Konrad and Alexandra (pdf) - Rolf Gross

Konrad's Watch
Moscow, 1969
A heavy downpour drove me into a prominent shop on Moscow’s October Square.
People crowded at the glass display cases behind which robust salesladies dawdled in
socialist apathy. A big English sign said, "Russian Antiques"—a high-brow pawnshop!
A motley array of old and new bric-a-brac filled the shelves, samovars, pots and pans,
Russian lacquer boxes, second-hand clothing, art-nouveau bronzes, a life-sized statue of a
Negro assembled from variously colored marble.
The people stared at the foreigner.
I had no intention of buying anything.
In the back of the store I found a wall covered with amateur paintings: a young woman
reading on the verandah of a dacha, flower arrangements, a stand of white birches, a leaning
peasant hut at the edge of a meadow. A melancholy painting of dappled sunspots under trees,
through which one saw the blue of the sea, brought back long-forgotten memories of the
summers of my childhood on the shores of the languid Baltic Sea, where the shady beech
woods reach to the water’s edge, and one could hear time sigh. This unexpected discovery
became excuse for spending half an hour in the chaotic place.
I was about to leave when my gaze was caught by an antique silver fob-watch lying in a
locked glass case among enameled brooches, amber necklaces, and old jewelry. I don’t know
why this watch attracted my attention. I am not a collector of antique timepieces.
I bent over the case and one of the buxom sales ladies descended upon me. Uncertain,
I asked her to show me the watch. She placed it on a black velveteen cushion. I knew she
would not let me handle it. The watch carried the markings of a renowned Swiss manufacturer.
A lid covered its dial, another its back. In place of a crown it had an ear for a chain. The key to
wind it was missing.The saleslady pressed a pin, and with a click the lid sprang open exposing
an inscription in large, curlicue, German letters:
I stared at the inscription—my grandfather’s name.
Vertigo overcame me, I grasped the counter. The sales lady darted from behind the
table and offered me a chair. "Are you all right? It is terrible how many men die of heart attacks
these days."
The room began to turn, time collapsed. A string of long-suppressed memories ran
through my dizzy mind.
In Mid May 1945 we had fled from the advancing Soviet troops. Father, Mother, and my
three siblings. We walked or hitched rides on the pony carts of the retreating German army.
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