Understories. Tim Horvath

signs of incipient disease, or lightning scars in the bark.

      The students want to carry him down the streets on their shoulders, chanting “Schöner! Schöner!” with steins in their free hands. He teases them about carving their initials in the trees. “If I ever see yours, I will carve the tree’s own initials in you,” he says, aiming the stick at Gunther, a promising student who everyone knows is lovesick. Gunther asks for a repetition and then he calls out, with moderate confidence, “AB.” The professor nods; a balsam fir. The students know that he adores them and the trees. They know that his family is days away, that he has no car, no wife, and that his life consists of them and arboreal species.

      Their ventures into the woods afford them more time to talk than they would have in an ordinary class or in a laboratory. When they are not bending down to examine an unusual fungus or char marks on the trunk of a tree, they fall into step with one another, and conversation unfurls. Over the semester, he learns whose fathers fought and died in the Great War, whose families’ businesses went belly-up, who studied their plant biology by candlelight after sweeping up the floor in the store beneath their parents’ cramped apartment. And so he gains an intimacy that only the rarest professors achieve so quickly and most never do. Meanwhile, they ask him why he doesn’t have a Fräulein of his own. At first he dodges the question, but they drop hints that some suspect he is a bit of a Fräulein himself, and so he feels perhaps it would be in his best interest to respond.

      “Hans, where can I find a woman who will put up with my long walks? She will wonder where I’ve been all day, whom I’ve been frolicking with. I smell like a peasant. And what will I bring her, a spruce cone for a ring?”

      But what really gets him famous is the way he makes them clamber up trees. It is what he did as a boy, whenever he could. He remembers his arms extending desperately toward the lowermost branches of a beech behind the cottage in which he was born, and then the day he woke up and could reach them, and then the sense years later that the branch he was perched on was about to snap under his own weight. “If you are not willing to climb, how else will you see what is truly in the canopy?” he asks them. Then he turns their stratagem against them. “If you want to be Fräulein, stay down here on the ground. If you want to be scientists, then up and away.”

      They call him ‘Schimmler’ because he has taught them the English word “shimmy,” which he learned at an international conference held in Paris. Paris! He is the first member of his family to travel out of the country, as far as he knows. It is just a play on words and a generic German name. No one has heard of Himmler yet.

      And so he teaches them about forest succession, not out of a textbook, but in the woods themselves, standing in a Lichtung, a clearing, calling upward to Rudolf, asking, “What do you see?” If Rudy fell out, would he lose his position and be forced to take up a broom of his own? Worse, would he be jailed? Possibly, but he doesn’t worry about such contingencies. He chooses trees that are sturdy and broad-branched, oaks of hundreds of years, and he has his dream job and he has hundreds of years himself, he thinks.

      When he says the word succession, he thinks of the royal families of England and France, the border of which is only a few kilometers away. He envisions trees vying for the throne of the canopy, Tudor Firs and Stuart Oaks, and the revolutions of fires and winds that could upend the existing lineages, bringing forth new pretenders and contenders alike. The top of a tree is called a crown. This cannot be coincidence. It signifies, rather, that no matter how rigorous the science, no matter how precisely calibrated one’s instruments, trees are, in the end, regal beings to whom we are obligated to bow.

      It is late September of 1931, and the class is heading back from an eight-hour hike that took them into a favorite stand of oak and yellow beech, a quiet spot a way’s off the notched trail, overlooking a hidden waterfall. He will take them there again in winter to mark the differences. By then they will be different, the students. He will ask them to note the changes, some obvious, others more subtle, in the grove, and then to note the changes in themselves. In the silent vacancy left by the dormant falls, they will seem much more than a couple of months older, and will feel it, too. As for himself, the mustache he has cultivated in order to distinguish himself from his students will have thickened. He will have allowed it to do so in spite of knowing full well that appearance can belie age—a thin tree can be deceptively old, and a thick one, even peeling with shaggy bark, rather young. It’s a favorite lesson, the sort of intuition-defying phenomenon that astonishes them in September, though it might leave them unmoved in December.

      As they are returning from the stand, a mood of mirth permeating the group after a swim at the falls, Max, one of his quieter students, gets his attention.

      “Herr Dr. Schöner?”

      “Yes, Max.”

      “I’m afraid I may have to . . . switch from the class.”

      It is late for a student to leave class except for medical reasons. He is accustomed to students dropping from the roster—many find themselves unprepared for the onslaught of information and the discipline of Latin nomenclature. Others, though they might like the idea of the class, find their tendons and knees aren’t up to the challenge. Still others find that a day of strenuous hiking is no way to nurse a hangover. Of course, those who are cowed by climbing trees have not even signed up for the course, as Schöner’s reputation is already well established by now.

      He has watched Max carefully for the past couple of weeks. He is a superb student, and through quizzes and the first exam, he can see that Max has a knack for it, and he’ll be sad to lose him. He’ll be sadder by far, though, if it has to do with Schöner’s being a Jew. So far, he hasn’t lost any students that he knows of to this fact, but Freiburg has no shortage of anti-Semitism; odds are, he’s lost some he doesn’t even know about.

      So he’s relieved when Max says, “It’s not that I want to cut out this class. It’s just that with the hour earlier, I miss out on Herr Heidegger’s lectures.”

      Now it makes sense. He has asked them to gather at eight rather than nine, so that they can make the most of daylight hours and cover more ground. There has never been a conflict before. But he knows that Heidegger is the university’s true superstar. Winning him from Marburg was a great coup. Students come not only from all over Germany but from throughout the Continent to hear the author of Being and Time hold forth at the podium. Some swear to his greatness and brilliance, while others consider him the biggest sham in the university, a propounder of mystical terms, a spider weaving webs in midair. He’s heard the mockeries, as students parody his jargon—“Dasein yawns in its being-toward-bed”—and scoff at his rustic appearance. He thinks about it for a few minutes.

      Then he turns to Max and says, “How badly do you want to be there for Herr Heidegger?”

      Max curls his lip. “I want to do both. It’s not an insult to your class.”

      “Well, suppose we leave at the original time from now on?”

      “I’d still need to leave his lectures early.”

      “Perhaps I can write a note to Herr Heidegger for you.”

      “That might work,” says Max. “I’m always there for his seminar, and I enter into discussion a lot. I mean, he forces us to. But I feel like he notices that I’m not at all the lectures.”

      Hunched over a magnifying glass the next morning, examining a diseased bit of bark, Schöner receives a knock on his office door. When he says “Come in,” he is surprised by the presence of the striking figure he recognizes immediately as Martin Heidegger. He knows him from faculty meetings, but up close, certain features are accented: the high, barren forehead, hair arching back, the mustache tightly clipped on the upper bank of the lips, and, most of all, the penetrating eyes. His outer garb is that of a peasant, though a tie lurks beneath.

      “Herr Professor Heidegger,” he greets him. “Herr Schöner. What brings you to this part of campus?”

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