The Chosen Ones (25 page)

Mr Guido
   And so he was dispatched to Mödling again, just as he was when his foster parents had thrown him out. Only, this time, there was no father who stepped out of the director's cupboard to save him. Only Mr Guido mattered. Guido's view of Mödling, as he put it to Adrian, was that you were there because you deserved to be, that Mödling was something that had grown out of your own head and, if you wanted to be released from there, you first of all had to rid yourself of whatever was in your head. There was nothing else for it. Guido's surname was Peters. In this institution, almost all the staff were men and everything had a military flavour. Clothes must almost be immaculately looked after and time was even set aside for kit maintenance. To get from somewhere to somewhere else, like the dining hall or the gym hall, the boys had to line up and march. When floors were to be scrubbed or toilets cleaned, jobs carried out by teams according to a rota, a foreman-type always came along to force the pace and shout, beat and kick those who were too slow. Guido Peters was one of the worst slave-drivers. When they marched, he walked alongside to keep an eye on everyone, yelling things like
get a move on
and
back straight
and doling out slaps. But later in the day, when it was time for kit cleaning or at bedtime in the
dormitory, he might jokingly grab somebody by the shoulder or say something jolly to show that all that yelling meant no harm after all. His gait was curiously soft and elastic, so you easily missed that he had come to watch you. He told Adrian that he, Guido, had worked with young people for twenty years and knew how they thought and felt. Take yourself, now. I know what you're thinking, Guido said. His round face was somehow rubbery, without a single wrinkle and looked younger than he actually was – which was late forties, maybe, or early fifties. You're thinking that you want to escape from this place, he said. Adrian kept looking at Guido because he didn't dare not to. Relax, Guido said, I'll look after you. People who work here believe that only fear can make boys like you learn to obey but I know what boys need and that's simply someone to trust. I might pick you to be a leader, a
Gruppenführer
, he added. All you've got to do is behave yourself. It was the first time that an adult had ever spoken to him in this way, as if Adrian was not only grown up enough to understand but also as if there was a bond between them. Day in and day out the eyes in that large, rubbery face kept watching him, during the gymnastics lessons, in the dining hall, on their marches across the yard from the auditorium to the dormitory, but Guido showed nothing; on the contrary, he often came along to shout
move on, you lazy arsehole
and slam his whole hand into the back of Adrian's head. But from the day of their talk, he knew that, even if Guido hit him, he wasn't to take it seriously. In fact, slapping was Guido's way of reassuring the others that Adrian wasn't given any special treatment. The trust between them was not affected. Sometimes, when Guido was on night duty, he would patrol the dormitory after lights-out and, although his movements were soundless, Adrian would hear his voice as he stopped occasionally on his strolls between the beds to say something in confidence to one of the boys. And Adrian would
think, please come to me, too, Mr Guido, come to me. Then, one day, it happened. Mr Guido stopped to talk to him. He had brought a whole ration of bread as well. He said that he knew what was on Adrian's mind just then. Girls, right? Guido said. That's what boys think about. Young things with soft breasts and wet little cunts. Right? he said, as he probed underneath the blanket for Adrian's sex and touched it. Adrian, who was lying flat on his back, didn't dare to move a millimetre. I know what boys think about, Guido mumbled while his treacherous hand stroked Adrian's penis from root to glans, until the terrified limb reluctantly stiffened.
Tell me, am I right or am I right?
he mumbled and bent forward, still holding Adrian's penis, to whisper into his ear with warm, moist lips,
don't be afraid, despite your shameless behaviour I'll help you to get out of here. Guido always keeps his promises.
Adrian wriggled uneasily because by now his sex had gone painfully hard and pulsating in response to Guido's insistent rubbing. Guido laughed. I'll make you group leader one day, he said and then let go. It soon became obvious that Guido had several favourites among the boys and one of them, who was called Roman, was especially select. He was blond, blue-eyed and heavily built, with a broad neck and shoulders. Roman's back was always the straightest of all when they lined up and his deep, powerful voice the loudest and most resounding when they sang. Roman was also the first to call out the correct answers to the questions their teacher asked the class. The trouble was that he had instantly identified Adrian as the tinker's lad he was, an alien exiled to the great Mödling community without having done anything to earn his place and, consequently, someone who should be excluded, one way or another. It began imperceptibly with the odd push from behind when they were lining up for a march, or roughing up Adrian's bed when he had finished making it, or hiding one of his shoes just when they were ordered
outside into the exercise yard. The mornings in the washroom were worst, when dozens of legs twisted themselves between his to make him fall to the tiled floor that was slippery with soapy water. Once, they succeeded and when he leapt furiously at the boy closest at hand, Roman immediately put his arm around Adrian's neck and wrestled him back down onto the floor. In that instant, the usually unruly crowd of boys split itself into two groups, one on each side of the two entangled fighters, and rhythmically called out their names, on one side
Roman!
and on the other (laughing madly) the name that had become Adrian's:

tinker! tinker! tinker! tinker!

None of the carers intervened, not even Guido, whose rubber features Adrian had glimpsed clearly, sometimes behind but sometimes in among the wildly yelling but, by now, scared boys who surrounded him. Guido, who was holding a towel and a piece of soap, stepped forward first when two other carers had detached Roman's sweating, terrified body from Adrian's grip. All around them, the echo of the whiplash sound of water from the showers hitting the tiles was overlaid by the shrill screams of fifty-odd boys, a layer of sound that floated on top of the hollow, slapping noise of the water. Guido stared at Adrian as if he realised exactly who he was looking at for the first time. And he shook his head. Do you think you'll get away with it? he said. Do you think tinkers and half-Jews like you end up here by chance? Any idea what they do to Jews nowadays? (He didn't seem to expect answers to his questions.) I'll tell you about Jews, they're turned into soap. He held out the bar of green institutional soap to Adrian. Two hundred and fifty of them, at least, go into a bar this size. Adrian washed himself with it. I'm not a Jew, he said. Guido scrutinised him from top to toe, then knocked several times on his round, hairless skull with his knuckles. I'll help you get
out, he said. His rubber face stretched itself into a large smile. You'll see, you'll get out of here in one piece.

A Degenerate Character
   From that day on, Guido came to him at night. Adrian lay awake, waiting. Mostly, Guido touched him but he would sometimes insist that Adrian would do the same for him and Adrian obeyed as he knew he must to be left alone and finally be allowed to sleep. The beds looked like ships in the bluish, shimmering night-light, all of then sailing off towards the same distant, grey horizon. He imagined himself standing at the bow of one of the large Donau ships that his Uncle Ferenc used to fantasise about captaining. The journey went upstream but, because it was dark, one couldn't see the land towering up on either side of the river, and the further he travelled the more powerfully the currents tugged at the boat's hull until the water grew so violent it felt as if the ship moved backwards and down rather than forwards. He was woken by someone holding his head in a vice-like grip but it was only Guido, whose hot breath swept over the side of Adrian's face while his small hands fumbled underneath the blanket. Adrian was told to
stay completely still
and hold the round, hairless skull with both hands while its lips and teeth were busy nibbling and biting his nipples and then moved on to lick and suck at his penis as if it were an udder. He wanted to push the large head away or, at least, to the side, but Guido shoved a hard, determined finger up Adrian's anus and when he was about to scream, Guido covered his mouth with his other hand and swore at him to shut up. The next morning, it was as if nothing had happened. Guido stood in the changing room, as upright and strict as always, handing out towels and soaps to the boys, and when they lined up, he didn't even glance Adrian's way. Adrian realised of course that this was how Guido wanted it. Clearly, if you wanted to stay in favour,
you had to be prepared to show willing at any time. Adrian tried to look elsewhere, to make his face neutral as if he didn't even know who Guido was. The game of pretence between them went on like this for a few days. Guido apparently loved this game, because when he came back for his night-time visits, he brought substantial gifts, like extra slices of bread and a little package of margarine that Adrian was allowed to spread on the bread, and sometimes also apples and sweets. There was of course a price to be paid for all these delicacies and while Adrian carried on chewing and sucking on all that Guido stuck into his mouth, his body was subjected to every kind of obscure exploration. Some nights, Guido was at it for so long that the hours of the day and night seemed to shift. Even when Guido did not come to his bed, Adrian stayed wide awake and waited all night. During the day, his seat in the schoolroom transformed into a freight barge cleaving the long swells in the shipping channel of the river while, on the upper deck, he was slowly rocked to sleep as he rested on the loose metal hold-covers that had grown warm from the heat of the engine. Because he had at this stage become used to people constantly doing things to his body, he didn't even realise that his teacher had bent over him and was trying to shake him awake. Behind the teacher, there were others, all serious men and women wearing white coats. Doctors and psychologists. They accompanied him back to the dormitory and watched as his bed was given a thorough once-over and his treasure trove discovered: a pillow case full of bits of bread and wrappers of margarine rations. Adrian confessed immediately the source of these offerings. Strangely enough, he was never punished for his confession. The white-clad delegation withdrew after exchanging quick, meaningful glances. That night, and for a few more to follow, Adrian slept almost normally. No Guido loomed into sight. Two days later, there was more upheaval. In the
middle of a lesson, a secretary came into the classroom to call Adrian to the director's office immediately. At this time, Mr Heckermann no longer ran the institution and the new director didn't have a bird-like beak and high, pointy shoulders like a bird's, but the swastika banner was the same and so was the portrait of the Führer that had hung on the wall when the director had walked from his desk to open the door to the magic cupboard at the back of the room. No such miraculous intervention would take place today. Adrian realised this immediately when he entered and saw Guido Peters standing in front of the director's desk. This was another Guido Peters than the man Adrian had come to know. The sunny smile had been wiped off his lower face and his back was as straight as if his lumbar curvature had been hammered flat. His eyes were narrow slits and his lips so firmly pressed together that the saliva sprayed from his mouth when he, gesturing with an index finger that trembled with indignation, gave an account of the
perversities
that Adrian had tried to tempt him into carrying out. Not only had Guido himself been a victim of the youth's lewd acts but Adrian had tried to inveigle other children into sodomy in the shower room. The bits of bread found in Adrian's bed were clearly blackmail payments that this depraved delinquent had received from other boys in return for not telling on them. When Guido had finished, the director turned to Adrian and asked him in a stern voice if there was any truth in what Guido had said. Adrian did not dare to meet Guido's eyes. He looked down at the carpet and shook his head. In that moment, he knew that no one would believe him. The director told Guido to leave and, once the door closed behind him, ordered Adrian to go into the room where the secretary was sitting. Adrian watched as one specialist after another came and went. At one point, there seemed to be as many as four or five of them in the director's office and their voices sounded upset.
Either, he's seriously disturbed or else he's like that himself,
he heard one voice say.
How else could he have put up with it for so long?

The Bleeding Führer
   In the end, he was told to go back into the office. The Führer looked him in the eye but the director did not, so Adrian decided that it was better to stare at his Führer. While the director held forth, Adrian kept his eyes fixed on the Führer and observed how one wound after another opened up on the great commander's face. First, a small wound in his cheek, just below his left eye, and then another one a bit further down, by the cheekbone. And a third one, by the chin. At once, blood started to flow from all of them. His first thought was that Hannes Neubauer had been right all along and that the Führer was actually an air force pilot in disguise. But he changed his mind when it came to him that the Führer was bleeding for him – for Adrian. He carried on watching the face in front of him to see if its expression would change now that the wounds were opening up everywhere. It did not. How could it? Bleeding or not, it was the Führer's unyielding face. The only thing that happened was that the blood ran down over the white institutional wall below the portrait. Outside these walls, the car that was to take him back to Spiegelgrund stood ready and waiting. It delivered him to pavilion 17, section Bu – for
Bildungsunfähige
, for the severely retarded, the unteachables.