North (26 page)

We're coming to the other door . . . their kitchen is wide open . . . the three servant girls come out they're barefoot, with their hair down . . . strapping women, not skinny, oh no, they haven't been fasting . . . their aprons are tied Russian style over their bosoms . . . not very winning, but practical . . . but they laugh at us . . . our chained pastor holding up the beadle and the one-armed noncom and Kracht . . . and especially Le Vig, the look on his face, like he'd fallen from the moon . . . why do they think we're so funny? . . . Kracht asks them, he speaks a bit of Russian . . . they don't know . . . Berlin burning, nothing to them, the Fortresses coming and going, they don't even look . . . but us there, Hjalmar and his pastor on the chain, we're worth looking at . . . all right, all right, they should bring out the chow! the noncom knows his rights, this is his filling station, they should step on it! . . . they bring out a kettle of soup . . . beautiful soup! richer, fattier than the
bibelforschers'
. . . the noncom orders three messkits for us, they plunge them right into the kettle . . . he orders them to bring three chairs . . . not stools! . . . there's five of us . . . what a feed! . . . it's kind of chilly, the soup hits the spot . . . and the bread and coffee . . . I think of Lili . . . I'd meant to bring her something . . . but maybe Marie-Thérèse or the perfidious Frau Kretzer . . . I'm not so sure! I wouldn't expect anything of these women, except some more monkeyshines . . . our heiress with her grand piano . . . and the bitch with the two tunics . . . I look at the church clock . . . the coffee, bread, and soup have had quite an effect on the pastor . . . his face has changed, and his tone . . . no more hymns, now he's singing
lieder
. . . they all come out of the kitchen, three by three, there are six of them . . . and applaud . . . they want more!

O Vater! O Vater!

I've got to admit, he sings all right, just the voice for
lieder
, deep, warm, and eager . . . eager to get where? . . . "O Father! O Father!" The
Erl 
King . . . in a hurry! That's the way they are, they asked for it! . . . Berlin, the V-2 and the rest of it! I could see them galloping, and how!
Vater! O Vater!

"It's better at the
bibels!"

I'm thinking . . . not so simple! I know what their
feldwebel 
wants, he wants cigarettes too! . . . and bad! . . . they all know about the cupboard, they know I've got the key! actually they know everything! . . . not just the cigarettes . . . the number of geese and hens, even the eggs, how many hatching under every hen . . . they could have given us a count of the cigarettes! . . . meanwhile I look around, we're right by the door, at the foot of the stairs . . . we'd go up for a second and apologize . . . then the dance hall, then the
Kolonialwaren
. . . for a jar of synthetic honey . . . we couldn't count on the pastor any more or the housewives . . . but try not to be seen from the bar! . . . they'd spotted us . . . out to get us at the first opportunity! . . . hm, when would that be? the Russians? . . . descending on Zornhof? . . . a "cloud commando"? you couldn't make head or tail of the Wehrmacht communiqués any more except that they were more gloriously resolved than ever to fall back on "positions prepared in advance" . . .

Jugheaded and punch-drunk as we were, we could be pretty sure of seeing our executioners turn up from one minute to the next, from the air or the plain, with all the necessary equipment, baskets, guillotines, bagpipes, and a thousand tambourines, ready to make us do the death jig and juggle our liberated heads! . . . maybe the lacy fluff overhead, the writing from horizon to horizon, was advance notice . . . one thing for sure, the whole place was trembling . . . the water in the lakes and ponds, the trees, every little leaf, the walls of the manor house, and the kitchen door . . . and ourselves in our hefty chairs . . . Maybe it came from farther than Berlin . . . Le Vigan was sure . . . farther north according to him . . . north was the British Army . . . west was Eisenhower . . . could they all have it in for Zornhof? . . . Harras had picked the right place for uplifting our morale . . . and such comforting people . . . the
Rittmeister,
his crippled son, SS Kracht, la Kretzer and her tunics . . . the gracious old bag in her tower . . . and the laconic
bibelforschers
. . . all watching us beyond the slightest doubt, cooking up some kidney punch . . .

There in my chair at the kitchen door I was looking at the one-armed sergeant . . . he was looking at me too . . .

"Aus Paris? aus Paris?"

Where were we from?

"Ja! ja!"

"Schöne frauen da!
. . . pretty girls!"

You can be anywhere in to world . . . under confetti, under bombs, in cellar or stratosphere, prison or embassy, on to equator or in Trondhjem, you'll never go wrong, you'll get a direct response . . . all they want of you is that famous Parisian vagina!
la Parisienne!
your man sees himself wedged between her thighs in epileptic bliss, full nuptial flight, inundating to
barisienne
with his enthusiasm . . . that's how to one-armed sergeant felt . . . he was very sad . . .

"Niemehr wieder!
. . .
niemehr!
never again!"

No more Paris . . . that's what to catastrophe meant to him . . . his arm, spilled milk . . . he'd more or less got used to it . . . what wouldn't go down was to
niemehr Paris
twist! his
niemehr niemehr
were for to Grands Boulevards . . . when Germans get sad it's the same as when they drink . . . they annihilate themselves . . .

"But see here, you'll go back to Paris! . . . Berlin-Paris, hardly an hour! . . . you don't need me to tell you that! . . . and with progress! after to war! . . . one currency, you hop a plane! an hour! . . . no more passports!"

He's perking up.

"You think so? . . . you really think so?"

"But that's what wars are for! . . . progress! . . . no more distance! no more passports!"

Very sure of myself! . . . convincing!

"Na! . . . na! . . . na!"

A vestige of doubt . . . he wags his head . . . his features relax . . . he'll come around pretty soon . . . he'll see himself on Place Saint-Michel . . .

Our Kracht tore, we're getting on his nerves talking about Paris, he's never been in France . . . he wants to speak to me . . . I get up . . . I take a few steps in the direction of our park, as if I were going to get Lili . . . he gets up too . . . he overtakes me . . .

"Doctor! . . . this evening? all settled? in my holster?"

"Ja! ja! . . . sicher!
. . . certainly!"

All very indiscreet, but I don't know what's behind it . . . or where we're at! . . . hell, what can I do? . . .

I go back for Le Vigan . . . a spectacle! . . . Hjalmar has done all right by the vittles, three messkits all by himself . . . but now he's fading away . . . passing out . . . his spiked hat tips . . . his drum rolls down into the gravel . . . he lets go . . . his arms drop . . . he sags like a jumping-jack . . . Le Vig and I watch him sag . . . the pastor is holding him by the chain, or he'd roll in the gravel too . . . with his drum . . . let him roll, hell sleep better . . . an inspiration! . . . Le Vig's got the same idea . . . the key to the handcuff! . . . he's got it on him, on a string around his neck . . . we take it off, very carefully . . . and click! the handcuff! . . . the pastor's free! oh, but he doesn't run away . . . he's dozing off too, with his back to the wall . . . Hjalmar Spikehat is stretched out flat, we look bright with the handcuff, the chain . . . and the key . . . we can't leave this stuff at the kitchen door! suppose Kracht turned around or Inge came down . . . I stuff them in my pocket . . . when they wake up, they'll realize . . .

Now for the cripple! we'd just been putting it off from meal to meal . . . that's enough shillyshallying! up the stairs . . . we'll see . . . this little wooden staircase is very steep, and very dirty . . . all smeared with droppings . . . our stairway, at the manor across the way, is in a different class . . . but the second floor, I've got to admit, looks better . . . very cushy in fact . . . canopies, copper platters, Bohemian crystal, carafes, hassocks, Florentine statues . . . travel souvenirs . . . oh, you wouldn't get much for the stuff at the Auction Rooms or the Flea Market . . . but all pretty nice, Boche Rococo . . . like Faustus's bric-a-brac in Berlin . . . In view of their climate and landscape you've got to forgive the Germans for certain things . . . any old doodad, a glass bead or two brightens the place up . . . but what makes up for everything is their glassed-in porch, the whole width of the house, the whole panorama on the north side . . . they've got a beautiful view, like the old bag from her tower, except theirs takes in the big ponds beyond the plowed fields . . . I was looking at the view, trying to get my bearings . . . no conspicuous landmark. . . only tree-tops, far . . . far in the distance . . . I didn't see the cripple or his wife, but they were right there in the middle of the room, at a card table, laying out cards . . . we'd knocked, they hadn't answered, too deep in their cards . . . if I'd thought a little, I wouldn't have burst in on them like that, at that particular time I should have known they were all looking into the future . . . and not just the von Leidens . . . or the Germans! . . . Moscow . . . London . . . Montmartre . . . how was it going to turn out?. . . on their knees! a vow! . . . the tarots! . . . sign of the Cross! . . . Madame de Thèbes ° or your favorite saint! . . . What future? Deluge or roses? . . .

The two of them, Inge and her cripple, weren't glad to see us . . . mostly, I think, annoyed at being surprised over their cards . . .

"What do you want?"

He fires at me . . . big Nicholas is right next to him . . .

'We've come to apologize for yesterday . . ."

"Apologize for what?"

"We were detained . . . Mademoiselle Marie-Thérèse . . ."

"We didn't wait for you! . . . Go away! . . . get out!"

Inge. . . his wife . . . seems to think he's being a bit rude . . .

"Doctor, don't pay attention! he hasn't slept! . . . he couldn't get to sleep . . . he's been in pain . . . I . . ."

"Oh, Madame, I understand perfectly!"

But the cripple doesn't see it that way . . . not at all!

"No, Inge . . .
nein! . . . nein!
. . .
los! raus!
. . . make them get out!"

She's not listening . . .

"Have you seen my daughter Cillie? . . . she's gone over with milk for your cat . . . and breakfast for your wife and your friend and yourself . . ."

"Bitch . . . why do you keep talking to them? . . . Why? they're saboteurs, can't you see? . . . both of them! . . . all three! . . . do you hear me, you slut? . . . put them out! . . . Nicholas! Nicholas! . . . throw them out! . . . no! take me away!"

Nicholas steps over . . . the cripple grabs him by the neck . . . with both arms . . . Nicholas picks him up very gently . . . takes him out with his stumps dangling . . . through a big curtain . . . must be their bedroom . . .

We're not surprised . . . he can't stand the sight of us . . . like a lot of other people! . . . Montmartre, Bezons, Sartrouville, London, Tegucigalpa, same sentiments! spurned by all! hostages at best! and 'sblood, we still are! . . . suppose they start purging again tomorrow . . . now they're in the habit! it won't be anybody else, it'll be us again! they'll be at each other's throats, ripping each other's guts out to see who's right or wrong, eating the Iron Curtain raw . . . every rage, race, religion, sect, and color . . . on one point they're in perfect agreement . . . that we're to blame and nobody else! for every crime in the book!

Nervous systems, magazines, academies, salons, houses of parliament . . . they all require certain certainties . . .

There with that view of the whole northern horizon, I've told you about it, the cripple and his wife could see pretty well what was what, no need to consult the cards! . . . the clouds, every bit as black as ours in the south . . . maybe a little blacker . . . heavier . . . From behind the curtain the cripple lets out a moan . . . pretty loud . . . what's the trouble? . . . pain? . . . if he does it again I'll ask if I can help . . . no . . . he doesn't . . . we've been on our feet enough . . . we keep our seats . . .

I think of Harras who'd harnassed me to his big idea . . . "The History of Science and Medicine! . . . Franco-German Physicians Down Through the Ages" . . . the stinker! didn't he scram! . . . we'd never see him again! him with his typhus and pox, he should have stayed right here, he'd have all the calamities he needed! . . . no need of records . . . it was written up there in color . . . every color! . . . under and over the clouds, a very accurate picture of the state of Science . . . fulminates, phosphorus, sulphur . . . in the west . . . in the north . . . what army? . . . what hordes? . . . still in the distance . . . yes . . . but for the last four days the smoke had been thicker . . . they must be burning the forests . . .

One thing at any rate, those Krauts there, the von Leidens, and even the Kretzers, wouldn't get a very good rating for having boarded and lodged us, not very well to be sure, but even so . . . there'd be accounts to settle . . . they knew what to expect . . . and they certainly wanted to get rid of us . . . but how? and where to? maybe I'd broach the subject to Inge, she seemed quicker on the uptake . . . not exactly friendly, but not so stupid . . . the husband was a hundred percent hostile, no use trying, a jealous lunatic. . . and these attacksl what was wrong with him? drugs? . . . I'd see . . .

"Madame, we're in your way. . . but do believe me . . ."

I know, I know . . . I understand you perfectly, Doctor . . . you're very unhappy . . . I can see that . . . I'm very unhappy too . . . perhaps . . ."

She doesn't dare to say: unhappier than you! . . . I look at her for the first time . . . to tell the truth, I haven't looked at women for years . . . age no doubt . . . and upheavals . . . when the forest is on fire the horniest and most ferocious animals forget to hump and devour each other . . . our forest had been burning since '39 . . . of course there are exceptions, some people are stimulated, they can't get it up unless somebody's being tortured . . . tongues pulled out by the roots turn their thoughts to love . . . as good as eating turds or drinking out of urinals . . . my talents don't run in that direction . . . but let's take a look at this lady . . . about forty . . . pretty face, in a way . . . sharply delineated features . . . I'd say that Nature had taken pains . . . really finished the portrait . . . Nature takes a lot of pains over our curies . . . our charmers of stage and magazine cover, idiotic and proud of it . . . our models, the envy of the world . . . those faces pieced together out of makeup and false lashes . . . half bar-madame, half dairy-maid . . . I won't speak of the rest, the, body can be a skeleton, or pure blubber, cellulitis, clumps of hair, brassieres . . . waitresses or customers, they've conquered the world! . . . embassies or Pig Alley, if you get around a bit, you'll see the crowds at their heels . . . begging for their favors . . . "sculptured beauties"? Don't make me laugh! . . . hewn with an ax, atrophied bandylegs, wandering buttocks, tits ditto . . . and the men come running!