The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (106 page)

Franz made himself especially unpopular by suggesting a regular exorcism. The priest scolded him, the family was dismayed by his medieval views, and for a few weeks his reputation for brutality outweighed his reputation as a boxer.

Meanwhile everything was being tried to relieve my aunt of her condition. She refused food, did not speak, did not sleep; they tried cold water, hot foot-baths, hot and cold compresses, and the doctors searched through their reference works looking for a name for this neurosis, but could not find it.

And my aunt screamed. She went on screaming until my Uncle Franz—really the kindest of men—hit on the idea of setting up a new Christmas tree.

The idea was excellent, but its execution proved to be extremely difficult. By this time it was almost the middle of February, and it is fairly difficult to find an acceptable Christmas tree for sale at that time. The entire business world has long since shifted—with gratifying speed, by the way—to other things. Carnival is approaching: masks and pistols,
cowboy hats and crazy headdresses for Czardas princesses fill the store windows where earlier one had been able to admire angels and angel hair, candles and Nativity scenes. The confectionery stores have long since moved their Christmas items back into their storerooms, whereas carnival crackers now adorn their windows. In any event, Christmas trees are not available at this time of year on the regular market.

Eventually an expedition of rapacious grandchildren was equipped with pocket money and a sharp ax. These young people rode out into the state forest and returned late that afternoon, obviously in the best of moods, with a silver fir. But meanwhile it had been discovered that four dwarfs, six bell-shaped anvils, and the all-surmounting angel had been completely destroyed. The marzipan figures and the cookies had fallen victim to the greedy grandchildren. So this generation too, now growing up, is good for nothing; and if ever a generation has been good for something—which I doubt—I have come to the conclusion that it was the generation of our fathers.

Although there was no lack of cash, or of the necessary contacts, it took another four days to assemble all the accessories. Throughout this time, my aunt screamed incessantly. Telegrams to the German toy centers, which were just beginning to get back on their feet, were sent winging through the ether, urgent long-distance calls were made, express packages were delivered during the night by perspiring young postal assistants, bribery ensured an import license from Czechoslovakia at short notice.

Those days will be remembered in the annals of my uncle’s family as days of an exceptionally high consumption of coffee, cigarettes, and nerves. Meanwhile my aunt was wasting away: her round face became hard and angular, her mild expression gave way to one of unyielding severity, she did not eat, did not drink, she screamed incessantly, was watched over by two nurses, and the dose of Luminal had to be increased every day.

Franz told us that the entire family was in the grip of a pathological tension when at last, on February 12, the Christmas tree decorations were once again complete. The candles were lit, the curtains drawn, my aunt was brought from her sickroom, and among those assembled only sobs and giggles were to be heard. My aunt’s expression began to relax in the light of the candles, and, upon the right degree of warmth being
reached, the little glass fellows started hammering away like crazy, and finally the angel whispered “Peace,” and again, “Peace,” the most beautiful smile lit up my aunt’s face, and almost at once the whole family would strike up “O Christmas Tree!” In order to complete the picture, the priest had also been invited, since he normally spent Christmas Eve at Uncle Franz’s. He too smiled; he too was relieved and joined in the singing.

No test, no psychologist’s expertise, no specialist’s disclosure of hidden traumata, had achieved it, but the sensitive heart of my uncle had hit upon the right thing. The Christmas tree therapy of that kindest of men had saved the situation.

My aunt had calmed down and was almost—it was hoped at the time—cured. After a few carols had been sung, a few dishes of cookies emptied, everyone was tired and withdrew for the night, and lo and behold: my aunt fell asleep without any tranquilizer. The two nurses were dismissed, the doctors shrugged their shoulders, everything seemed to be back to normal. My aunt was eating again, drinking again, was once again gracious and gentle. But the following evening, as the twilight hour approached, my uncle was sitting reading the paper beside his wife next to the tree, when she suddenly touched his arm gently and said, “So now let’s light the candles and call in the children, I think it’s time to begin.” Later my uncle admitted to us that he was startled but that he got up to summon his children and grandchildren as quickly as possible and to send word to the priest. The priest arrived, somewhat out of breath and surprised, but the candles were lit, the dwarfs made to hammer, the angel was made to whisper, carols were sung, cookies were eaten—and everything seemed to be back to normal.

Now, all vegetation is subject to certain biological laws, and fir trees, when uprooted from their soil, are known to have the devastating tendency to drop their needles, especially when they are standing in warm rooms, and at my uncle’s it was always warm. The life span of the silver fir is somewhat longer than that of the common fir, as has been proved in the well-known treatise
Abies vulgaris and abies
nobilis
, by Dr. Hergenring. However, even the life span of the silver fir is not unlimited. With the approach of the carnival season, it became apparent that an attempt must be made to subject my aunt to new distress: the tree was rapidly losing its needles, and during the evening carol singing a slight frown was noticed on my aunt’s forehead. At the advice of a really outstanding psychologist, the attempt was now made to speak, in a casual conversational tone, of a possible end to the Christmas season, especially now that trees were beginning to put forth their leaves, something generally acknowledged to be an indication of approaching spring, whereas in our latitudes the word “Christmas” is unquestionably associated with conceptions of winter. My very astute uncle suggested one evening that everyone join in singing the songs “Hark, the birds have all arrived!” and “Come, Lovely May,” but even at the very first line of the first of those songs my aunt put on such a grim expression that everyone immediately broke off and intoned “O Christmas Tree!” Three days later, my cousin Johannes was instructed to undertake a mild act of spoliation; but no sooner had he reached out and taken the cork hammer from one of the dwarfs than my aunt started screaming so violently that the dwarf was immediately made whole again, the candles were lit, and, somewhat hastily but very loud, the carol “Silent Night” burst forth.

However, the nights were no longer silent. Loudly singing groups of youthful drunkards roamed through the city with trumpets and drums, everything was covered with streamers and confetti, and children in fancy dress filled the streets during the day, shooting, yelling, some of them singing too. According to private statistics there were at least sixty thousand cowboys and forty thousand Czardas princesses in our city. In short, it was carnival time, a feast we are accustomed to celebrate with a vigor equal to if not surpassing that of Christmas. But my aunt seemed to be blind and deaf: she deplored the carnival costumes that inevitably turn up in the clothes closets of our homes during this time; in a sad voice she complained of the decline of morality since people seemed unable, even during Christmastime, to refrain from these immoral goings-on; and when in my cousin’s bedroom she discovered a balloon that, although deflated, still clearly showed a white jester’s cap painted on it, she burst into tears and begged my uncle to put a stop to these unholy goings-on.

To its consternation, the family had to conclude that my aunt actually was under the delusion that it was “Christmas Eve.” At any rate, my uncle called a family conclave, pleaded for forbearance toward his wife, consideration for her strange mental condition, and proceeded to organize another expedition in order at least to ensure the peace of the evening festivities.

While my aunt was asleep, the decorations were removed from the old tree and installed on the new one, and her condition remained gratifying.

But carnival time passed too, and spring really did arrive, and instead of the song “Come, Lovely May,” one could have already sung “Lovely May, thou art now come.” Then it was June. Four Christmas trees had already withered, and none of the more recently consulted doctors could promise any hope of improvement. My aunt was adamant. Even Dr. Bless, regarded as an international authority, had withdrawn with a shrug of his shoulders to his study after collecting his fee of 1,365 marks, thus supplying further evidence of his unworldliness. A few further, rather vague attempts to curtail or discontinue the celebration met with such screams on the part of my aunt that the family had once and for all to desist from such sacrilege.

The terrible part was that my aunt insisted on all those close to her being present. Among these were also the priest and the grandchildren. It was difficult enough to insist that members of the family turn up regularly, but the case of the priest presented still greater difficulties. For a few weeks, out of consideration for his old penitent, he had stuck it out without grumbling, but the time finally came when, with much hemming and hawing, he tried to explain to my uncle that the situation could not continue. Granted the actual ceremony was brief (it lasted some thirty-eight minutes), but in the long run even this brief ritual was becoming insupportable, the priest maintained. He had other obligations: evening gatherings with his confreres, parochial duties, to say nothing of taking confessions on Saturdays. For several weeks he had put up with having to rearrange his schedule, but toward the end
of June he was making vigorous demands for his release. Franz went on the rampage in the family, looking for accomplices to his plan to have his mother placed in an institution, but he was met with rejection on all sides.

In short: problems began to mount. One evening the priest didn’t show up, couldn’t be reached by either telephone or messenger, and it became apparent that his absence was deliberate. My uncle cursed mightily, and he used the occasion to call the servants of the Church names that I must refuse to repeat. As a last resort, one of the curates, a person of humble origin, was asked to help out. He did so but behaved so appallingly that the result was almost a disaster. However, it must be borne in mind that it was June, in other words—hot; nevertheless, the curtains had been drawn shut in order at least to give the impression of winter darkness, and the candles had been lit. Then the ceremony began. Although the curate had already heard of these strange happenings, he could not really imagine them. With a good deal of trepidation, the family introduced the curate to my aunt, explaining that he was substituting for the priest. To their surprise she accepted this change in the program. So: the dwarfs hammered away, the angel whispered, “O Christmas Tree!” was sung, then cookies were eaten, the carol was sung again, and suddenly the curate was seized with uncontrollable laughter. Later he confessed that he hadn’t been able to hear the line “…   in winter too, when snowflakes fall,” without laughing. He exploded with clerical foolishness, left the room, and was not seen again. Everyone looked breathlessly at my aunt, but in a resigned voice she merely said something about “yokels in priest’s clothing,” and popped a piece of marzipan into her mouth. At the time we too deplored the incident, but today I am inclined to call it an outburst of natural mirth.

At this point I must—if I am to do justice to the truth—insert that my uncle exploited his connections with the highest ecclesiastical authorities in order to complain about the priest as well as the curate. The matter was handled with the utmost punctiliousness; an action was brought over neglect of parochial duties and was won by both clerics. An appeal is still under consideration.

Fortunately a retired priest was found who lived in the neighborhood. This charming old gentleman graciously and unhesitatingly agreed to put himself at their disposal and complete the regular evening
ritual. But I am anticipating. My Uncle Franz, who was sensible enough to realize that the situation was beyond any medical aid, and who also obstinately refused to attempt exorcism, was enough of a businessman to take the long view and to work out the most economical method. He began by putting a stop to the grandchildren’s expeditions as early as mid-June, having established that they were costing too much. My ingenious cousin Johannes, who maintains excellent contacts with the business world at all levels, discovered the Fresh Christmas Tree Service provided by Söderbaum’s, an efficient company that for the past two years has deserved high praise for relieving the nervous strain of my relatives. After only six months Söderbaum’s converted the arrangement into an annual contract at a considerably reduced rate. Further, the company undertook to have the delivery dates precisely established by Dr. Alfast, their specialist in evergreen trees, so that now, three days before the old tree becomes unacceptable, the new one arrives and can be decorated at leisure. Furthermore, as a precautionary measure, two dozen dwarfs are kept in stock and three angels held in reserve. To this day, the confectionery has remained a sore point. It has a devastating tendency to melt and drip down from the tree, faster and more radically than melting wax. At least during the summer months. Every attempt to preserve their seasonal crispness by skillfully camouflaged cooling devices has so far failed, as has a series of experiments designed to test the possibility of embalming the tree. Nevertheless, the family is grateful for and open to any innovative suggestion that might reduce the cost of this permanent festivity.

In the meantime, the evening ceremonies at my uncle’s home have acquired an almost professional inflexibility: the family assembles at or around the tree. My aunt comes in, the candles are lit, the dwarfs begin to hammer, and the angel whispers “Peace, peace”; then a few carols are sung, cookies are nibbled, there is some casual conversation, and everyone retires with a yawn and a “Merry Christmas, everyone!”—at which point the young people turn to seasonal diversions while my kindly uncle and Aunt Milla go to bed. Candle smoke remains behind
in the room, together with the mild aroma of heated fir branches and the spicy odor of Christmas cookies. The dwarfs, slightly phosphorescent, stand stiffly in the darkness, their arms raised menacingly, and the angel glows in its silvery robe, which is apparently also phosphorescent.