Castle to Castle (29 page)

Every station in the world is like that when troop trains are stalled . . . life on earth must have started in a railroad station . . . with stalled troop trains . . . the girls come running . . . of course with my Hilda bitch it was only her feverish puberty, no need of mess kits . . . healthy teenagers . . . the sex appeal of the waiting rooms! . . . the perverse joy of seeing so many males pouring in at once, all sweaty, hairy, stinking . . . by the carload! . . . and every last one of them with a hard-on yelling
lieb! lieb!
. . . the miracle was that Hilda and her gang of teasers weren't nabbed, stripped, and worse by the S.A. guards! . . . the station police in charge of the platforms . . . all they knew how to do was swing rifle butts and billies! big bruisers! twice a day they crumpled everybody in sight. . . When things got out of hand . . . disorder around the kitchens or around the piano, so many people on the tracks that the trains couldn't pull out . . . they were the ones who restored order . . . with their clubs! . . . any back talk?
ping
with their Mausers! . . . portable cannons! quick medicine! When Hilda and her little friends saw the S.A. . . . they cut and ran . . . like does in the forest! . . . and came popping out of the next tunnel! . . . I'll say this much for Hilda, in different times she'd have been married . . . I know . . . she was only sixteen . . . but all the same . . . I'm speaking as a medical man . . . . suppose I were handing out marks from one to twenty . . . even looking hard, you won't find one first-rate girl in a thousand! I mean it! . . . vitality, muscles, lungs, nerves, charm . . . knees, ankles, thighs, grace! . . . I'm difficult, I admit it . . . the tastes of a Grand Duke, an Emir, a breeder of thoroughbreds! . . . okay! we all have our little weaknesses! . . . I wasn't always what I am, a poor crippled, persecuted wreck . . . But I can tell you this . . . the anemic, rachitic, cellulitic . . . ageless and soulless monsters men run after! . . . heavenly day! . . . with cocks aflame, ah yes, my dear! . . . are enough to make the most priapic gibbons cut their balls off with neurasthenic disgust! . . . definitely! . . . Ah, but getting back to Hilda Raumnitz, let's give her a mark . . . conservatively, she'd have rated sixteen out of twenty in our feminine dog show . . . I agree with Poincaré: "If you can't measure a natural phenomenon, it doesn't exist . . ." The same with ladies and their charms, most won't get four out of twenty . . . maximum . . . including beauty-prize winners . . . the esthetic mean . . . ten out of twenty . . . is rare! The knees, the ankles, the tits on them! . . . cushions of fat and flabby meat, slapped on to a few little bones at the last minute! . . . lopsided! . . . Hilda, the little bitch, was one of Nature's surprises . . . absolutely no defects! . . . a well-turned minx, full of spunk! . . . perfect? . . . well anyway sixteen out of twenty! . . . I'm speaking of all this as a veterinarian, a racist so to speak . . . the socio-Proustian terminology of the drawing rooms could easily turn me into a murderer more or less . . . I'm only handing out marks . . . nothing else . . . "Hike up your skirts! Now let's see? What mark?" . . . call it horticulture . . . I don't want to offend you: a flower! Let's try to appraise this flower! . . . the petals! the stem! and give it a mark! We wouldn't want to let Poincaré down! . . . Hilda was also remarkably gifted in bitchery (a secondary feminine characteristic)! . . . ash-blond hair . . . not phony ash-blond . . . the real thing . . . hanging down to her heels! . . . really a beautiful Boche animal . . . and fine knees, fine ankles . . . all very rare . . . rounded thighs, 
tight muscular buttocks . . . face not exactly friendly-affectionate . . . more like a Dürer, like her father . . . anyway not the supercharged servant-girl type, beaming as she sells her butter and eggs . . . that plunges you into a bastard cock-softening gloom . . . her father, the Major, must have been very good-looking . . . Aisha, her mother, was a blowsy odalisque . . . but she had that certain charm . . . I'm very much of a racist, I'm suspicious . . . and the future will bear me out . . . of extravagant crossbreeds . . . but Hilda, I've got to admit, had turned out all right! . . . But how was I going to get that damn kid back to the
Löwen
? . . . I could see the situation was serious! . . . she and her playful friends! . . . elfin delinquents! the whole station was full of them! . . . I could have masked for reinforcements, the military police! . . . I didn't like to . . . I was thinking of my pregnant women around the piano and all over the benches . . . they were only eating, they didn't give a damn about the rest! . . . six months gone! eight months gone! . . . double and triple appetites! sausages,
bier
, goulash! I had none to offer them . . . The M.P.'s would knock them cold! Women from every corner of France, every province! . . . Why had they left? . . . Why had they come to Siegmaringen? . . . informers' village stoolpigeons? . . . small-town whores? or simply factory girls, for the trip? . . . or their men in the L.V.F.? . . . or engaged to Bodies? . . . or post office drudges? Practically all of them had provincial accents . . . North, Massif-Central, Southwest . . . no use asking them questions, they always lied . . . only one truth: their appetite . . . it wasn't the few extra noodles I could get them or the kohlrabi dishwater twice a week that would fill them up! all this bread and goulash was their Providence! . . . I wasn't going to get them arrested . . . Hell, no! . . . I had other things to worry about . . . the scabies, crabs, fleas, lice, and clap they were all passing back and forth! merrily merrily! the station was made to order! . . . In the end I expected to see some new germ crop up . . . a real epidemic . . . some cockeyed little treponema that would thrive in disinfectants! there are times when everything becomes possible! . . . I knew my pregnant women!
two in a bed, thirty or forty to a dormitory, they exchanged everything they had . . . their street was at the upper end of town,
Schlachtgasse
, the former School of Agriculture . . . There again it was my job, my duty to check up . . . on the general state of the ladies' health . . . see if the stinkers were scratching all right . . . I felt pretty silly without sulphur, without mercury, without mess kits! . . . especially the mess kits! nothing but words! . . . I'd have liked to see Hamlet philosophize those pregnant women!
To eat or not to eat!
. . . but to tell the truth, I didn't often find them in, hardly ever! . . . in a way I thanked heaven for the tropism of the station! . . . the attraction of the army chow! . . . the attraction of the piano too . . . Happy in the laps of the chorus . . . and
Lili Marleen!
three, four pregnant women to a man in positions that weren't the least bit chastel learning the best German . . . from
Lili Marleen!
. . . all those soldiers had good voices . . . not a false note . . . choruses in three, four voices . . . the whole buffet and the platforms and the field kitchens . . . "painless childbirth" . . . don't give them anything to eat except a mess kitful during delivery! my patients would gladly have had their babies in the station! . . . In their School of Agriculture I had nothing to offer but noodles! . . . neither did Brinon! . . . nor Raumnitz! . . . nor Pétain! . . . you'll never see soldiers, Kraut, Slovak, Franzose, Russian, Japanese, or Hottentot, refuse a bowl of soup . . . that's the great thing about armies! . . . as long as there were real casernes, you could live off the guardroom . . . the minute reveille sounded, you had all you needed at the door . . . the ragged and needy lined up . . . that's gone and nothing to take its place . . . those really fine customs . . . everything goes, and nothing to take its place . . . nowadays hypocrisy rules . . . they send the poor to eat paper, blanks, and rubber stamps . . . and keep moving! more and more of a hurry! tanks! . . .
Nacht Nebel
kettles . . .

My chorus boys and unmarried mothers, pregnant women and soldiers of every branch, all tenderly enlaced . . . the concerts they treated me to! footsloggers and floozies, engineers and Comitadjis . . . you'll never hear an ensemble like that again! . . . you should have seen that buffet, perfect harmony! and that piano! not a single discordant note! Maxim and the Folies-Bergère are
ersatz
by comparison, ham exhibitionism! two bits a spin! centenarian Venuses! bewigged Romeos, croaking Carusos . . . pitiful . . . nothing compared to what went on in my buffet . . . twenty, thirty trains a day! . . . all Europe in uniform and turgescent . . . and the prisoners! . . . from the East, the West, the North . . . Swiss border . . . Bavaria . . . the Balkans . . .

To tell the truth, a continent without war is bored . . . as soon as the bugles start up, it's a holiday! . . . total vacation! and the blood lust! . . . and those endless trips! . . . armies always on the move! . . . mixing and mingling and traveling some more! until they disintegrate . . . convoys, locomotives,
panzer
trains! . . . armored cars, "male munitions," more and more! you can see that Hilda and her friends had something to wag their tails about! . . . shipment after shipment of "bare feet" . . . fresh meat! . . . I forgot to tell you about the horde of poor "female workers" . . . 200,000 French women in Germany . . . flowing back from Berlin, from all over, from every factory in the country . . . to Siegmaringen! . . . for Pétain to save them! . . . also to eat, naturally! . . . the second they pulled in to the station, they jumped out of the windows . . . you can figure the number of hungry people around the kitchens! the crowd! worse than our lobby in the
Löwen
, worse than the crapper! . . . they peed right on the benches . . . and in the middle of the singing and on top of the pianist! . . . "constraint lolls happiness." I've never seen a musical instrument so flooded as that station piano! . . . and I've seen the pianos of London, mounted on handcarts . . . they were fountains of urine too . . .

Oh, but something else . . . I forgot! . . . that shipment! . . . three trains all jammed with stenographers, office managers, generals in civvies . . . three trains full of the Margotton Mission . , . They kept pulling out and coming back! bound for Constance . . . they'd get as far as the switch! a whistle! here we go! and back again! . . . another siding! . . . forbidden to leave the train! . . . they run for it! barefoot too! . . . they're all over the place! . . . big crevices in their feet! for two months they'd been zigzagging around Germany . . . from bombed roadbeds to wrecked culverts! . . . nobody wanted them anywhere! even raggeder than we were! their eyes popping out still further from what they'd seen and gone through! ten times they'd caught fire! . . . they didn't remember in which zigzag . . . under what tunnel . . . in what province . . . put their train back on the rails themselves . . . mended the roadbed themselves! . . . nobody to help them! . . . to them Siegmaringen was Lourdes! . . . Pétain, Mecca! Miracle Terminus! their eyes bugged even worse! and in every door . . . twenty, thirty faces! . . . they expected Pétain in person . . . to serve them in person . . . the menu that would make up for their sufferings! . . . pheasant, champagne, maraschino ice . . . cigars as big as bananas! . . . But when they saw neither Pétain nor banquet, the lay of the land and no Santa Claus, they flung themselves on the army loaves! . . . the field kitchen and the mess kits . . . in voracious resignation! . . . oh, they didn't want to get back in, to ride in a train again! Straight into the melee, all over the platforms and the buffet, to see who could cadge the most mess kits . . . and the biggest! . . . and all in chorus . . . who could piss furthest . . . and steadiest! pure joy! directors, stenographers, and generals! . . . replete, belching, singing! . . .
Lili Marleen
. . . the song that really created a furor through all the cyclones and destructions of nations . . . all the armies on both sides . . . you can't deny it! you'll tell me that fifteen, twenty songs were more rhythmic, dirtier! sure! . . . but on both sides? . . . in Buchenwald, Key West and Saint-Malo! . . . I've got you there! the world refrain! Incidentally those men from Central Europe practically always had good voices . . . Slovenians, Bulgaro-Czechs, Polacks . . . songs in three, five voices! . . . same for the piano, even if it was the complete urinal . . . pretty near every time there were three, four pianists ready . . . and not bad thumpers! . . . I know what I'm talking about . . . and plain, simple boys . . . peasants, common laborers . . . we in France, our art is the word, applesauce and bull shit . . . the heart isn't in it! . . . a singer is land of embarrassed, unhappy at being forced . . .

Hell, and my story! . . . I'm boring you again! . . . I'm forgetting my pregnant women and my female workers from the trains, and the S.A. order squad . . . and the Margotton Mission! . . . These last were French all right! To the hilt! The way they bitched that the Marshal wasn't there to meet them! and hadn't even sent anybody! They were going to write him a letter! and right away! But first to the kitchens!
primum! primum!
. . . if France perishes, it won't be from Z . . . Q . . . or H-bombs! . . . it will be from
primum
, fill your belly! All the Conquerors will have to do is set up as many field kitchens as square yards on the Place de la Concorde, and wine unlimited . . . the French will rally . . . they'll fall in love! they'll surrender with enthusiasm . . . you won't know where to put them!

Their train was whistling for the Margotton travelers to come back and get in! . . . that they were shoving off! . . . waste of time! . . . they lay down right on the tracks! under the cars! let the train run them over! . . . sabotage! she leaves? she stays? . . . the S.A. bellowing:
los! los!
the train should pull out anyway! the engine drivers hesitate . . . the grandmothers on the rails! . . . I haven't told you about those old women, another sect . . . the "wards" of our town hall . . . yes, yes! ours! the French town hall! This welfare bureau had one function . . . to send them somewhere else to eat! anywhere! the other end of Germany! . . . any train! . . . get rid of them! Haphazard! . . . I saw the mayor with his big map on the wall, all Germany, picking a destination for them, any destination! . . . "Here . . . your billeting order!" . . . Old women with sons someplace . . . L.V.F., Poland, Silesia,
Kriegsmarine
. . . wherever they were sent, they were thrown out! . . . from bombs to sidings they came back . . . you saw them at the station . . . dressed like Boche troopers, in rags taken off corpses . . . anything they found! . . . they'd already run away from France . . . refugees from Drôme, Lozère, Guyenne . . . their houses had been burned and looted clean! . . . I know from my own experience . . . they came back to Pétain every time! . . . for ladies of a certain age Pétain was France . . . my mother too, she died like that, Pétain was France . . . they always came back on foot, barefoot, from some one-horse
Dorf
in Brandenburg, Saxony, Hanover, dressed like soldiers! . . . oh, they didn't want to have anything to do with our Town Hall! . . . No dice! "Hurry, hurry! Take the first train, grandma! Here's your ticket!" That had happened to them four times! . . . ten times! . . .