The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (107 page)

It may be superfluous to remark that the whole family’s pleasure in the real Christmas festivities has been greatly diminished. We can, if we so wish, admire a traditional Christmas tree at any time in our uncle’s home—and it often happens, when we are sitting on the veranda on a summer evening, after the labors of the day, imbibing Uncle’s mild orange punch, that the tinkling of glass bells comes from within, and in the dusk the dwarfs are to be seen hammering away like nimble little devils, while the angel whispers “Peace,” and again, “Peace.” And we are still taken aback when, in the middle of summer, my uncle suddenly calls out to his children: “Light the tree, please, Mother will be here any minute.” At that point, usually right on time, the prelate arrives, a mild old gentleman whom we have all taken to our hearts because he plays his part so beautifully, assuming he even knows he is playing a part and which part. But never mind: he plays it, white-haired, smiling, and the patch of purple below his collar lends the last touch of refinement to his personality. And it is an unusual experience to hear, on warm summer nights, the anxious cry “The candle snuffer—quick, where’s the candle snuffer?” It has happened more than once that, during a violent thunderstorm, the dwarfs suddenly felt impelled, without the effect of heat, to raise their arms and swing them wildly, thus providing a kind of unscheduled concert, a fact that the family tried to explain, without much imagination, by the dry word “electricity.”

One not wholly inconsiderable aspect of this arrangement is the financial one. Even though, generally speaking, our family is not strapped for cash, such extraordinary expenditures upset all calculations. For, despite every precaution, the wear and tear on dwarfs, anvils, and hammers is, of course, enormous; and the sensitive mechanism enabling the angel to speak requires constant care and maintenance and must from time to time be replaced. Incidentally, I have meanwhile discovered the secret: the angel is connected by a cable to a microphone in the next room, and in front of the mike there is a constantly rotating phonograph record that whispers at intervals “Peace,” and again, “Peace.” All these items are especially costly in that they are designed
for use on only a few days in the year but now have to stand up to hard wear all year round. I was amazed when my uncle told me one day that the dwarfs had actually to be renewed every three months and that a complete set cost no less than a hundred and twenty-eight marks. He had asked an engineer friend of his to reinforce them with a latex coating but without impairing the beauty of their sound. This attempt failed. The consumption of candles, spekulatius, and marzipan, the tree contract, medical bills, and the token of appreciation due every month to the prelate: all that, said my uncle, amounts to a daily average of eleven marks, not to mention the wear and tear on his nerves and other impairments to his health that were then beginning to make themselves felt. But that was in the fall, and these deleterious effects were ascribed to a certain autumnal sensitivity, a matter of quite common observation.

The actual Christmas celebrations went off normally. Something like a sigh of relief went through my uncle’s family now that other families were to be seen gathered around Christmas trees, other families had also to sing and eat spekulatius. But the relief lasted only for the duration of the Christmas season. As early as mid-January my cousin Lucie was afflicted by a strange malady: at the sight of the Christmas trees lying around on streets and garbage piles, she would burst into hysterical sobbing. This was followed by a regular attack of madness, which the family tried to pass off as a nervous breakdown. When a friend with whom she was having afternoon coffee smilingly offered her some spekulatius, she knocked the plate out of her hand. It is true, of course, that my cousin is what is known as a temperamental woman; so she knocked the plate out of her friend’s hand, walked over to the Christmas tree, ripped it from its stand, and trampled on the glass baubles, artificial mushrooms, candles, and stars, a continuous howl issuing from her lips. The assembled ladies fled, including the hostess, and Lucie was left to rampage while they waited in the hall for the doctor, listening perforce to china being smashed inside the room. I find it difficult, but I must report here that Lucie was taken away in a straitjacket.

Although repeated hypnotic treatments arrested the malady, the actual cure progressed very slowly. Above all, the release from the evening ceremony, on which the doctor insisted, seemed to have a noticeably beneficial effect; after only a few days she began to thrive. After only ten days the doctor could risk at least mentioning spekulatius, but she obstinately refused to eat any. The doctor hit on the brilliant idea of feeding her pickles, offering her salads and hearty meat dishes. That was really poor Lucie’s salvation. She laughed again, and she began to spice the endless therapeutic conversations with her doctor by adding ironic comments.

Although the gap caused by Lucie’s absence from the evening ceremony was painful for my aunt, it was explained by a circumstance that can be accepted as a valid excuse for all women—pregnancy.

But Lucie had created what is called a precedent: she had proved that, although our aunt suffered when someone was absent, she did not start screaming right away, and my cousin Johannes and his brother-in-law Karl now tried to break out of the strict discipline by pleading illness or business commitments, or offering other more or less transparent reasons. But here my uncle was surprisingly adamant: with relentless severity he stipulated that only in exceptional cases could doctors’ certificates be submitted and the briefest of dispensations applied for. My aunt immediately noticed any additional gap and would break into quiet but persistent weeping, giving rise to the most ominous concern.

After a month, Lucie returned and expressed her willingness to rejoin the daily ritual, but her doctor has insisted that a jar of pickles and a plate of hearty sandwiches be kept in readiness for her, her spekulatius trauma having proved to be incurable. Thus for a while all disciplinary problems were resolved by my uncle, who on this point turned out to be surprisingly adamant.

Soon after the first anniversary of the perpetual Christmas celebration, disturbing rumors began to circulate: my cousin Johannes was said to have obtained an expert opinion from a medical friend as to the foreseeable life span of my aunt—a truly sinister rumor that threw a disquieting
light on a peaceful daily family gathering. The expert opinion was said to have been devastating for Johannes. All the vital organs of my aunt, whose life has been a model of sobriety, are completely intact; the life span of her father extended over seventy-eight years, that of her mother over eighty-six. My aunt herself is sixty-two, and there is therefore no reason to prophesy an early and blessed demise for her. Even less, in my opinion, to wish it for her. So when my aunt fell ill during the summer—vomiting and diarrhea plagued the poor woman—there were whisperings that she had been poisoned; but let me expressly declare that this rumor is nothing but a figment on the part of evil-minded relatives. It has been proved beyond a doubt that she suffered from an infection brought in by a grandson. Analyses of my aunt’s feces showed not even the slightest trace of poison.

That same summer the first antisocial tendencies showed up in Johannes: he resigned from his choral society, declaring, in writing, that he no longer intended to devote himself to the cultivation of German songs. It is true, of course—if I may interject this here—that, despite his academic degree, he was an uncultured person. For the male choir Virhymnia, being deprived of his bass voice was a great loss.

Lucie’s husband, Karl, began secretly to get in touch with emigration offices. The land of his dreams had to have certain qualities: no fir trees must grow there, and their import must be prohibited or made impossible by high tariffs; furthermore—this for his wife’s sake—the secret of baking spekulatius must be unknown there and the singing of Christmas carols prohibited. Karl declared his willingness to accept hard manual labor.

Meanwhile his attempts have been released from the curse of secrecy because my uncle has undergone a complete and abrupt change. This took place on such a disagreeable level that we had every reason to be shocked. That respectable man, of whom I can only say that he is as stubborn as he is kind, was observed on paths that are unquestionably immoral and will remain so as long as the world continues to exist. Various things have become known about him, and attested to by witnesses, to which only the word “adultery” can be applied. And the most terrible part about it is that he no longer denies it but claims that he is living under circumstances and conditions that must justify exceptional moral standards. Awkwardly enough, this sudden change
came to light at the very time when the appeal against the two clerics of his parish was due to be heard. As a witness, as a crypto-plaintiff, Uncle Franz must have made such an unprepossessing impression that he can be considered solely to blame for the fact that the appeal turned out in favor of the two clerics. But by this time all such things have ceased to interest Uncle Franz: the moral disintegration of Uncle Franz is complete, a
fait accompli
.

He was also the first to hit upon the idea of having an actor represent him at the evening ritual. He had dug up an unemployed bon vivant who imitated him for two weeks so perfectly that not even his wife was aware of the substitution. His children were not aware of it either. It was one of the grandsons who, during a short pause in the singing, suddenly called out, “Grandpa’s wearing striped socks!,” at the same time triumphantly raising the bon vivant’s trouser leg. For the poor artist, this scene must have been terrible. The family too were aghast, and, in order to avert a disaster, they immediately—as already so often in embarrassing situations—struck up a carol. After my aunt had gone to bed, the identity of the artist was quickly established. It was the signal for an almost total collapse.

Still, one must bear in mind that eighteen months is a long time, and that midsummer had arrived again, the season in which my relatives find it hardest to participate in this charade. Listlessly they nibble in the heat at cinnamon stars and gingerbread, smiling fixedly while they crack dry nuts, listening to the tirelessly hammering dwarfs, and flinching when the red-cheeked angel whispers “Peace” above their heads, “Peace.” But they carry on while, despite their summer clothing, the perspiration runs down their necks and cheeks and their shirts stick to their bodies. Or, rather, they used to carry on.

For the time being, money is no object—on the contrary, one might say. Now there are whispers that Uncle Franz has been resorting to business methods that virtually no longer permit the description “Christian businessman.” He is determined not to allow any appreciable diminution of his fortune, a commitment that both reassures and alarms us.

The unmasking of the bon vivant led to a regular mutiny, the result of which was a compromise: Uncle Franz has undertaken to finance a small ensemble to replace himself, Johannes, my brother-in-law Karl, and Lucie; and an agreement has been reached whereby one of the four takes part in the evening ritual in person, in order to keep an eye on the children. So far the prelate has been quite unaware of this fraud, to which one can by no means apply the adjective “pious.” Apart from my aunt and the children, he is the only original character in this charade.

A detailed plan has been worked out, known in the family as the “game plan”; and in view of the fact that one of them always does take part, the actors are also assured of certain free days. Meanwhile the family has noticed that the actors are not at all averse to lending themselves to the ritual and are happy to earn some extra money; consequently their fees have been successfully reduced, there being fortunately no lack of out-of-work actors. Karl has told me that there is a good chance of further reducing this item, and quite considerably, especially since the actors are offered a meal, and, as everybody knows, art doesn’t put bread on the table.

I have already hinted at the disastrous trend taking place in Lucie: she now spends almost all her time gadding about in night spots, and, especially on days when she has been forced to take part in the ceremony at home, she throws all restraint to the winds. She wears cords, gaudy sweaters, runs around in sandals, and has cut off her glorious hair in favor of a plain square-cut style which, I now learn, has been in vogue more than once as “bangs.” Although I have not yet been able to observe any overt immorality on her part, merely a certain exaltation that she herself calls “existentialism,” I cannot see my way toward regarding this trend as desirable. I prefer women who are gentle, who move decorously to the rhythm of a waltz, who quote pleasant poetry, and whose diet does not consist exclusively of pickles and goulash over-spiced with paprika. Karl’s emigration plans seem to be crystallizing: he has discovered a country, not far from the equator, that promises to live up to his conditions, and Lucie is thrilled: in that country people wear
clothes not unlike her own, love pungent spices, and dance to rhythms without which she maintains she is no longer able to live. Although it is somewhat shocking that this couple do not seem to cherish the idea of “Home, sweet home,” I can understand their desire to get away from it all.

The situation with Johannes is even worse. Unfortunately the nasty rumor has turned out to be true: he has become a Communist. He has broken off all connection with his family, ignores all his obligations, and attends the evening ritual only by proxy: that of his double. His eyes have acquired a fanatical expression; he acts like a dervish at the public functions of his party, neglects his practice, and writes furious articles in appropriate journals. Strangely enough, he now quite often sees Franz, who tries vainly to convert him and whom he tries just as vainly to convert. Despite all spiritual alienation, they have grown somewhat closer on a personal level.

As for Franz, I have not seen him for a long time, only heard of him. He is said to have fallen into a deep depression, spending hours in dim churches, and I believe one is justified in describing his piety as exaggerated. He began to neglect his profession after his family became engulfed in its troubles; and just the other day I saw on the wall of a demolished building a faded poster announcing “Last fight of ex-champion Lenz vs. Lecoq. Lenz retiring from the ring.” The poster was dated March, and we are now well into August. Franz is said to be in very poor shape. I believe he finds himself in a situation never before experienced in our family: he is poor. Fortunately he has remained single, so the social consequences of his irresponsible piety affect only himself. With amazing persistence he has been trying to arrange for Lucie’s children to be placed under protective guardianship, believing as he does that they are threatened by the evening ritual. But his efforts have been in vain: we can be thankful that the children of well-to-do couples are not exposed to the interference of social institutions.