A seven-day foreplay too personal for a marriage of years? gretel: Yes. teddie: Yes? gretel: Yes. teddie: I am astounded. No! Not astounded . . . shocked . . . wounded . . . and—to put it bluntly—royally pissed off. g r e t e l : A sequence of adjectives I’ve never heard you use when you were dictating to me . . . be it in accounts of dreams or real events. teddie: And you tell me this now? g r e t e l : Even with your Gretel, on occasion the cup runneth over. t e d d i e : And my relating one of my dreams to you was such an occasion? gretel: It just was the last drop. t e d d i e : I see. (Long silence.) So there is nothing more to say? gretel: Perhaps one detail . . . to calm you down. I was testing your potential for jealousy, but now that I see its depth . . . (Pause.) teddie: Well? A pause is unlikely to calm me down. gretel: Walter asked me to go through his library. teddie (impatiently): You already dictated that to me. g r e t e l (quietly): I know. But you wanted to hear about what you call “the foreplay.” Well? That’s where it started. teddie: In his library? gretel: Yes. t e d d i e (calming down): I will grant you that a library can be sexually titillating. 12

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gretel: Indeed. I would even go beyond “titillating” to calling it “utterly seductive.” teddie: Go on. g r e t e l : Walter had asked me to make an inventory of his books, since it was unlikely that he could return to Berlin . . . now that the Gestapo had grabbed his brother. Walter wanted to know which ones he could leave behind and which should be shipped to him. t e d d i e : Given that he was such a compulsive book collector, this was likely to be quite a chore. g r e t e l : Of course. That’s why initially he was reluctant to ask me. teddie: Yet you agreed. Why? gretel: Curiosity. teddie (nodding): That I’ll buy. (Beat.) Go on. gretel: Already during my second visit, I realized that Walter had a double library. teddie: Meaning? g r e t e l : On many shelves, behind the row of books was a second row. teddie (dismissive): So what? We do this all the time. Few true readers or bibliophiles have enough space on their shelves. gretel: I was referring to content . . . not space. For instance, have you ever read anything about doraphilia? t e d d i e : You mean Walter wrote about his love for Dora? Given the manner their marriage ended, this would be interesting. Can you tell me more? gretel: There’s nothing to tell on that front, since doraphilia refers to love—I might say obsession—for leather . . . preferably black. teddie (taken aback): Is that why you’ve started to wear— gretel ( gestures with her hand, waving away his interruption): What about presbyophilia? t e d d i e : Love for Presbyterians? Are the two of you turning religious?

Scene 1

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gretel: Wrong! Love for old men . . . in other words gerontophilia. What about agalmatophilia? teddie: Never heard of it. gretel (laughing): Something I never heard you admit before. teddie: Spell it. gretel: Spelling won’t help. teddie: Instead, you will now tell me what that means? g r e t e l : Why not? You wanted to know about foreplay. Agalmatophilia refers to sexual attraction to statues— teddie: What did you say? gretel: Statues! Especially those with detachable penises that could be used as dildos. teddie: And that’s what you found behind the row of books? gretel: Precisely. (Long pause.) teddie: Well? gretel (disingenuously): Well what? teddie: That was it? The entire foreplay? g r e t e l : On the contrary. It was only the beginning . . . the row of books behind the first row on just one shelf. The foreplay to the foreplay. (Beat.) Of course, I didn’t know that then. (t e d d i e suddenly rises from the sofa, walks away for a few steps and then turns around. Lights fade as he displays mixed emotions of shock and outrage on his face.) (End of scene 1.)

Scene 2 (t h e o d o r a d o r n o entering h a n n a h a r e n d t’s apartment. She greets him with cigarette in hand.) arendt: Come in. Frankly, I wasn’t sure until I actually heard the bell whether you’d come.

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adorno: Gretel certainly advised against it. arendt: I’m not surprised. But how is your wife? adorno: Aging slowly and exceptionally gracefully. arendt: That’s something to be envied. And what about you? a d o r n o : Aging less slowly and not at all gracefully. (Beat.) Why do you look at me like this? arendt: Like what? a d o r n o : One eye almost closed. Like a hunter, taking aim. arendt: Has no one ever squinted at you? adorno: That was no ordinary squint. a r e n d t : Just blame it on my cigarette smoke. But perhaps you’re right. Nothing between us was ever ordinary. So why not also a squint. adorno: Would you have pulled the trigger? a r e n d t : With a gun aimed at you? Yes . . . I could’ve killed you more than once. But not today. adorno: Would you care to elaborate? arendt: Gladly. Because right now, I need you. a d o r n o : I’m referring to the past. Why would you’ve pulled the trigger then? arendt: Because you killed Günther’s chances. adorno: That was over thirty years ago. arendt: Some events are remembered more clearly the nearer one gets to the end. a d o r n o : Besides, I did not kill your husband’s chances . . . I wanted to improve them. arendt: Ha! By sabotaging his habilitation? adorno: By postponing it. a r e n d t : All because his musicological thesis wasn’t Marxist enough? And because he admired Brecht? a d o r n o : Because he wasn’t Marxist enough up here! (Points to his head.) Brecht’s Marxism started and ended there (Points to his stomach.) . . . or perhaps even lower down. And, of course, your husband’s enchantment with Heidegger’s

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philosophy. Rather astonishing, given your extracurricular intimacy with your professor . . . or didn’t he know about your romantic entanglement? But Hannah . . . all that was decades ago. arendt: Don’t patronize me! We weren’t on a first name basis then . . . and it’s certainly too late now. adorno: In that case, Frau Dr. Arendt, allow me to enlighten you that thirty years later—specifically in 1963—your husband in Vienna and I had a very frank exchange about what had happened earlier. And when I reiterated my earlier criticism of his musicological musings— arendt: You call his philosophical research “musings”? a d o r n o : I was trying to be kind. And do you know what your husband replied? “I’m 100 percent d’accord with your paragraph about my habilitation thesis.” In my vocabulary, 100 percent d’accord means just that! He now accepts that I was 100 percent correct while you are still gnashing your teeth. arendt: Ha! a d o r n o : What do you mean Ha? Do you know what else he wrote? “I hardly need to emphasize that I totally grant your absolute superiority with regard to your philosophy of music.” In other words, we made up and then continued a civilized relationship, whereas you keep harping— a r e n d t (jumps up): Just one moment. (Rushes out and reappears, waving some pages in her hand.) Günther may be my former husband, but we remain on good terms until this very day. I know all about that correspondence between the two of you . . . something he called “dig up the hot potatoes” . . . including his priceless picture of your professorial style. Here (Lifts one page and starts reading.) are just a few choice morsels written on August 27, 1963, and not thirty years earlier: “What really made any meaningful relation with you impossible was the impression of terrorism. In any

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conversation—despite your pronounced politeness and your pronounced bourgeois demeanor—the other party feels physically cornered; in fact the person usually retreats slowly until to his astonishment he finds himself in a corner of the room, just like in a mousetrap.” a d o r n o (dismissive): That was a long time ago. (Beat.) He may have had indigestion. arendt: To me it doesn’t seem that your behavior has changed one iota and let me assure you that my digestion is not giving me any problems. (Pause as she shuffles some pages.) Or listen to this: “To me, it is incomprehensible to act on the one hand as a philosophical author, who in the most succinct sense operates as an Avantgardist, yet on the other hand behaves formally as a professor who expects to be honored by precisely those to whom one withholds respect by what one writes about them. It seems to me that you can’t be both a Nietzschean professor and a kind of surrealist Geheimrat. And yet there is something of that mixture in you.” adorno: I answered his critique of what the title and position of professor meant to me and I thought that he had accepted it. a r e n d t : In that case, let me disabuse you of that illusion. Here (Waves paper.) from some notes he sent me about a meeting with you in Vienna just two years ago concerning your response to his priceless description of you as a combined Professor Nietzsche and surrealistic Geheimrat. Just listen to this: “With the answer he volunteered—that by accepting an official academic position he was simultaneously guaranteed unlimited freedom—he turned my question upside down: As the holder of a university chair as well as institute director, which he is, one does not have unlimited freedom to express precisely the things that nowadays ought to be said. All of a sudden, Adorno had given up on

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his sociology—he, who throughout his life, had dug up every sociological ingredient of every theory, even of every work of art.” adorno: Enough of this! If you wanted to pull the trigger on behalf of your former husband just say so without resorting to what are surely out-of-context citations from some of his letters. a r e n d t : Wait, I’m not quite finished. Here is his summary: pithy and to the point: “This is Adorno’s behavior: a barely acceptable combination of exterior politeness and totally impudent dismissal of his conversational partner, because when he speaks, he never looks at you, but continually turns his head from right to left and from left to right— partly in fear and partly out of greed—to see whether he has been noticed and whether a beautiful young woman happens to be about. His vanity is authentic, but hardly his horniness.” adorno: Any other reasons why you wanted to kill me? a r e n d t : I didn’t just want to kill you . . . I wanted to murder you. a d o r n o : A subtle difference, given that in either event the victim is dead. a r e n d t : Ah . . . but what about the motivation? Killing can be inadvertent . . . even merciful. Murder is always deliberate. a d o r n o : Since I am always interested in motivation, tell me about those other murderous impulses. arendt: How about 1941? My husband Heinrich— a d o r n o : I never understood why you traded Günther Stern for Heinrich. You should have stuck to your first husband. Heinrich Blücher was too Marxist even for me. a r e n d t : This is not the time to debate the dialectics of love. Besides, we were discussing murder, not love. When Heinrich and I escaped from France to make it to Portugal and then to America . . . incidentally, through the indispensable

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help of Günther, who did not mind helping his former wife and his successor . . . I came to your office in New York. adorno: Even though you once said, we’ll never again cross his threshold or he ours. arendt: I came because of Walter Benjamin . . . a person that we both professed to love— adorno: Why say “professed”? I loved Walter. a r e n d t : Another reason why I wanted to murder you. We both loved him for his mind . . . for what he stood for . . . for what he wrote . . . and mostly could not publish. When Heinrich and I met him in Marseilles . . . just before his flight across the Pyrenees and suicide . . . he said something terribly sad that is seared in my brain. There was Walter . . . still in his forties . . . talking about aging in installments. With him, he said, it had started with the heart. Both medically and emotionally. But now it had penetrated his spirit. No more longing for joy had remained, only memories and vestiges of pride. And then he entrusted me with his most valuable papers. My memories and remaining pride, he called them. Works that we all thought had to be preserved and published. adorno: Of course. a r e n d t : How dare you say “of course”? Published means published . . . and in Walter’s case published in its entirety. adorno: Nobody’s work merits publication in its entirety. arendt: Another reason why I wanted to murder you. a d o r n o : Both you and Günther once called him a Caféhausliterat. You think coffeehouse literati should find everything they ever wrote in print? a r e n d t : You are quoting us out of context. Caféhausliterat was meant as a mark of his economic poverty . . . not his intellect or literary style. But Walter made the unforgivable error to appoint you his literary executor . . . and I made the unforgivable error of following his instructions to hand

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over to you some of his most precious writings, because I did not think that you would dare censor a dead man’s words. a d o r n o : “Censor” his work . . . “sabotage” your husband’s habilitation! Dr. Hannah Arendt’s famously uncompromising vocabulary! What unsubtle, primitive reasons for murder! a r e n d t : You mean Herr Professor Dr. Theodor Adorno wishes to be the victim of subtly motivated murder? In that case, how about this? Many have called you Walter Benjamin’s only true disciple. In fact, you yourself in one of your letters to Günther wrote that surely I’m entitled to consider myself Benjamin’s disciple. Of course, there couldn’t have been many since he never taught . . . never was permitted to teach. You may have loved him . . . in your own solipsistic fashion . . . but you also had power over him, because during his last years his survival depended upon your financial support. adorno: My having supported him . . . however meagerly . . . so that he could continue writing was surely no reason for murder. a r e n d t : I’m not yet finished. Power invariably implies some domination and both of them are always tainted by at least a touch of contempt for those one dominates. What I resented deeply was that contempt of yours. Few people noticed it . . . perhaps I was the only one . . . but only some fundamental contempt of Walter could have caused your temerity to edit his work posthumously according to the gospel of Adorno. I should have murdered you right then and there . . . when I handed over those papers rather than published them myself. a d o r n o : Eventually you did. What about Illuminations? It established his reputation in America where people never learned to read German.

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a r e n d t : Much too late. You had already caused the damage in the language that above all others counted for Walter. adorno: I doubt whether many share your opinion. a r e n d t : Who knows? I don’t even know how many others wanted to murder you. But I did, because I considered such contempt unforgivable. adorno: And that is why you asked me to come? arendt: No. But why did you come? adorno: Curiosity. When a professed enemy— arendt: You can forget about the word “professed.” a d o r n o : If you wish. So when an enemy from way back suddenly invites you to ostensibly discuss . . . what did you call it? . . . “a devastatingly important matter” . . . any curious person is likely to come. Or was that just a pretext to finally lift the gun and pull the trigger? a r e n d t : Enough of that. Just assume it was an innocent squint caused by my insufferable vice. (Stubs out her cigarette, points to a chair, while lighting another cigarette.) Sit down and let me pour you a drink. adorno: Just some water. With you I prefer to remain coldly sober. (arendt fetches a glass of water.) a r e n d t : Here you are . . . with ice. To keep you as coldly sober as possible. I think you’ll need it. I just got back from Italy— adorno: After Switzerland, my favorite country for holidays. arendt: This was no holiday, it was a summons. a d o r n o : I didn’t know you ever responded to summonses. a r e n d t : Generally not, but this was blackmail packaged in a summons. a d o r n o : Blackmail? This is becoming interesting. Based on facts? a r e n d t : When is blackmail based on pure thin air? Whether this is based on real facts is something that I want to ask you.

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adorno: Me! Am I involved in this blackmail? arendt: We both are. adorno: You and I? Impossible! Whatever transpired between us happened so long ago that the statute of limitations would preclude any blackmail. arendt: Some blackmail transcends any time limits. adorno: For instance? arendt: Admission to Parnassus. In other words, canonization. adorno: Do you mean mine or yours? a r e n d t (ironic smile): What a discreet compliment: conceding that canonization might also apply to me. But no . . . it’s Walter’s canonization we need to consider. Walter Benjamin’s posthumous elevation to Parnassus and his everincreasing status up there. adorno: You can’t blackmail a dead person. a r e n d t : True enough. But since the subject is canonization of a dead person, what about the canonizers who got him up there? For instance you and me? a d o r n o : Would you care getting to the point? How can Walter’s posthumous canonization become the subject of blackmail? a r e n d t : A stain that may make such canonization reversible or at least tainted. And since we were participants, why not blackmail us? a d o r n o : Participants in Walter’s elevation . . . or in his mysterious stain? arendt: This is precisely why I needed to talk to you. I didn’t go to Italy on holiday . . . I went prompted by a visit that you made there just a few months ago. adorno: How on earth did you come to find that out? a r e n d t : That is quite immaterial. The point is, you went there to search for a suitcase. Or was it two suitcases? Walter’s baggage. Is that true?

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adorno: Yes. arendt: Well? adorno: Well what? a r e n d t : What made you go there? A quarter of a century after Walter had last been there! The real truth. adorno: Why ask me? You seem to be well informed. a r e n d t : The truth is precisely what I don’t know. It’s all second- or even third-hand. adorno: But you know the facts. arendt: Facts are not the truth. At best, facts are only part of it. So please! The truth! A lot is at stake for both of us. adorno: In this instance, I believe that the truth . . . in so far as I know it . . . is made up entirely of facts. Fact number 1: in the 1930s Walter spent several longish periods in San Remo in Dora Sophie’s pension. a r e n d t (interrupts impatiently): Teddie! Don’t patronize me. adorno: I thought there would be no first names. arendt: Since we are now facing blackmail addressed to both of us, we can forget about formality. a d o r n o : All right . . . Hannah. But how am I patronizing you . . . a word that you are starting to bandy about in some strange contexts? arendt: Patronizing me by starting with facts that everybody knows . . . not just Walter’s friends, but also all those Benjaminologists that are now sprouting everywhere. That when Walter was a nearly penniless refugee in Paris in the 1930s, Dora put him up for weeks or months at a time at the pension she had started to run in San Remo. I want to hear new facts . . . not recycled ones. a d o r n o : Hannah . . . you are touchy. But then this meeting really started on a wrong note. arendt: Not a wrong note . . . but perhaps an inadvisable one. adorno: Given the circumstances.

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arendt (nods): Yes, given the circumstances. a d o r n o : Let me return to the facts, which I had simply wanted to present in chronological order. But seeing your impatience . . . I shall skip chronology and start with the end. With facts that at least to me were unknown until recently . . . and most likely, therefore, also to others . . . including you. arendt: Go on. adorno: Stefan Benjamin wrote to me— arendt: I didn’t know you had kept in touch. a d o r n o : Hannah! Do you think you could let me finish one sentence without interrupting? arendt: I’m trying. a d o r n o : Well try harder. Stefan informed me that when he lived as a teenager with his mother in San Remo, his father visited them one summer for a few months. a r e n d t : A well-known biographical fact, that only shows how decent a woman she was. Not carrying a grudge after such a bitter divorce— adorno: Well, it did deal with adultery. a r e n d t : A subject not unfamiliar to you . . . though it didn’t seem to affect your marriage. adorno: With the Benjamins it was mutual adultery. a r e n d t (laughs with finger pointed at a d o r n o ): While unilateral adultery is acceptable? (Beat.) But in their case, the real dispute was money . . . money the husband wanted from his wife. Considering that he also used custody of Stefan as a threat, I’ve always been impressed that Dora Sophie took him in a few years later when he was so impoverished. a d o r n o : Hannah . . . who is now rehashing old biographical details? arendt: My apologies. So what did Stefan write? a d o r n o : That during those winter months in 1935 in San Remo, his father worked intensively on some manuscript

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that he refused to discuss with anyone. Rather untypical of Walter. arendt: And? a d o r n o : Well . . . as you, of course, can appreciate, in the present phase of active Benjaminomania, where every scrap of paper of Walter’s is being studied, people have become intrigued with what he was then working on. Stefan was recently asked and he suddenly recalled that his father had left one suitcase . . . a locked one . . . behind which he could not take back to Paris. He asked his ex-wife to hold it for him. arendt (impatiently): And? a d o r n o : Other than a few days . . . I should know, because I met him there myself on New Year’s day of 1939 . . . Walter never returned to San Remo and shortly thereafter, Dora Sophie moved to London, never to return herself. arendt (excited ): And the suitcase? adorno: Stefan thought it was left behind in San Remo. So I went to snoop around. a r e n d t : Much too late, it seems. (Beat.) And you asked whether there were any facts behind the blackmail. Well? You just provided one: the missing suitcase. adorno: Go on. arendt: Apparently it isn’t missing. adorno: You mean you found it? arendt: If I had, there wouldn’t be any blackmail. (Beat.) But the suitcase is only the foreplay. (End of scene 2.)

Scene 3 (Same setting as scene 1. t e d d i e a d o r n o is sleeping restlessly on the “Freudian” sofa. He is tossing and turning.)

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t e d d i e (suddenly crying out ): No . . . no . . . no! How dare you? Stop! g r e t e l (rushing toward him): What happened? (t e d d i e sits up.) Anything wrong? teddie: What a dream! gretel: You want me to write it down? t e d d i e : Not this nightmare. (Beat.) Struggling with the first paragraph of a work about the dialectics of agalmatophilia . . . a word I searched and searched but couldn’t find in my dictionary. g r e t e l : Ah . . . the hazards of taking down dictation . . . a feeling I’m only too familiar with. But what’s nightmarish about it? Dildos are not exactly a prohibited word in your vocabulary. t e d d i e : There are dildos . . . and then there are dildos. Your detachable ones give me the creeps. g r e t e l (sitting next to him and stroking his hair): I’m beginning to think your dreams do count. I am learning truly surprising things about my husband. (Holds him gently by the chin.) What’s the real objection to agalmatophilia? teddie: You were referring to public sculptures . . . right? gretel: I suppose that at least some are. teddie: With detachable penises? gretel: So they claim. t e d d i e : Just think how many people might have handled them— g r e t e l : But an object only turns into a dildo when it is used as such— teddie: Exactly! Just consider the hygienic aspects— gretel (suddenly starts laughing): I’m sure the Madam of your dream bordello would have solved this problem with her penis washing machine. (Beat.) But Teddie, dear . . . this is comical . . . not nightmarish. teddie: Not the way this one started. With Walter reading to you from the Kamasutra. 26

Foreplay

gretel: Ridiculous. (g r e t e l rises, walks across the room, and sits down on a chair.) teddie: You think so? (Lights dim on t e d d i e , who remains for the rest of the scene on the couch in the shadow, and shine on wa l t e r and gretel. He is excited as he reads.) wa lt e r (reading from the Kamasutra): “When the girl is possessed using an accessory properly in place and wedged into her vagina, her eyes start vacillating under the unrush of pleasure, and the pupils of her eyes start moving.” (Looks up from book.) Are yours moving? gretel: Yes. wa lter (resumes reading): “The partner must then agitate the accessory in a violent manner and, by making her suffer, rapidly increases her excitement.” (Looks up from book.) Do you wish me to continue? teddie: No! gretel: You can’t stop now! wa lt e r (resumes reading): “Some use objects with the shape of the virile member to satisfy their fantasies: carrots, turnips, and fruit such as bananas or aubergines; roots like that of the sweet potato . . . or cucumbers. Having cleaned the fruit, they grasp it and insert it in the organ, so as to cause a pleasurable feeling.” (Looks up from book.) Any favorites? gretel: Asparagus— teddie (outraged ): Gretel! Green . . . thin . . . asparagus? gretel: Thick . . . preferably white. wa lter (resumes reading): “The state of mind of girls who can be possessed is of three kinds: accessible, cooperating, or hostile.” (Looks up from book.) What is yours? teddie: Gretel! You are not going to answer this! gretel: Accessibly cooperating. teddie: What?

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g r e t e l : My husband may well be surprised by my answer. But my very precious Walter, I have always known that correspondence with you is infinitely configurable—as is so much of your formal writing—yet I had not realized until now that this also applies to erotica. Call it epistolary sex . . . more exciting than any direct physical contact ever would. teddie (taken aback): Epistolary sex? g r e t e l : Of course, with words you never know who said them first. Others may argue that we have now crossed the border into pornography, but if that is actually the case, it is such soft porn that . . . (Does not finish the sentence.) wa lter: That what? gretel: I blush to finish the sentence and hence will leave the remaining words to your imagination. wa lt e r : Somewhere, the Kamasutra states that when the wheel of sexual ecstasy is in full motion, there are no words at all, and no order. g r e t e l (interrupts): I prefer the wheel of sexual fantasy over ecstasy. In fantasy, there are no limitations . . . anatomical, chronological, geographical . . . wa lter (interrupts): . . . nor financial. t e d d i e (sotto voce): The poor schnorrer . . . always worrying about money. g r e t e l : Tell me: where do you draw the line between porn and erotica? wa lter: That’s what I would like to explore with you if you’d permit it. g r e t e l : My dearest, dearest Walter. With you, I don’t “permit” . . . I only “welcome.” wa lter: In that case, may I move to coital positions? teddie: No! gretel: I can be tempted (Beat.) but with an important caveat. teddie: Aha!

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wa lter: Yes? gretel: I am no sexual athlete. t e d d i e : Honesty may have its virtues, but why tell Walter? wa lter: You mean in the bedroom? g r e t e l : Ask Teddie. (Beat.) In the front seat of a car . . . on a trapeze— teddie: Even against a grave stone— g r e t e l (an aside addressed to t e d d i e ): That had nothing to do with athletic prowess . . . it just wasn’t my taste. And remember what you said? “Taste is a thing other people don’t have.” I was about to tell you that you had just proved that this is not necessarily so, but that’s when the cemetery attendant appeared and threatened to call the police. (To walter.) Nobody has truly tempted me. t e d d i e : What about the dentist’s chair? The swing? Or what about— g r e t e l (interrupts): These were demands . . . not temptations. (Beat.) But yes . . . I could be tempted . . . especially where athletic limitations don’t apply. walter: In other words . . . the mind. Remember what Goethe said: “Thoughts are more interesting than knowledge.”* teddie: If you people are going to spout Goethe, here is something more relevant from his Wilhelm Meister’s Wanderjahre: Knowledge is not enough, we have to apply it; wanting is not enough, there has to be action.† walter (to gretel): Who is your favorite literary personality?

* “Denken ist interessanter als Wissen.” † “Es ist nicht genug zu wissen, / man muss auch anwenden. / Es ist nicht genug zu wollen, / man muss auch tun.”

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gretel: Present company excepted? wa lter: No flattery. teddie: Why not? Flattery can get you far. gretel: In that case, I’d say Goethe. t e d d i e : A very diplomatic answer. Nobody will be insulted by that choice. wa lter: No . . . not Goethe. gretel and teddie: What? (gretel continues alone.) How can you say no? Your first book dealt with him! Besides, you asked for my choice. wa lt e r : Gretel, my dear . . . calm down. Goethe is an overpowering polymath. Limit yourself to someone who is just a literary personality . . . nothing else. g r e t e l : I see. (Beat.) That limitation would also exclude my husband. wa lter: I would exclude him on several grounds . . . teddie: Now wait a moment! wa lter: . . . obviously a compliment— teddie: It didn’t sound like one . . . not in that tone. g r e t e l : That still leaves an awful lot of candidates. For instance, what is your definition of “literary”? And do you mean only Germans? wa lt e r : Good point. Yes, let’s restrict it to Germans . . . (Short pause.) and Jewish. g r e t e l : My very dear as well as dauntingly devious Walter. I believe you want to force me to come up with a choice you already made for me. wa lt e r (smiling): I would not force you to do anything. Remember, it’s all about temptation. To me . . . and I’m sure also to you . . . temptation and force are incompatible. Call it tempting guidance. gretel: In that case guide me. teddie: Careful!

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gretel: Heinrich— wa lter (cuts her off ): Just in case you’re settling on Heine, let me restrict it further. No pure poets . . . not even Heinrich Heine, with whom, incidentally, I am distantly related on my mother’s side. Let’s focus on a Jewish German literary personality with a heavy emphasis on fiction writing. t e d d i e : In that case, there is only one answer. Gretel, give it to him so that he can finally make his point. g r e t e l (directly to t e d d i e ): There can’t be only one. Not in any field. teddie: There is only one! teddie and walter (in unison): Kafka! g r e t e l : Kafka? Hmm . . . why not? (Beat.) You’ve convinced me. Franz Kafka! What now? wa lt e r : You have heard me say on more than one occasion that other than Proust, I worshipped Kafka more than any other writer. And when it came to German prose, his was the purest. Consider what Hannah Arendt wrote about him— teddie: Why on earth bring her in? g r e t e l : Walter! Dear, dear Walter. I thought you wanted to tempt me, but now you are starting to lecture. You know how I adored listening to your lectures, but now? wa lt e r : My apologies. I was carried away. But why? Because I did not want to ask you about your familiarity with his writing . . . I take this for granted . . . but another question. If you had to describe your impression of Kafka . . . not as a writer, but as a person, how would you depict him? gretel: I have never met him. wa lt e r : Nor have I . . . which is why I am asking you. How do you imagine him . . . based on his writing . . . on what people have written about him . . . what I have written about him? But quick . . . without much cogitation.

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teddie: Finally this is becoming interesting. g r e t e l : Depressed . . . insecure . . . perpetually unhappy . . . just think of the few pictures that everybody has seen . . . probably a fascinating conversationalist . . . a quasi-saintly genius like you— wa lt e r : What about his sexuality . . . his relation with women? gretel: I don’t know . . . probably repressed. wa lt e r : I see. Now what would you say if I told you that he was an obsessive habitué of brothels— teddie: Bordellos! wa lter: . . . and prostitutes. g r e t e l : I’d say it’s quite consistent with sexual repression . . . teddie: Come now! gretel: . . . though not limited to such men. teddie: I should think not! wa lt e r : I won’t argue the point. But what conclusion would you reach if you learned that he was also an obsessive collector of pornography. t e d d i e (surprised ): Kafka? A secret pornographer? How come I didn’t know that? And why tell Gretel? g r e t e l : I’d first have to know what sort of pornography . . . what forbidden borders are being crossed? wa lter: Your choice. g r e t e l : I thought we were discussing Kafka. What was he collecting? Impermissibly lewd language . . . descriptions of perverse acts— wa lter: Mostly images. gretel: Brazenly obscene ones? Or just sadomasochistic? teddie (surprised ): “Just”? g r e t e l : Or something truly revolting in an unexpectedly titillating way? t e d d i e (surprised ): “Truly revolting”? “Unexpectedly titillating”? Why did you never tell me—

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gretel: As some creepy crawlies in crooked crevices. wa lt e r : Did you just make this up? Kafka would have loved such alliteration—especially one based on creepy crawlies. gretel: On the spur of the moment. t e d d i e : How dare you? Just because Walter is musically illiterate? You are quoting from Berg’s Lulu . . . in fact the prologue. And who was Alban Berg’s student? You or I? g r e t e l : But why this sudden focus on Kafka? You promised temptation, but this seems more of an examination. wa lt e r : Not an examination . . . an exploration. Consider it a foreplay. (End of scene 3.)

Scene 4 (t h e o d o r a d o r n o in h a n n a h a r e n d t’s apartment.) adorno: I think it’s time to show our respective cards. a r e n d t : I’d choose another cliché. What sort of card game would keep us sitting at the same table? Poker? That’s all about bluff . . . which neither one of us can afford. adorno: I was thinking of rummy. Isn’t the aim of rummy to discard your cards face up? a r e n d t : I’d have said, “Let’s discard our stilettos” . . . the verbal kind. You are a master when it comes to maiming your opponent. a d o r n o : You aren’t exactly a slouch in the maiming department. arendt: True . . . which is why I usually prefer knives or even guns. Yet didn’t some Chinese sage once say, a wise eagle never shows its claws. But right now, we’re in the same boat and before it capsizes, we better find out how we both ended up in it. So . . . no claws and no stilettos.

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adorno: Agreed. (Lifts his hands.) See? Bare hands. a r e n d t : First, let me hear your part of the story. You got to Italy first. You said Stefan prompted you to go. adorno: Actually, I need to start with Gershom Scholem. arendt (explodes): That Cabalist? There isn’t room enough in this boat for us three. adorno: But he was Walter’s oldest and best friend! a r e n d t : And my greatest enemy. Accusing me in public— a d o r n o : Stop it! Everyone knows about your dispute with him about the Eichmann trial in Jerusalem. How could you possibly have chosen The Banality of Evil for a title? What a terminological infelicity! a r e n d t : You call that a dispute? Calumny . . . deliberate misrepresentation— adorno: Enough! a r e n d t (still furious): Not enough. He was also dead wrong. a d o r n o : Not all the time. Don’t forget, even a stopped clock is right twice a day. But this will get us nowhere. Besides, what I need to tell you about Scholem dates back to 1932 . . . thirty years before the Eichmann affair. You asked me to tell you how it all started and in your inimitable way, you immediately interrupt me before I even finish my first sentence. So will you listen or not? arendt: Go on. adorno: Early this year, Scholem reminded me— a r e n d t : You said thirty years ago. We are now in the year 1969— a d o r n o (jumps up): I’ve had it! Either you keep quiet . . . totally quiet . . . until I am finished or I’m leaving. You’re truly insufferable. I suggest you light two cigarettes and puff them both simultaneously. Kill yourself, but do it quietly. arendt (lights cigarette): One will do. So calm down and talk. adorno: When I wrote Scholem early this year about Stefan’s letter concerning the existence of some suitcases in Italy,

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Scholem informed me that in 1932, Walter had written a letter to him about a young man who had sublet his Berlin apartment and seemed to have broken into a locked cabinet of Walter’s manuscripts. Though nothing disappeared, he was enormously disturbed that someone had read the material he’d kept there. (Looks at arendt puffing furiously on her cigarette.) I know what you want to ask: why did I write to Scholem in the first place? Since he knew more about Walter than anyone else, I wondered whether he knew anything about these putative suitcases and their contents. In point of fact, he had heard about them. He wrote, “Your message about the two legendary San Remo suitcases, which really seem to exist, is exciting. I trust that something can be done about them.”* And then he asked why Stefan or his mother had not gone there to check. It turns out that Stefan had indeed gone there but the new owners of the Villa Verde became very suspicious . . . perhaps they worried that he wanted to lay claim to his mother’s lost property . . . and he didn’t want to even raise the question of the suitcases. So I went and asked. . . . Diplomatically, of course, explaining that I was one of the literary executors of Walter Benjamin. They told me that I was not the first to have asked that question. arendt: May I? Just a simple question? adorno: Since you are asking politely, the answer is yes. arendt: Were they referring to Stefan? adorno: They were not. It was a woman. arendt: I knew it!

* “Ihre Mitteilung über die beiden legendären Koffer in San Remo, die also offenbar doch existieren, sind sehr phantasieanregend und ich hoffe, man kann da etwas unternehmen.”

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adorno (completely taken aback): How could you know that? arendt: Intuition. adorno: I think the time has come for you to talk. a r e n d t : All right. And in contrast to you, I give you permission to interrupt. adorno (sarcastic): I’m overwhelmed. arendt: But don’t overdo it. (Light on a d o r n o fades—as in first scene in t e d d i e / g r e t e l / wa lt e r trialog—while light now focuses on f r a¨ u l e i n x holding a telephone. a r e n d t’s telephone rings.) arendt ( picks up phone): Yes? x: Professor Arendt? arendt: Who is this? x: Are you Professor Arendt? arendt: I asked who is calling. x : But I asked first whether I’m speaking with Professor Arendt. arendt: Unless you answer my question, I shall hang up. x : I’d advise against such a rash action. Both you . . . and Professor Adorno would regret that. a r e n d t : Adorno? What do I and Adorno have in common? x : So you are Professor Arendt! Good. (Beat.) Now listen carefully. arendt: I don’t like your threatening tone. x : “Threatening” is your word—not mine. But whatever word you prefer, it applies to you as well as Professor Adorno. arendt: Where does Adorno come in? x : To paraphrase a famous philosopher, threats . . . or gifts . . . aren’t just given or received, they can also be shared. In this instance, shared by the two of you. arendt: And who is the author of that palpable truism? x : Your former Nazi lover. arendt: How dare you?

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x : Dare what? Calling him a Nazi? Who would deny that Martin Heidegger . . . admittedly an important philosopher . . . was the Nazi-appointed rector of the University of Freiburg during the Hitler days? And behaved as one! And that you, as his student, were also his lover in an adulterous relation is widely known. And to top it all, you—his Jewish exparamour but by then world-famous—were prepared to offer an apologia for your former lover during the denazification process in Germany. arendt: I am about to hang up, but I still want to know what Adorno has to do with your phone call. x : Fair enough. I am asking you both for a small favor . . . a joint one. In fact, an inseparable one. arendt: And if that favor is not granted? x : Two innocent bystanders will reap the consequences. arendt: And now you will tell me who they are? x : Of course. Walter Benjamin and Gretel Adorno. (Light on x fades while light now focuses on adorno and arendt who are resuming their earlier conversation.) a d o r n o : Wait a moment! Wait . . . a . . . moment! You are saying that you and I . . . who have never agreed in print on any topic . . . are now together going to write something that would assure publication of this woman’s revelatory text on Walter Benjamin. (Pause.) You did say revelatory, Hannah, didn’t you? arendt: Well, yes . . . I was quoting her. a d o r n o : And we should agree to that preposterous, impertinent, insolent, absurd, unthinkable— a r e n d t (trying to calm him down): Stop . . . you don’t need to go through the entire thesaurus—“impertinent” or “insolent” will do. a d o r n o : For a start, I’m not a publisher and neither are you. a r e n d t : But we are assumed to have connections. You certainly have . . . and we both can also claim some reputation

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in the field. I don’t believe any manuscript of yours has ever been turned down. adorno: True . . . and for very good reasons. a r e n d t : She demands that her book should include a long foreword by Arendt and Adorno, which effectively would guarantee its acceptance. adorno: Why not alphabetical: Adorno and Arendt? arendt: Why not be a gentleman and give precedence to the lady? adorno: Is this a joke? a r e n d t : No—just insurance . . . in case we agree to be blackmailed. adorno: Have you read her manuscript? a r e n d t : No . . . she hasn’t sent it yet. But I have a vague idea what it’s all about. adorno: Have you met her? arendt: Not face to face . . . she’s much too cautious. But you apparently have. adorno: I? When? Where? How? What’s her name? arendt: No idea. But you certainly made an indelible impression on her. a d o r n o (slightly grinning): That I’ve heard from a few other women. Did she tell you where we met? a r e n d t : Briefly. Very briefly. But if what she told me is true, then we are in trouble . . . deep trouble. adorno: We? arendt: I asked that same question. (Light off on a d o r n o while light now refocuses on f r a¨ u l e i n x holding the telephone in continued telephone conversation with a r e n d t . f r a¨ u l e i n x , whose phone has a very long extension cord, is now truly agitated and as she walks around, gesturing with phone in hand, she occasionally gets tangled by the cord. a r e n d t , by contrast, reclines and starts smoking while the conversation progresses. She is clearly interested.) 38

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arendt: I presume you came voluntarily. x : As voluntarily as most of his other women. arendt: And you minded that? x : Not at first . . . but a few weeks later was another matter. I don’t remember ever feeling so humiliated. arendt: Why humiliated? x : Because he didn’t remember me. arendt: Well . . . how often did you meet? x : Once . . . late at night. arendt (tries to joke): Perhaps it was too dark for him to have recognized your face. x : What I considered memorable was what transpired that night . . . not the partner’s physiognomy. arendt: I see. x : I doubt that you do. (Beat.) For that, I would’ve had to show you the marks on my body. arendt: Yet you went back for more? x : Not for collecting more bruises. I went back because I thought that he was prepared to see me for what I had come for in the first place. Verbal rather than physical intercourse about my take on Benjamin’s last work before his suicide . . . not solely some unilaterally sadomasochistic exercise. He hurt me deeply and I shall reciprocate. a r e n d t : Let me offer you some advice: It is so much simpler to be hurt than to hurt. x : How do you know that? a r e n d t : Experience by someone twice your age . . . and at times on both sides of the equation. (Beat.) But what has all that hurt and revenge got to do with me? Why attempt to blackmail Adorno and me together? x : I must insist that you never use that word again. arendt: What would you call it? x : Persuasion . . . not extortion. a r e n d t : But then, why start with me? Especially in view of what you just disclosed.

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x : Your mutual dislike is well known in academic circles. arendt: I won’t deny that. x : I thought you’d be interested in what I’ve come upon in my research on Benjamin. A literary treasure trove so staggering that it will surprise even the most sophisticated Benjaminologists. arendt: But there are many other admirers of Benjamin. x : True, but you and Professor Adorno head that list . . . and not just as admirers. You were crucial to his posthumous canonization. Not unlike the relation between Franz Kafka and Max Brod. Did you know that just before his death, the great Kafka—another product of posthumous canonization—wrote to his friend that everything he might leave behind in the way of diaries, manuscripts, letters, sketches, and so on was to be burned unread? a r e n d t : Rumors to that effect have been floating around for a long time. But what has that got to do with your blackmail . . . excuse me . . . your persuasion? x : Suppose I told you that Kafka’s letters were not burned. That they were confiscated by the Gestapo in 1933. a r e n d t : Are you now fantasizing or is that supposed to be factual? x : For the sake of my argument, assume that this is factual . . . including that there was a great deal of pornographic material among Kafka’s unburned papers. arendt: I think that by now you have wasted half my time . . . although I am not yet certain which half. x : Very funny! But what if I tell you that what I just told you about Kafka also applies to Benjamin and that I have seen some of that secret correspondence. arendt: What correspondence are you talking about? x : Rather juicy letters with Professor Adorno’s spouse. Some would call them salacious or worse. arendt: I don’t believe any of it.

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x: In due course, I shall provide you with unambiguous evidence. a r e n d t : I am now asking for the last time: Why are you telling all this to me? Why not to Adorno or to his wife? If there was such a ménage à trois, I most assuredly was not the third party. I have only once met his wife . . . and then only fleetingly. x : But you are interested. a r e n d t : Who wouldn’t be? Even if only partly true, the subject matter is titillating, to put it mildly. x : You see? arendt: I see nothing relevant to the discussion at hand. x : I thought it might be useful if you knew something that Professor Adorno did not know you knew. arendt: Let me get this straight. Are you embarking on some divide-and-conquer strategy? x : It’s been known to work. (Light on x fades while light now focuses back on a d o r n o and a r e n d t , who are resuming their earlier conversation, with adorno pacing up and down.) a r e n d t : We need to find out what she has found and where. Until then, I’d advise we pretend to be open to negotiation. adorno: What is there to negotiate about? I think we should call the police. a r e n d t : Teddie—don’t panic. (She puts out her cigarette and motions to him to sit down.) Remember, there is nothing in writing. adorno: The police could tape the next call and trace it. a r e n d t : But why? Because we tell them that somebody wants to “persuade” us to write a foreword on a subject they won’t understand? Do you think the police even know who Walter Benjamin was . . . or for that matter who your wife is? Remember, there are no monetary demands. adorno: So what do you mean by negotiating?

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a r e n d t : Negotiation ultimately must lead to some written material. Otherwise, how can she ask us to write a foreword or persuade a publisher? Anyway, a foreword is only a foreplay. It’s what follows that usually counts. But in the meanwhile, search your memory for who that woman might be. A humiliated woman is a dangerous foe. (End of scene 4.)

Scene 5 (t h e o d o r a d o r n o , wearing hat and coat, hands in his pockets, paces up and down in an apparently cold outdoor location. Suddenly f r a¨ u l e i n x approaches and heads straight for him.) x : I am glad to see that Professor Arendt persuaded you to come. a d o r n o : How do you know that some undercover police officer is not observing us? x : I don’t, but it wouldn’t bother me. What would he see? A possible assignation between an elderly man and a younger woman in front of a nondescript building? I doubt that you would behave in public the way you did with me in private. Or should I remind you of some details? a d o r n o : What exactly are you after? If it is replaying some old tape along the lines reported to me by Professor Arendt, it seems that you came willingly and left more than satisfied— x (interrupts): Since you mention “tape,” are you carrying a recording device on you? a d o r n o ( first surprised, then amused ): Who knows? Or are you now going to frisk me? x : Hardly, because it does not really matter. Nothing I have to say will be incriminating. But for insurance, I am recording our conversation.

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(Quickly unbuttons her overcoat to show a lapel microphone attached to her blouse and a small tape recorder. She quickly rebuttons her coat. a d o r n o is clearly taken aback but says nothing.) I presume Professor Arendt informed you of my request? a d o r n o : A foreword to some mysterious book on Walter Benjamin’s last days written by a nameless author— x : You’ve now met the author and you’ll learn her name soon enough. But the foreword is to carry Professor Arendt’s and your names— adorno (interrupts, trying to make light of the question): Is the order of the foreword’s authors specified? x: Indeed: Hannah Arendt and Theodor W. Adorno. adorno: Not the reverse? x: Definitely not. adorno: Any reason? x: I have reasons for everything I am demanding of you. adorno: Demanding? I thought you were requesting. x: A slip of the tongue. adorno: In other words, you are requesting. x : No. The slip of the tongue applied to the word “request.” a dorno: What makes you think that you are in a position to make any demand? x : That’s why we’re meeting right now. To convince you of my ability to make demands that you will hopefully then consider reasonable ones—indeed, eminently reasonable ones—considering what might otherwise be at stake. adorno: And how do you plan to convince me? x : For the moment, with two sheets of paper. (Reaches into her coat and produces the first page.) adorno (reaching for it): Let’s see how convincing that is. x (takes a step back): Oh, no . . . you can’t. Not yet! Remember, I’m recording our conversation. I shall read it to you. (Switches to an affected, “precious” tone.) “Through

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circumstances, which I shall not disclose to you, my dearest friend, because they would disturb you, my husband has learned about the contents of some of your letters, without, however having actually read any of them. During the ensuing marital contretemps, I made the injudicious mistake of referring to our correspondence as some form of foreplay. His curiosity piqued, he challenged me to describe to him the orgasmic consummation . . . if any . . . of that seemingly drawn out foreplay. This question . . . mark you . . . was posed by a husband who in the past has judged me on more than one occasion . . . admittedly clinically and not nastily . . . as basically anorgasmic. Many a woman would consider such judgment demeaning, but I simply attributed his misdiagnosis to the fact that he never discerned a tonal confirmation on my part to his amorous exertions.” (She momentarily stops reading to look at adorno.) “You may wonder at my somewhat dry, descriptive prose— so unlike most of my other correspondence with you. Let me ascribe it to the fact that I hold a PhD in chemistry and as a woman scientist I have found it easiest to describe embarrassing physical details of mine through dry scientific phraseology. I promise not to overdo it in the future.” (Again momentarily stops reading to look at a d o r n o .) Rather elegantly put, don’t you think? a d o r n o : Your concept of elegance and mine are poles apart. x : Perhaps. But let me continue: “I must admit that I paid him back for this noncompliment about my apparent anorgasmia by pointing out that for a musically talented person with perfect pitch, his erotic ear seemed to cover a fairly limited tone range. As expected, that irritated him sufficiently that he asked the wrong question, namely whether in that event anyone had ever penetrated my seemingly inaccessible orgasmic tone range. That, my very dear friend, is where I made my second mistake of confessing to my husband that

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one person indeed had. But I did not volunteer his—meaning your—identity.” (After noting the expressions on a d o r n o’s face she continues.) I suspect that at least some of what I just read may not come to you as complete news. But let me finish with one more excerpt . . . from another letter . . . which ought to be a surprise. Shall I proceed? (She looks at adorno, who looks back without any word or gesture.) No comment? In that case let me read it to you: “We’ve never been to the theater together, let alone the opera. But after having read your last letter, we must find an occasion when we can do that. If not in Berlin, then perhaps Paris. And by ‘we,’ I mean the three of us, including Teddie, with me in the middle, Teddie to my right and you to my left. During the performance, you will reach into my pocket— but discreetly. Understood? You will find that my left pocket is not a pocket, but an entry, and that I shall be naked underneath.” a d o r n o : I don’t believe it. (Reaches for letter.) Show me the letter. x (steps back): Not yet! (Continues reading.) “You will then do what needs to be done . . . discreetly and following the tempo of the music. For the sake of discretion, this supposedly anorgasmic woman will have draped a long shawl across her lap. (Beat.) There are still some details to be decided, including the appropriate opera, but this will have to wait until we all find ourselves in the same city. In the meanwhile, promise that you will destroy this note. Burn it, or if you can’t, then eat it.” (x puts the page into her pocket.) For our present purposes . . . especially since this is being taped . . . I do not believe that it is necessary for me to

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disclose the identity of the letter writer nor its recipient. Suffice it to say that in my research on Walter Benjamin . . . the subject of the book for which I expect a glowing joint foreword by Hannah Arendt and Theodor W. Adorno . . . I came across the entire one-sided correspondence of which I just read to you a minute excerpt. adorno: How do I know that this is not pure fiction? x : You don’t, but perhaps identification of the place where I came across these documents might help. Or am I wrong? adorno: Try me. x : I know that you are aware that some of Walter Benjamin’s most private papers, which he had left behind in Paris before his flight, were confiscated by the Gestapo . . . not unlike what happened earlier on with some of Kafka’s letters. In both instances, the material eventually ended up in roundabout fashion via Moscow in a partially, but not totally restricted government archive in East Germany. adorno: To which you gained access? x : Correct. adorno: How? x : That, Professor Adorno, is too personal a question. a d o r n o : Because you extended some personal favors to gain access? x (angrily): You, Professor Adorno, of all persons have no right to ask that question. adorno: What do you plan to do with this information? x : That will depend entirely on Professor Arendt and you. Once I receive confirmation that you . . . and I emphasize that I am referring to the plural you . . . are in principle agreeable to satisfying my modest demand, I shall provide Professor Arendt with my manuscript. a d o r n o : Underneath this fake formal language, which I ascribe to your taping your own conversation, I discern some

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vicious anger. Would you care to elaborate on its source . . . perhaps by turning off your recorder? (Long pause.) Well? x (unbuttons her coat, stops tape recorder, and then rebuttons her coat): Why not? It may sway you to see how serious my request really is. a d o r n o : So we are returning to a request, rather than a demand? x : In the absence of the recording, I am willing to make that small concession. And now listen carefully, if you wish to know where my anger really started . . . what circuitous paths it traversed to reach its present crescendo. For the past four years, I have been working as part of my doctoral dissertation on an aspect of Walter Benjamin’s intellectual and personal history which is still largely unexplored . . . or shall we say unanswered. adorno: And what might that be? x : His intellectual preoccupation during the last two years of his life in Paris . . . with a focus on material . . . letters, notes, drafts, and the like . . . that he may have carried with him as he fled across the Pyrenees to Spain in 1940. adorno: You worked on Benjamin here at the university and I did not know about it? x : My thesis is primarily on Bataille. Benjamin is secondary. adorno: On Georges Bataille—the pornographer? x : A surprisingly oversimplified characterization coming from you. a d o r n o : What do you want me to call him? A French philosopher? Even he rejected that classification. x : In that case, why not call him a French surreal eroticist of the highest literary order? Who would call a Bataille quote such as Pleasure only starts once the worm has got into the fruit pornography? You will simply have to accept my response as a defense of my doctoral thesis hero. But never mind . . . it

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was Walter Benjamin that led me here. I am matriculated at the University of Mainz . . . in other words, close enough so that I could attend your lectures here in Frankfurt. adorno: Really? I don’t recall— x (interrupts): I will refresh your failing memory. But at this stage of my tale, your not knowing about me would not be surprising. You had hundreds of students at your lectures, so why should you note a woman who usually deliberately sat in one of the last rows. There was only one thing that distinguished me from all your other students. You will never guess. adorno (trying to joke): You always brought your pet cat with you, which is why you sat in back, knowing that I am allergic to all felines . . . even of the human variety? x (ignoring the attempted wisecrack): I always carried opera glasses with me and studied you throughout your lecture. a d o r n o (impressed ): You did that, rather than taking notes? x : For well over a year, I studied you through opera glasses while you spoke. Studied you in a manner that probably few students . . . female or male . . . ever did. One of my friends, who had noticed that I always brought opera glasses and who usually sat close by, once said . . . rather jealously . . . “All Adorno wants is to convince you how unbelievably vital, how profound, how enthusiastic, how significant his lectures are . . . every one of them, without a single exception. And all that is then left for you and those other enthralled groupies to say is ‘Sock it to me again, Adorno!’” a d o r n o ( grinning): I am beginning to enjoy this. (Beat.) Frankly I never thought that I would be saying this to you. x : My friend was a man! Just imagine how I . . . a woman looking at you for nearly an hour at a time through high powered opera glasses . . . responded to Theodor Adorno, the verbal eroticist.

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adorno ( grinning): I can hardly wait. x : It was your huge eyes. Deep, enormous black eyes, which simply dominated the face . . . and eye lashes that I could count through my binoculars. And your body, which though chubbily bourgeois, was capable of immense agility when you dealt with the young women who clustered around the podium after you finished your lectures. adorno: I take it you were among them? x : I am getting to that. After some months, I went up to you after a lecture to ask whether I could get some advice on my thesis research. You just told me to make an appointment. adorno: Sounds plausible. It’s my usual response. x : But when I went to your office, I faced the impenetrable barrier of your wife, who was in charge of deciding who would be allowed to see you. I, evidently, was marked by some sexual curiosity that older women are good at discerning. So I used a more direct approach, having heard that you were not immune to such appeals by female students. adorno (suddenly severe): Enough! I know what’s coming. x : Even if you can guess, I must say it. adorno: For the record? x : Precisely. In a subsequent lecture, in your inimitable categorical way you stated that “Curiosity is a powerful human impulse—some distance below sex and greed—but far ahead of altruism.” a d o r n o : Did I say that? It’s an interesting idea, but I don’t recall having ever said it. x : You certainly said it, but perhaps you were quoting someone else without citing the source. adorno: That would have been quite inappropriate, which is not typical of me. x : Is that so? Then let me continue on the slippery slope of inappropriateness. I went up to you after the lecture and waited for the last groupie to disappear before volunteering

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to you that, in my opinion, curiosity is not some distance below sex, but rather an indispensable component of it. You virtually undressed me with your powerful eyes and then asked me for the evidence. When I volunteered that it was my personal experience, you suggested that this topic was worth further examination. I came that night . . . figuratively and literally . . . assuming that you would now surely extend to me the courtesy of also discussing my thesis topic with you. But when I made it to the podium some weeks later to arrange an appointment, you didn’t even recognize me. (Beat.) Do you remember now? a d o r n o : I shall have to plead temporary amnesia . . . even if nothing is being taped. x : In that case you leave me no other choice but to continue my demands through Professor Arendt. a d o r n o : You are going to tell her about the correspondence you just claimed to have unearthed? x: Who knows? I may just send her the tape . . . as some sort of foreplay. Or perhaps I shall titillate her with some further excerpts. (She turns and starts to leave. But then she stops and turns around.) She will get whatever is needed to convince both of you that you better sit down to start working on your foreword. Before you know it, you will be facing a deadline. (End of scene 5.)

Scene 6 (g r e t e l a d o r n o , dressed in black mourning clothes, and h a n n a h a r e n d t , an unlit cigarette in her hand, face each other.)

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h a n n a h : Please accept my deepest condolences. (g r e t e l looks at her skeptically, but says nothing. She points to a chair.) Such a shock . . . and no warning. (g r e t e l says nothing, but again gestures for her to sit down.) I imagine that your many friends rallying around you must have given you at least some comfort. g r e t e l : You and Teddie were no friends. Your paths hardly ever crossed. hannah: True. But recently, we met on several occasions. gretel: So it seems. hannah: Teddie told you the reason? gretel: Teddie? I’ve never heard him refer to you as Hannah. (Light on h a n n a h fades—as in first scene in t e d d i e / g r e t e l / wa lt e r trialog—while light now focuses on theodor adorno and his wife.) teddie: Gretel, we must talk. gretel: That is more or less the way we start every day. teddie: This is different. gretel: You mean about Walter. teddie: Yes . . . about Walter (Beat.) and about you. gretel (sighs): We would never have gotten to that if you had not insisted on continuing with your interminable dictation. t e d d i e : What I wanted to talk about is your dictation. Specifically, your use of the word “foreplay.” gretel: It’s a common enough word. t e d d i e : True enough. But not a common word in your spoken vocabulary. gretel (dismissive): If you say so. I’ve never noticed. t e d d i e : I’ve always considered you monogamous . . . nearly celibate. g r e t e l : You make it sound as if “monogamous” and “nearly celibate” are synonyms. If I am nearly celibate, it’s not by choice.

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teddie: Gretel! For heaven’s sake! How can you say that? gretel: You’re focusing on the arithmetic of copulation—the number of mates or matings. What about mental promiscuity or even adultery on the part of a virtual virgin? teddie: There is no such thing as a virtual virgin. g r e t e l : You mean anatomically. I meant mentally. (Beat.) You look dubious. teddie: Not dubious . . . just pensive. gretel: Will you share the grounds for your pensiveness with your spouse? t e d d i e : Why not? I was thinking of our friend Walter. He has often been called a “flâneur.” gretel: I know. I may have done so myself . . . though perhaps not to his face. teddie: Out of embarrassment? g r e t e l : There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s a charming French word . . . a wanderer, a curious one, perhaps even an intellectual one . . . all of them descriptions that suit him. t e d d i e : I know. But he is also another kind of flâneur . . . with an ogler’s wandering eye. gretel: A flâneur can ogle. teddie: Walter is a sexual ogler. (Light fades on t h e o d o r a d o r n o while light now focuses on gretel adorno and hannah arendt, who are resuming their earlier conversation.) hannah: Earlier this year we switched to first names. g r e t e l (somewhat taken aback): At Teddie’s initiative? I can’t believe it. My husband was very formal when it came to first names. hannah (sarcastic): With women? I rather doubt that. But in any event, it was my suggestion. I presume you know why we met. g r e t e l : I know now . . . and that’s why I asked you to come.

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h a n n a h : Your husband never told you himself ? (g r e t e l silently shakes her head.) So how did you find out? gretel: She wrote me. hannah: She? (Beat.) You mean . . . ? gretel: Yes . . . Felicitas. A rat in the guise of a mouse . . . but made out of steel. h a n n a h (astonished ): Felizitas? Is that her name? But that is what Walter Benjamin called you in all his letters! g r e t e l : He always spelled it with a z. She made it plain that hers is spelled with a c. hannah: Amazing. She never volunteered her name. g r e t e l : She probably made it up so that I would notice her letter. You can imagine how many condolences I received from women claiming to have been his students . . . mostly besotted ones. hannah: I can imagine. g r e t e l : I doubt it. (Looks at the unlit cigarette in h a n n a h’s hand.) Go ahead . . . light it . . . you are fidgeting too much. (Waits for h a n n a h to light it.) But now I have a question. In your own letter, you referred to Walter’s correspondence with me. Have you seen it? h a n n a h (hesitates): You mean read it? No . . . not verbatim. gretel (taken aback): Teddie told you about it? hannah: No. gretel: So she did. h a n n a h : Yes. In one of our telephone conversations. In fact, that’s how she started. (Mimics voice.) “You know, of course, about the hot stuff between your adorable Walter and Mrs. Adorno?” gretel: The bitch! hannah: What does she look like? g r e t e l : I don’t know, but from her voice over the phone I imagine she’s stocky with a butch haircut. h a n n a h : So you haven’t met her either? As I listened to her

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over the phone, I assumed she has thin lips and an icy stare. g r e t e l : Icy stare? Maybe. But no thin lips. Teddie is one of those men who first looks at a woman’s lips—even before her eyes. But we shall see soon enough. (Long pause with h a n n a h slowly exhaling the smoke from her cigarette.) h a n n a h : I do want you to know that I sincerely regret your loss. We all know how much you assisted him throughout his life— gretel: True enough. And I didn’t just type his manuscripts— hannah: You should have received more public recognition— gretel: The people who needed to know knew. hannah: Still . . . g r e t e l : Working day in and day out with such a polymath, who kept nothing from me, was deeply satisfying. You could almost call it sex in the mind. And I loved him deeply. h a n n a h (reflective): Ah yes . . . sex in the mind. It certainly lasts longer than in the flesh. g r e t e l : Since we are suddenly moving into such personal territory, let me ask you a question which many wondered about, including Teddie and me. Your love affair as a nineteen-year-old student— hannah: Actually barely eighteen. gretel: Whatever . . . but with your professor in his thirties . . . married and with two children . . . was well known. h a n n a h : How could you . . . of all people . . . be surprised? Didn’t this happen all too often in front of your eyes with your husband . . . and over decades? In a way, isn’t that what brought us here courtesy of our thin-lipped, icy-stared, butch-haircut Felicitas? g r e t e l : That was not the question. Admittedly, Martin Heidegger was one of the most important German philosophers of his generation—

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hannah: The most important! g r e t e l : I beg to differ and my Teddie would have done so even more vociferously. But that is not the point . . . whether he was number 1 or number 3. You, a Jewish student and he a Catholic ex-Theologian and proto-Nazi— hannah: Not proto-Nazi. At best, a pseudo Nazi manqué . . . and only that for a limited time. gretel: Good God! Are we now going to debate the nuances of Nazidom . . . or Nazihood . . . if there are such words? The question is simply why you defended such a person some decades later during his denazification trial at the University of Freiburg? h a n n a h : You’re ignoring the effect upon the students of a professor’s willingness to commit adultery. g r e t e l : Ignoring? As you already said, you are speaking with a life-long expert of professorial amorous power. But I thought you were different. h a n n a h : So did I . . . then. But years later, I found that it’s more complicated than you think. gretel (suddenly in low tone): It always is. Weren’t we all after felicity? Walter never experienced it . . . I did in so many ways with Teddie and then with Walter. And you? hannah: On occasion. gretel: With Heidegger? hannah: No, that was something else . . . even beyond felicity. But I did with Heinrich . . . my second husband. gretel: Lucky you. h a n n a h : And what about your correspondence with Walter? gretel: Some of it could and probably will be published—as I am sure will all his letters with Teddie and with his oldest friend, Gershom Scholem. And why not—he carried letter writing to unequaled heights. But there are letters between us that must never be published . . . otherwise the explanatory footnotes would be longer than the letters.

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hannah: And who would write those footnotes? g r e t e l : That is why I am here. You must help me deal with Felicitas. hannah: I wonder what she’s really after. gretel: We shall find out (Looks at her watch.) any time now. But let’s try to be Hippocratic: first do no harm. h a n n a h : I’ve never been accused . . . or complimented . . . about displaying Hippocratic tendencies. But sure, let’s give it a try, Frau Doktor Hippocrates. (The doorbell rings) g r e t e l (startled ): There she is. Would you let her in? It will give me a chance to look at her before I have to say a word. (h a n n a h opens the door and then steps back as she faces Felicitas, nearly six feet tall, slender, dressed in well-cut, mannish black suit, white shirt and black tie, large hornrimmed glasses framing large eyes, full mouth, short blond hair, parted on the side and combed back—a startlingly arresting androgynous beauty.) hannah (taken aback): My goodness! (Pause.) Come in. x: You seem surprised. (Looks at her watch.) I am not early, am I? hannah (almost laughing): Not at all. It’s just that I imagined you (Beat.) . . . differently. x : For the purpose of our meeting, I suspect that looks won’t make much difference. g r e t e l (rising from her chair): True enough. Why don’t you sit down over there (Points to chair or sofa.) and let’s start. I want to hear what you have to say face to face . . . not in letters or phone calls. By the way, what is your name? x : Felicitas. You know that from my letter. g r e t e l : I meant your family name. We are not on a firstname basis and are unlikely to ever reach it. x : If it’s formality you’re after, just call me “X” . . . Felicitas X. g r e t e l (shrugs her shoulders): Not a very promising beginning, but for now it will do.

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(g r e t e l and h a n n a h sit down, but x moves toward the window and remains standing by leaning against the window sill.) gretel (again points to the sofa or chair): Please. x : For the time being I prefer to stand. hannah (sarcastic): So we need to look up at you? x (equally sarcastic): Given my height, most people look up at me all the time. Right now, I prefer to stand . . . if you don’t mind. h a n n a h : Let’s consider for a moment who we are: a queer, almost bizarre trio of women, all basically antagonistic, yet almost antagonists by proxy. (To g r e t e l .) We two have barely met, even though each of us had heard a great deal about the other over the course of some decades. As a loyal widow, you are almost certain to invariably take the side of your husband— gretel: Invariably? I guess you don’t know me very well. hannah (surprised ): Oh? (Beat.) In that case I shall withdraw the adverb. But you’re the widow of a man with whom I have had a contentious and even bitter relationship most of my life. Even Fräulein X over there knew about it. If there was any sort of rapprochement between me and Teddie— gretel: Please! No first names! h a n n a h : It seems loyalty is already raising its complicated head. But never mind. What brought Adorno and me to the same side of the table is you. (Turning to x .) You seem to have fierce feelings about Adorno which have nothing to do with me. x : You forget your connection to Walter Benjamin. h a n n a h : I was about to come to him when you interrupted. He is the only common denominator for all three of us. What we are about to discuss is devious, dishonest, possibly incorrect, and most likely also illegal. x : What law am I violating?

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h a n n a h : That remains to be seen. But for our discussion to have any subsequent validity, how are we going to prove when we leave what really was said here? I presume none of you has a recorder of any sort. (Looks around.) Well? x (mockingly raises her arms and shakes them): Or do you want me to strip? hannah: Not yet. But I shall keep this implied offer in reserve just in case. x : I think it is time to get down to brass tacks. h a n n a h : Just one more comment: If any two of us agree on some point, our inherent antagonistic relationship is bound to make such second witness very reliable. Now, go ahead. x : My doctoral thesis was on Bataille. (Beat.) Georges Bataille. (Beat.) You’ve heard of him? hannah: Don’t be insulting . . . and get to the point. x : A spectacular pornographer of a very special kind. gretel: You’ve heard Dr. Arendt! Get to the point. x : I’m nearly there. Dr. Benjamin spent much time with him during his last couple of years in Paris. That’s why he left his papers with Bataille in the Bibliothèque Nationale before fleeing Paris. hannah: Stop playing insulting games. We know all that. x : Of course you do . . . and especially Mrs. Adorno. gretel: I’d prefer you address me as Dr. Adorno. I also have a PhD. x : But in chemistry. gretel: But ? Does chemistry not count in your circles? x : I was thinking of your husband’s— gretel: You might be surprised. (Lights dim followed by spotlight on g r e t e l a d o r n o , who has turned to look into the background where the figure of wa l t e r b e n j a m i n becomes more and more visible as she speaks.)

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Walter, my dearest. How lucky I am to have met you . . . you whose achievements will be eternal. When inspecting the mirror of creativity, all I see is you. wa lt e r : My dear Felizitas. You exaggerate. There are many others . . . (Sudden spotlight on t h e o d o r a d o r n o , who is also standing in the background but on opposite side to walter.) teddie: I should think so. wa lt e r : Take Teddie (t e d d i e makes a facial gesture as if saying, “you see?” ) or— gretel (interrupts impatiently): I know, I know. But right now I’m talking to you . . . I, a laboratory chemist . . . not even a theoretician . . . overwhelmed by your literary imagination. wa lt e r : Literary imagination is not the only one. What you call eternal . . . an implied immunity to time . . . is shared by both artistic and scientific achievement. . . . Newton’s gravity is beyond time . . . Paul Klee’s art is timeless . . . your fellow chemist Avogadro’s number is immovable. g r e t e l : Thank you for including a chemist. I sometimes wonder how Teddie feels, having married a chemist and then converting her . . . quite willingly, I admit . . . into his nonchemical amanuensis. (Spotlight on t e d d i e as wa l t e r fades into darkness.) t e d d i e : Don’t you remember when you once called me and Walter living proofs for the existence of human pheromones and I asked my wife, the chemist, showing off in the one discipline she surpasses her husband, to expand on this cryptic chemical message? g r e t e l : Of course. What people like you secrete . . . and both of you in inexhaustible abundance . . . is a form of intellectual aura, not unlike the sex attractant pheromones of insects, that attracts intelligent, well-educated women, like

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Dora Benjamin and me. We became human moths flying toward the burning candle. (Light suddenly includes walter.) wa lter: But you did not leave it at that. You told us about the female azuki bean weevil, Callosobruchus chinensis . . . an insect we had never heard of and couldn’t even spell . . . secreting a pheromone, called erectin, that induces the male insect to extrude his genital organ for copulation. g r e t e l (laughing): Whereupon my husband, challenged by this nugget of chemical esoterica, decided to trump his wife by asking her what the longest epic in world literature was. I, of course, fell into his trap by responding with the Iliad. t e d d i e ( grinning): Whereupon I informed you that it was the Manas. gretel: And before I could even ask what Manas, you already volunteered that it was the national epic of the Kirghiz—an answer that seemed so outlandish that I did not even have the courage to question it. wa lter: But I did, by reminding Teddie that the Tibetan Epic of King Gesar was not only some twenty times the length of the Iliad, but also had more lines than the Manas. teddie: Whereupon my wife conceded that when it comes to esoterica, we literati could beat the chemists every time. (Lights momentarily down. When they reappear, the earlier scene with the three women continues.) x : But now to the point. Given the enormous extent of Benjamin’s correspondence . . . some especially juicy as you well know . . . is it not surprising that there are no letters in his archives between him and Bataille? h a n n a h : Not particularly. They worked practically next to each other in the Bibliothèque Nationale. Why exchange letters? x : Proximity would not inhibit a compulsory letter writer like Benjamin. So you never wondered, Dr. Arendt or (Turning

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to g r e t e l .) especially you, Dr. Adorno, considering the nature of your own correspondence. gretel: You mean with Walter? x : Yes. gretel: You found them? x : If you mean your letters to him, then the answer is yes. gretel: Where? x : That, for the moment, is quite beside the point. But their existence is relevant. hannah: To your blackmail? x : Dr. Arendt . . . I shall have to insist that you refrain from using that word. h a n n a h : And what would you prefer to call what you’re doing? x : Indulging in hopefully irresistible persuasion. h a n n a h : I’ve never been persuaded . . . irresistibly . . . by a woman. By a few men? Yes. But they were the exceptions. x : There is always a first time. (Hands over a couple of pages.) hannah: What is this? x : Some sample pages from my book. Just read them. (Seeing h a n n a h about to put them into her bag, she stops her.) Now! Not later, because you can’t keep them. (Long pause. While h a n n a h skims the three pages, x paces up and down.) gretel: For God’s sake, sit down. Your pacing drives me crazy. hannah: Good God! x : Yes . . . good God. And now (Taking pages from h a n n a h and handing them over to g r e t e l .) it’s your turn, Dr. Adorno. You hardly will need to read them, since you wrote them yourself. And to oblige you, I shall sit while you skim them. (Brief pause.) g r e t e l : I have no comments . . . at least not now. But it seems you do.

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x : Oh, yes, I do. I would have preferred delivering them face to face to your husband— gretel: Why? x : To see whether he is capable of shock . . . or at least embarrassment. hannah: You’d probably be disappointed on both fronts. x : Perhaps. (Beat.) But his widow? gretel: Well, here’s your opportunity to find out. x : Following one of his utterly mesmerizing lectures . . . when all I could say in my mind was “Holy shit, Herr Professor! How do you do it every time?” . . . I tried to make an appointment. I asked his Cerberus— gretel: What did you say? x : Cerberus . . . his gate keeper. gretel: I don’t remember you, which seems surprising, given your towering stature. x : Why should you? You must have turned down such smitten female students by the dozens. And they probably came in all sizes. gretel: True enough. So what did I do? x : You asked me to put it in writing, because Herr Professor Doktor Adorno was too busy. gretel: I presume that was not the end. x: It was barely the beginning. I wrote a letter so full of double meanings that even the Professor would have taken the bait. g r e t e l : But how did he get the letter? I usually handled all incoming correspondence. x : Handled? I would have used a different word, but your role was known to all students. So instead of offering it to him, I paraphrased its contents . . . orally that is. hannah: Are you sure you want me to listen to what is coming? x : Of course. Given your own experience about sex with a great mind— hannah: Keep Martin Heidegger out of this.

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x : His name will not cross my lips, but I’m certain the rest won’t surprise you. I started out with my oral talents before volunteering that I also wanted his advice about my seemingly original and unknown take on an important aspect of Benjaminiana. h a n n a h : There is a nasty undertone around your use of that word. x : Only with respect to the gatekeepers of Benjamin’s reputation—people like you and the Herr Professor. I meant no disrespect to Walter Benjamin himself. hannah: I shall try to remember that. g r e t e l : Would you both stop it! Either get on with it or get out! x : I don’t plan to leave, because I am enjoying myself too much . . . and because you cannot afford not to hear me out. But it will have to be at my own pace. h a n n a h : How about some galloping rather than this slow trot? x : The Herr Professor granted my request, but he seemed to be solely interested in the operational aspects of my oral skills and not their content. He suggested we discuss my questions after he returned from his Swiss holiday with you, Dr. Adorno, but when I then showed up with my request for advice . . . academic, that is . . . he didn’t recognize me. hannah: I already told you on the phone that this is appalling, but you will get over it. x : Never! h a n n a h : I shall now tell both of you something that I’ve never told anyone before and which I shall probably regret I am disclosing now. The reason may be my newly acquired Hippocratic tendencies. x: What does that mean? h a n n a h : Ask Frau Adorno. (Beat.) Recently and quite separately, each of you referred to my relationship with Martin

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Heidegger when I was a doctoral student at Freiburg. Few people will understand the depth of that relationship . . . even though sexually, it only lasted for a year. Yet only a few years after we broke off our passionate relationship, our paths crossed again inadvertently at the railway station in Freiburg. I was then all of twenty-four years old . . . younger than you, Fräulein X. But he didn’t recognize me! He just looked right through me. (Beat.) You might as well learn something more about Heidegger . . . both of you. Like Teddie Adorno, he had affairs with women . . . mostly much younger ones . . . like me . . . throughout his life and (Addresses g r e t e l .) his wife knew about most of them. (Pause.) So you see, all of us here are in one way or another drawn to compulsive adulterers. I imagine that Heidegger’s justification when he was already in his sixties was that his life and work was based on Eros . . . a philosopher’s sanitized word for sex . . . and that love was for him as necessary for life’s sustenance as bread. (Beat.) So you see, Fräulein X, not recognizing you a few weeks after a one-night stand is not more humiliating than your lover not recognizing you after an entire year’s relationship. You will survive it . . . as did I. x : There is a big difference. You both had deeply satisfying ménages à trois— h a n n a h (interrupts): I was single when I fell in love with Heidegger—single and young. x : True in the beginning. But you married soon thereafter. In fact, twice. Surely that helped. gretel: Do I sense a touch of envy? x : Of course you do. And since I didn’t even have a ménage à deux— hannah: You decided to revenge yourself. x : For someone of your sophistication, this is a surprisingly simple judgment.

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hannah: Then complexify it for me. x : Hah! Complexify. A good word. Isn’t that what some of you have said about Benjamin’s own writing? g r e t e l (to x ): What happened after that failed recognition episode? x: Nothing. I was too mortified to see him again. gretel: And that was it? x : Of course not. That was only the foreplay to the foreplay. (Beat.) I am now quoting. (To g r e t e l .) Shall I cite the source? (gretel looks away without responding. After a long pause.) I found another thesis advisor, who did not try to dissuade me from my intended doctoral thesis research, although he thought it to be a long shot. hannah: And? x : It was a very long shot, but I did manage to hit the target. h a n n a h : And now you will finally tell us what that target was— x : No. I will leave a copy of my manuscript with you so that you can read it. But to hopefully pique your interest, let me say that pornography is one of the subjects and Walter Benjamin and Georges Bataille the central figures. g r e t e l : So far, you’ve been unwilling to disclose your family name. What about Felicitas? x: What about it? g r e t e l : I gather you know that Benjamin always addressed me in his letters as Felizitas. x: I do. But my name is spelled with a c, not a z. gretel (sarcastically): Just by happenstance? x : No, deliberately so. hannah: Usually, it’s the parents who choose the name. x (ironically): Really? You were born as Johanna Arendt, yet you pass as Hannah. gretel (surprised ): Is that true? hannah: Yes. (Turns to x.) How on earth did you find that out?

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x : Because in your American Naturalization Certificate, you signed your photo as Johanna Bluecher but the actual certificate as Hannah Arendt Bluecher. (Turning to g r e t e l .) Not any different from your husband, who signed his photo as Theodore Wiesengrund, but the certificate as Theodore Adorno. hannah (taken aback): Were you stalking me? x : Just some biographical stalking, to learn your weaknesses and foibles. hannah: I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or scared. x : Probably flattered if you realize how much information about you is in the public domain. Of course, your own publications . . . especially the pugnacious ones . . . did help. g r e t e l (to x ): I would like to ask you to leave now. I have something urgent to discuss with Dr. Arendt. x ( pointing to the manuscript as she leaves): I trust you will find this stimulating reading. g r e t e l : Good riddance! In my present state, I don’t think I could have taken much more. As a new widow, I barely have enough energy to guard my husband’s reputation. I’m not interested in the dirt. I hope that what I shall tell you now will not come as a complete surprise. I hardly know you. I am not sure I like you . . . at least not yet, given what transpired in the past between you and Teddie. But my intuition tells me to trust you and that is probably the most solid form of trust, uncontaminated by affection or friendship. And I know that in your own way you also loved Walter and will not let any harm come to him. hannah: Go on. g r e t e l : Please take over the entire negotiation, blackmail or whatever sordid name one can use and keep Teddie and Walter out of it. I will give you the one armament that will give you bargaining power. All of Walter’s letters to me. I don’t think you will misuse them.

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(hannah lights a cigarette, but says nothing.) Well, what’s the verdict? hannah: You were right to trust your intuition. g r e t e l (walks over and briefly embraces h a n n a h ): Thank you. (Long pause, during which she looks away, then suddenly focuses again on hannah.) And one more thing you should know. Walter did write me to return a few letters, which he felt he would incorporate into his final work. He promised to dedicate it to me. h a n n a h (startled ): You mean our nemesis has actually seen some of Walter’s letters in the East German archives? g r e t e l : I doubt it. I think they were in the bag he carried with him over the Pyrenees. The one that disappeared. (End of scene 6.)

Scene 7 (h a n n a h and x sit around a table in h a n n a h’s apartment. The table is bare except for a large, virtually overflowing ashtray and a bound manuscript. hannah slowly inhales from a half-finished cigarette.) x ( pointing to the manuscript): Have you read it? hannah: Yes. (Points to the ashtray.) You can see the evidence. x : All of it? hannah: No. x : How much then? hannah (again points to the ashtray): About two packs worth. x : Is that all? h a n n a h : I am a fast reader, but a slow smoker when I read. x : Any conclusion? h a n n a h : I read enough to see that you are a first-class writer and a provocative thinker. x (slightly mollified ): I sense a caveat lurking in the background.

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h a n n a h : Of course. Isn’t everything we’ve all been talking about sprinkled with them? But let me try to do it the Hippocratic way. Actually, it was Gretel Adorno’s request when she asked me to continue the conversation without her. x (sarcastic): Primum non nocere? h a n n a h : “First do no harm.” I’m glad you checked on the Hippocratic Oath. Let’s both try it. What have we got to lose? x : First, why did Mrs. Adorno . . . (Dismissive.) . . . I beg your pardon, Dr. Adorno . . . decide not to participate? h a n n a h : Can’t you guess? A recent widow from a long marriage that has been described as that of virtual Siamese twins. So interconnected in everything they did. x: Siamese twins can’t have sex with each other. h a n n a h : You would think of that. But then it depends on how you define sex. (Beat.) For a change, let’s leave sex alone. She is devastated, but what keeps her going is her focus on assembling all remaining works of her husband for publication. To maintain or even elevate his reputation. I’ve had plenty of disagreements and fights with him and about him, but I respect her wishes in that regard. I wouldn’t behave differently if I were Heidegger’s executor. (Points toward the manuscript.) Why be surprised that she does not wish to have anything to do with this sordid affair?— x : You call this sordid? hannah: Not the manuscript, but everything associated with it. Not only your demands . . . and please note that I refrain from using the word blackmail . . . but what it might do to the reputation of Walter Benjamin. x : Now wait a minute, before you totally fall off your Hippocratic cliff. h a n n a h : You are right. I am deviating from what I hope could be a rational discourse leading to a possible resolution. So back to Gretel Adorno. She does not want to get

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involved as a proxy for her deceased husband and you must agree that she has a point. x : But she is involved . . . whether her husband is alive or dead. I presume that in your two packs of cigarette reading you have noticed that I need to read the missing half of the Gretel-Walter correspondence . . . namely his letters to her. Or has she destroyed them? hannah: She has not . . . so far. x : Well, there you have it. I want to read them so as to be able to cite or at least paraphrase them. But following your Hippocratic path, I am prepared to make a giant concession: I shall let her censure or veto any citation. But at least their content will allow me to build the logical argument I’m after. Otherwise, it’s all supposition. h a n n a h : Much of what we write in our work is based on suppositions. x : But this is different. What Adorno or Benjamin or Heidegger wrote is in the final analysis based on suppositions, but I am dealing with interpretation of a single person’s motivation and personal thoughts. Call it psychobiographical writing. h a n n a h : The most dangerous of genres. Still, considering that all of us . . . Gretel, Teddie, and I . . . were and in part still are deeply involved with Walter’s life, work, and reputation, I cannot fault you for wishing to read the missing half of the correspondence. Once I learned of its existence . . . really through you . . . I also was hooked. x : And? hannah: Now that I have read it, I regret being privy to their secrets. x : You read it? How? Where? When? h a n n a h : How? Gretel Adorno gave them to me. Where? Here in my home. When? Yesterday. x : I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Why would she do that?

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hannah: Because she trusts me. x: You, of all people? You, one of her husband’s greatest enemies? h a n n a h : But one of Benjamin’s greatest promoters. Besides, it was you who got Adorno and me to a first-name basis. Frankly, I would never have dreamed that in my worst nightmares. x : And you have those letters here . . . in your apartment? hannah: Yes. x : Will you show them to me? hannah: Yes. x ( jumps up, utterly dumbfounded ): Yes? (Beat.) When? hannah: Quite soon. But first calm down and listen to me . . . carefully! Do you have any relatives and friends you can trust? x (confused ): I suppose so. h a n n a h : Someone to whom you have confided about this matter? x : Not exactly. hannah: What does that mean. x : Well . . . not everything. h a n n a h : Does the person know anything about my involvement? x : Very little. hannah: I suppose that’s better than nothing. I’m saying that because I want you to go into the next room (Points to the door.) where you will find a telephone. Call that person, tell him or her where you are right now and that if you do not call back within (Looks at her watch.) say, four hours, they should come here to look for you or call the police. x : The police? hannah (waves her hand dismissively, still pointing to the door): Or an ambulance . . . or whatever. x: But why? hannah: For insurance sake. I don’t think you trust me.

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x : That you might do me some harm? h a n n a h : Who knows? (Beat.) Now go ahead and phone, because we are wasting time. (x reluctantly exits, whereupon hannah rapidly goes to a drawer, takes out a large box of loose pages and a smaller one, and places them on the table. She removes the cover of the large box, lights a cigarette, and waits for x’s return.) Good. So you called? x: I decided not to. hannah: You decided to trust me? (Seeing her nod.) Why? x : Intuition. hannah: In that case, let’s proceed. You see here (Points to the larger open box with sheets of paper.) what may be one of the truly great treasures in German literary history. (x is about to reach over, but h a n n a h stops her and moves the box to her side.) But first, open this one. x (a puzzled expression on her face, opens the small box and immediately recoils, jumping up): Is this some sick joke? hannah: No joke. x (takes the handcuffs out of the box and holds them up): In that case, in some perverted Hippocratic spirit, are you trying to remind me of my one-night Adorno stand? h a n n a h : Good God! I forgot. Adorno has nothing to do with these handcuffs . . . at least not Teddie Adorno. Just listen carefully before responding. These letters are irreplaceable. Other than the two correspondents, only I have so far seen them. Under ordinary circumstances, I suspect that Gretel would have left testamentary instructions to either have them destroyed or deposited in a closed archive. If I show them to you, they must not be touched, no notes can be taken, no copies made. Knowing now the contents, I can well imagine that it might require superhuman efforts on your side not to be tempted. The handcuffs are an

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insurance for both of us. You now have three choices: Telephone your friend and then put on the handcuffs yourself. Put them on without phoning. Or don’t put them on, but don’t expect to see a single letter. x : Why are you even prepared to show me the letters? h a n n a h : Remember about the caveats I still need to raise? These will only be relevant after you know what is written in Walter’s letters. x : I see. (Beat.) I’ll take the second option. (Slowly puts on the handcuffs and clicks them shut.) h a n n a h : In that case, let’s start. One letter at a time. And don’t forget that I have the only keys to the handcuffs. (h a n n a h puts the first letter in front of x , lights a cigarette, and continues to observe x’s face and expressions as she reads. Gradually, as she hands over the second letter and starts a new pile with the first one, the lights start to fade so that by the fourth letter, it is dark indicating the passage of time. Lights on. hannah’s ashtray is nearly full. The pile of read letters is high and h a n n a h has seemingly dozed off. x carefully observes her, then coughs once, then again without seemingly waking h a n n a h . x leans over the table and with her handcuffed hands lifts one of the still-to-beread letters and starts moving it toward the edge of the table near her, clearly intending to let it fall over the edge into her lap. h a n n a h , who had only pretended to have fallen asleep, opens her eyes and silently observes the scene for a few seconds. Suddenly she speaks.) hannah: What are you trying to do? x ( flustered ): I thought you’d fallen asleep and I didn’t want to disturb you. So I picked up the next one. hannah (even-voiced ): I don’t believe you. x (now pleading): Please—

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hannah (sharply): Stop it! (Quickly takes the pile of read letters and places it into the box containing the remaining unread ones.) x : What are you doing? hannah: You have read enough to understand what is in this box. With a few exceptions, these are spectacularly private letters which were never meant to be read by others. But there is one more that I will read to you . . . at least the relevant portion. (She reaches into the box and lifts all letters out to reach the last one.) It was written in late September of 1940 and was added to the manuscripts that he gave me and my husband in Marseilles in the hope that we would reach New York and could hand them over to Adorno. After all, he was Walter’s literary executor. As most Benjamin scholars know, we succeeded and handed them over, whereas Benjamin committed suicide a few days later. Of course, I never knew until yesterday that I was the postman of this particular missive. Now listen carefully to what it says: “My dearest, I made a monumental mistake before I fled from Paris. I left your letters to me with Georges Bataille together with the other manuscripts and papers in the hope that they will survive even if I don’t. I should have burned your letters, but couldn’t. They were too precious. Nevertheless, I now plead with you to destroy mine.” (Carefully, she puts the letter back into the box and then places all others on top with the exception of the top one, which she sets aside. She lights a cigarette, takes some rapid puffs and then quickly pushes the glowing end of the cigarette against the paper. In a moment it catches fire while she holds it by one edge. As the flames start to consume the paper, x jumps up and with her handcuffed hands attempts to knock the burning paper out of h a n n a h’s hands. But it is too late. The letter is destroyed.)

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x ( yelling): Look what you have done! Have you gone mad? hannah (quietly): I have started to follow Walter’s instructions. x (still yelling): But why? Mrs. Adorno did not destroy them . . . in spite of Benjamin’s wishes. So why do you? h a n n a h : She couldn’t and perhaps I wouldn’t have either if they had been addressed to me. But you forced us to consider this literary auto-da-fé. Now sit down and listen to me . . . very carefully before you respond. Let’s review the facts: Through means that would interest me, but which are not really germane to the issue at hand, you managed to gain access to the Benjamin files in East Berlin . . . quite an accomplishment for a West German scholar in the midsixties. Correct? x : Correct. h a n n a h : Unbeknownst to everyone, these files included the entire Gretel Adorno portion of her correspondence with Walter Benjamin. I gather that you not only read them, but that you were also allowed to make copies of them. x : Not of all of them. hannah: But you read them all? x : Yes. h a n n a h : Now let’s turn to Walter’s suitcase that he apparently left in San Remo. I gathered that you confirmed that it existed. How did you find out what was in it? x : I didn’t find out. I surmised. Based on some of the other papers in the East German archives and, of course, on the notorious story about the contents of the briefcase that Benjamin supposedly schlepped over the Pyrenees on his flight to Spain and which disappeared after his suicide. hannah: We shall get to the briefcase in a moment. But “surmised” can be an ambiguous word, covering everything from conclusions based on collected factoids to complete self-delusion.

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x : That may be your definition. It isn’t mine. But my surmises are in my manuscript. Perhaps you should have consumed another pack of cigarettes and continued reading. hannah: All right. Let’s get to the manuscript. After all, that’s what brought us all together . . . that and your desire for revenge. But the object of your revenge is dead. x : So is Walter Benjamin. Dead for over a quarter of a century. h a n n a h : Correct. But let us deal with them separately. Your revenge against Adorno really consists of your using the Gretel-Walter correspondence. You are using it as a form of intellectual, sex-in-the-mind cuckolding of a notorious womanizer. x (sardonically): “Sex-in-the-mind cuckolding”! What a fitting phrase! h a n n a h : As a woman and severe critic of Adorno, I might even find it amusing. But using the actual correspondence goes beyond the pale. x : Forget revenge. What, in my not-so-humble opinion, is unique about my manuscript? I claim that during the last couple of years of his life . . . much of them spent with my literary pornographer Georges Bataille . . . Benjamin started to work on pornography in an age of technological reproducibility . . . a project that might have become as famous— h a n n a h : I think notorious would be more accurate in the context of pornography. x : Yes, or as notorious, as his famous article “The Work of Art in the Age of Technological Reproducibility.” I claim that this unfinished material was in his briefcase and I need the Gretel-Walter correspondence as support for my argument that Benjamin was more than just theoretically intrigued by pornography. But before we continue, could you finally unlock the handcuffs? I haven’t even been able to go to the bathroom.

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h a n n a h : If you need to go to the toilet, say so and we shall arrange it. But the handcuffs won’t come off until these letters here are outside your reach. Besides, we are nearly finished. I told you that I found your manuscript exceptionally well written and of substantial originality. I see no objection to your publishing in your book—especially because of the superb coverage of Bataille and his possible influence on Walter Benjamin—that the missing briefcase may have contained a manuscript of the type (Draws quotation marks in the air.) surmised by you. I would say that even your arguments—perhaps toned down a bit—about Benjamin’s general interest in pornography merit publication. After all, have not most of us considered in our own lives where the border between erotica and pornography lies? I would have no objection to comment favorably on such a revised manuscript. x (astonished ): Am I hearing right? You, Dr. Hannah Arendt, would write a favorable recommendation? h a n n a h : I would, but only after resolving the following “but.” (Beat.) But I would fight you to the bitter end until all insinuations that Benjamin was a pornographer in the true pornographic sense of the word—obsession, collection, and consummation—is removed. x : That is all? hannah: No, that’s not all. Even if these deletions defang any possible revenge on your part against the late Adorno, Gretel’s letters must not be mentioned. Ultimately, you will be grateful that you dropped that idea and at the same time avoided harming an innocent person, namely Gretel. Remember, primum non nocere—first do no harm. I offer myself as a prime example. Here I was, not yet twenty, but being dumped by the greatest love of my life, my thirtyfive-year-old professor . . . exactly at the time when I thought that emotionally we had become equals. I, the

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Jewish student, had to leave the university, where he became the rector during Hitler’s rise to power. Yet twenty years later, I helped him. Of course, there were several reasons, some deeply personal and unmentionable, but here is one. The reversal of power relationships. He was still twenty-three years older than me, but now I was here (She raises one hand above her head.) and he down there. (Other hand directed to hip.) You are nearly forty years younger than Adorno and posthumously, you are now able to reverse that power relation. The survivors . . . at least the ones who count . . . will recognize your action and admire you for it. I guess that about sums it up: no mention of the Gretel-Walter correspondence and no transformation of Walter Benjamin into a Georges Bataille. Leave Benjamin as one of the greatest literary critics of this century and Bataille as one of the most literary pornographers in France. Agree, and you will gain my support with this. (Points to the book manuscript still lying on the table.) Refuse, and I shall fight you tooth and nail, because I also loved Walter, though in a different way from Gretel. x : What exactly could your tooth and nail fight entail? h a n n a h : I can be an unforgiving opponent when it comes to not allowing Walter’s reputation as one of the greatest German intellectuals of this century to be besmirched. I could certainly make a case that your central argument about Benjamin, the hidden pornophile, is hot air. x : Hot air? Is that what you call my thesis? h a n n a h : I am rather good at converting other people’s cool thoughts into hot air. That’s what debate is really all about. And in this instance, I would not hesitate in displaying my skills. But we could also publish evidence that completely contradicts your central thesis . . . even if we have to make it up. After all, it’s one surmise against another. x : We? Adorno is dead.

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h a n n a h : You are forgetting the wife. A hurt widow is a dangerous opponent. And we haven’t even touched yet the legal aspects of your using private correspondence that you aren’t entitled to. Remember your Latin! Privatus means “set apart, belonging to oneself ” . . . and not just in the dictionary. A body of law has been constructed around that term. (Lights cigarette and waits.) x : You are demanding that my entire thesis simply becomes a foreplay? That the real consummation never happened? h a n n a h : An interesting way of putting it. (Beat.) I hadn’t thought of it that way, but why not? Depending on the quality, the imaginativeness, and, naturally, the length of any foreplay, it may produce more satisfaction than the subsequent communion. x : Even when the subsequent “communion” . . . as you so ambiguously name it . . . is never consummated? h a n n a h : Why not? Has that not happened to you? It may not lead to complete satisfaction, but it certainly arouses excitement and curiosity. Most PhD theses do not reach that stage. Yours might. x : I have to think about it. (h a n n a h shrugs her shoulders, rises, picks up x’s book manuscript and offers it to x , who takes it into her handcuffed hands. They both head for the door. As they pass the table containing the box of wa lt e r’s letters, x stops for a moment to look at them.) h a n n a h : These you will never see again. And now, let me unlock the handcuffs. (She does so at the door as x exits.) (hannah returns to the table, sits down, and starts reading again wa lt e r’s letters as the light fades denoting the passage of time. Lights on showing hannah smoking at the table with wa lt e r’s letters strewn all about. The doorbell rings. She goes to the door and gestures to g r e t e l a d o r n o to

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enter. g r e t e l carries some sort of metal bucket with a cover.) g r e t e l (looking around ): So she’s gone. (Heads for the table, lifting some of the letters without reading them as if she were caressing them and gently puts them down.) What’s the verdict? hannah: Difficult to say. I would give even odds that she will accept my offer. (Suddenly notes the bucket in g r e t e l’s hands.) What on earth are you carrying? gretel: My crematorium (Beat, while reaching into the bucket.) and a small fire extinguisher. hannah: This takes courage. Just burning one letter was very painful. gretel: If you had been able to provide me with an iron-clad assurance that the correspondence would never be released, I might have considered depositing his letters in a restricted archive. Walter is such a major literary figure that in a way none of the owners of his writings—even the most private ones—should decide to eliminate them all together. But this is different: they could always be misinterpreted, which may be the reason why Walter asked me just before his suicide to destroy them all. hannah: May I call you Gretel? g r e t e l : I suppose so. I have shared my deepest secret (Points to the letters.) with you. hannah: Thanks, Gretel. (Short pause.) In some very complicated way, I envy you. gretel: Why? h a n n a h : After reading Walter’s letters, I realize that your relation with him was deeply sexual, yet without apparent consummation. I would call it the ultimate foreplay. Mine with Heidegger . . . great as it was . . . was consummated, but it lacked all foreplay. We dove right in. (Beat.) Tell me, why didn’t you destroy the letters earlier . . . without Walter’s prompting?

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g r e t e l : Simple. I kept rereading them . . . a perpetual foreplay in the sense you just described . . . whenever I needed to cope with Teddie’s perpetual unfaithfulness. In a way, I also wanted Teddie to come across them. For once, I wanted him to be jealous of me. Now let’s burn them. h a n n a h : Strange that you want me to be the witness to this literary immolation. g r e t e l : Weren’t you the one claiming that inherent antagonists make reliable witnesses? hannah: You still consider me an antagonist? g r e t e l : No, Hannah, not anymore. Fellow traveler might be a better term. They also make good witnesses. h a n n a h : You are right, especially since I also loved Walter, though in a very different way from you. g r e t e l : Now let’s start before I change my mind. (Places the bucket on the table with the fire extinguisher on the floor.) Let’s alternate . . . each burning a letter at a time. hannah: You want me to participate? Why? g r e t e l : If later on I should have second thoughts, at least someone shared my guilt . . . someone, who also loved him. (Picks up the first letter, but realizes that she has brought no matches.) Just look at me. I brought a fire extinguisher but no matches. But you are a smoker, so you start. (Hands over the letter in her hand, whereupon h a n n a h lights a cigarette and sets the page on fire in the same manner as she had done earlier.) Could you give me a cigarette? I haven’t smoked for ages, but now I have the best reason in the world. (h a n n a h offers her a cigarette and lights it with the burning end of her own, rather than the cigarette lighter lying by her side. Alternating, they start lighting one page after another, always dropping the burning page into the bucket before it is totally burned and immediately taking the next. They

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turn frantic, even possessed. Finding the cigarette burning method too slow, g r e t e l grabs the cigarette lighter and then quickly hands it over to h a n n a h . The lights dim slowly as they continue burning the last letter. gretel sits back, grabs another cigarette, lights it and inhales slowly, while observing the exhaled smoke.) gretel: What a way of getting hooked again on smoking! h a n n a h (takes her half-empty pack and throws it into the bucket): I’ve had it. Never again! (End of scene 7. End of play.)

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