The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (127 page)

Nothing could be heard but the strange, distant, grinding murmur from the blast furnaces and pits.

The field before him appeared smooth, a treeless meadow without bushes. He headed to the left, but there was no cover that would allow him to reach the road. He hesitated, saw with increasing clarity the motionless line of trees on the dark base of the road, like an endless row of teeth. Fear overwhelmed him again, tugging violently and mockingly at the cloak of his self-composure. He seemed to see the monstrous grin of a bestial mouth stretched across the face of the night. He pushed off from the tree, almost violently, and began to run. The steep meadow seemed to swallow him; he hadn’t realized how abruptly it would fall away.

Suddenly, the heavens seemed to split in two, and the dazzling beam of a searchlight shot out in front of him, as if he had brought it to life. He fell to the ground as if struck by lightning, landing painfully on his chin. His face pressed deep into the bitter, cool damp of the earth while the searchlight sailed back and forth over him like a huge yellow whip. With his face in the soil he failed to hear the sentry’s challenge, then a burst of fire raced like an apocalyptic gurgle across the earth in front of him, the bullets thudding into the ground. He lay there, nailed fast by the murderous light, like a target set on the meadow’s slope. And before the next series of shots ripped through him he screamed, screamed so loudly in his forsakenness that the heavens would surely collapse. He raised his head again and screamed, blinded by the light, before a final burst from the snarling muzzle extinguished his cries.

All was still as his tormentors surrounded him, shining their flashlights on his torn body, which resembled the earth so closely that it might have been the earth itself that bled. “Yes … that’s him,” said an indifferent voice.

Heinrich Perkoning was sixteen years old when, for the first time, he felt like dying. On a gray December day, strolling through the large city he called home, he saw an elderly gentleman he knew follow a bold young prostitute into her house. He was overwhelmed by such infinite pain that he wanted to die. The anguish he felt, which seemed immeasurable, increased with each passing day. He saw so many ugly and evil things, and so few that gave joy to his soul, that he decided to kill himself. He didn’t say a word to anyone. He suffered for a year, and no one sensed his pain. He was often on the verge of confiding in someone he thought he could trust but always recoiled at the merely superficial interest they showed, and he closed his heart.

Now he was walking—on yet another December day—along the bank of a broad river, thinking of only one thing: killing himself, taking his own life. Trembling, he slowly descended the stone steps leading to the water. He paused on the bottom step. The water lapped intimately at the stones, as if in gentle encouragement. He’d planned everything carefully in advance: He would drape his coat loosely around his shoulders and sew it up tightly from the inside, preventing any possible swimming motion. He thought again with a shudder of all those who would suffer at the nature and manner of his death. His mother and father, his siblings, and a few others, friends, one or two young women among them, who thought they loved him. They all passed through his mind, slowly and silently. A scarcely perceptible wave of love and longing rose in him yet could not hold him back. He had struggled far too often against such feelings. And he saw the face of a suffering young priest, whispering to him, “The Son of Man knew not where to lay his head, so forsaken was he, so miserable and forsaken among men. Even his disciples deserted him in his hour of need. Only the power of the Holy Spirit could have given them strength to bear the terrible agony and pain, for the sake of God. And yet the Son of Man still loved them.
He knew how ugly and evil the world was, but he was filled with love for a mankind that had strayed—and gave his life for them, and for you. If you believe in him—as you’ve always claimed—then follow his example and love them all, the bad, those who have lost their way, all those who suffer.” Heinrich trembled violently and groaned: “I can’t bear it!” But a voice within him, more powerful than he had ever heard, roared: “God’s mercy and love flow everywhere; have faith in Him!” And Heinrich turned and ascended the stairs.

He walked along the broad passage beneath the arch of the bridge. Across the street stood a brightly painted wooden pavilion surrounded by shrubs and small trees, a disreputable café. Heinrich reached in his pocket, counted his money, and crossed the street. He entered the grimy place and sat down wordlessly in one of several booths surrounding a small dance floor. An aged, slovenly waitress brought the coffee he ordered. The walls were decorated with stylized red nudes. Lecherous men of various ages sat about with prostitutes. A pretty young girl around seventeen years old, dressed like a prostitute, sat down beside him. She smiled strangely as he waved her away with a tired gesture. Heinrich took out the New Testament he always carried and began to read. The young woman’s eyes were so striking he trembled in confusion. He tried to concentrate on the text, but kept glancing into her smiling eyes, which were staring fixedly at him. She propped her elbows on the table and put her chin in her hands. Her brown hair was soft and thick, her face clever and charming, her eyes pure and beautiful, almost childlike. At first Heinrich viewed her with mistrust, but with each glance he grew more surprised. Her large, dark eyes were filled with sorrow; they were pure like those of a child, and sad like those of … But she’s a prostitute all the same, he thought, she’s trying to seduce me, I must be wrong, she’s no good. He returned to his reading. Still, he felt compelled to keep looking up, until, no longer able to bear the terrible uncertainty, he asked in a harsh, brusque voice: “What are you doing here?” She seemed to have been waiting for this question. She loosened a chain with a crucifix from her neck and said in a firm, clear voice, pointing to the cross: “I come in the name of this sign.”

Heinrich looked down and blushed in confusion. “I don’t really understand, but I believe you.” The young woman smiled gently and continued: “Let me explain; it’s really quite simple. I’ve taken a job in
this … place … as a prostitute—you know about such things—on a rescue mission. I want to save people, and since I don’t think I’m strong enough to battle with lecherous older men, I’m trying to save the young ones. There are countless young men on the verge of ruin. You’re not the first I’ve approached under the mask of sin, but of those I’ve joined, you’re the first who didn’t need my help.” Heinrich gazed at her speechlessly, as if he couldn’t believe his ears. Beneath his almost enraptured gaze, she turned serious and her smile faltered. Now that the sadness in her eyes was no longer muted by her smile, he could see clearly into the bottomless depths of sorrow in her soul.

He wanted to ask if she’d saved anyone yet, but was ashamed to demand an accounting, and waited for her to continue. She sat in mystical beauty, leaning forward slightly, with the suffering visage of an apocalyptic angel. Heinrich could tell that something strange and unexpected was taking place inside her, and in a powerful new rush of shame he covered his face with his hands. All at once he loved this young woman. She continued, her voice now trembling with excitement: “I actually managed to save one of them. He came stumbling in the first week I was here. I could tell he wasn’t drunk, but simply weak from hunger. He was as pale as death, his black hair unkempt, and yet he lived. He sat down and shouted almost madly for a woman. I took his arm and led him to my room to save him from scorn, for I could see he was practically insane with misery. I gave him something to eat and let him tell his story. Then he fell asleep.

“I sat beside him for a long time, making sure no one disturbed him. When he awoke he demanded something of me, but fell silent at my look. Then I spoke to him. He was as stunned as a heathen by what I told him. He left early that morning. He visited me often, wanting to hear more about Christ. He hasn’t been here for the past four months. He’s ashamed of something. I felt it the last time he was here. He wanted to tell me something, but was too ashamed. I know his name, but not his address. I’d like to visit him.”

When she finished speaking, she seemed to collapse, sinking down on the table and covering her face with both hands, weeping. Heinrich bent over her. The pain of his love was forgotten; he wanted only to help. “I’ll find him, I promise, I … I …” She straightened up and looked at him with a burning, tear-filled gaze. “I think you … you … may
have misunderstood me …” She looked at him so strangely that he suddenly knew with utmost clarity that she loved him, not the runaway he had offered to find. He bent down to the weeping girl and whispered: “Don’t cry, be happy; help me celebrate the new life I’ve been granted. I’ll serve you, I’ll love you more than life itself, please don’t cry. We’ll leave this squalor and begin a Christian life of poverty. We …” He felt such joy that words failed him. Language, the most awkward of human mediators, was incapable of expressing what his soul felt. He sank down and kissed the girl’s hands. She trembled with joy as he lifted her up and took her in his arms.

That same evening Susanne left her “job.” Heinrich sought a place for her to live in the city. She rented a small, clean room where they sat late into the night gazing at each other, but speaking little. They decided to visit Benedikt Tauster, the only person Susanne had managed to save in the torment of her stay at the brothel. Benedikt Tauster was eighteen years old when he first drew public attention. He wrote the infamous essay “Was Napoleon an Erotic Genius as Well?!” subtitled “Meditations on the Well-Known Charmer from Corsica.” Even the exclamation mark after the question enraged some readers, although their rage no longer boiled but had now been distilled as steam. Heinrich heard about Benedikt Tauster from one of those readers who had disliked the article. He read his essay and found that its scorn and mockery were directed with almost satanic intelligence against the present situation, for although the text discussed Napoleon’s erotic life, it dealt primarily with the contemporary world. The political and social parallels were often so clever that Heinrich laughed till he cried. What impressed him most, however, was the fervent tone that permeated the essay, a wild, intense rapture, which fascinated precisely because it was coupled with irony. The tract concluded like a child apologizing for some naughty deed: “It’s too bad that I, Benedikt Tauster, am such a hopeless cripple.”

Heinrich discovered Benedikt’s whereabouts indirectly, by way of a famous man of letters who had a reputation as a brilliant literary critic. This man had once stated, “Dostoyevsky’s greatness lies in the fact that he was a truly gifted disciple of Goethe.” As a result of this pronouncement, three shots were fired at his laurel-laden head.
Heinrich learned about him through a prison guard. While paying a pedagogical visit to the man who had made the attempt on his estimable life, the critic whispered in the prison guard’s ear: “Unless I’m greatly mistaken—and I doubt that I am—you’ll probably be seeing this fellow Benedikt Tauster before long, too.” The prison guard, who knew Heinrich, told him about Benedikt Tauster, since he knew that Heinrich had “literary” interests.

Heinrich found Benedikt living in a run-down garret in a bad part of town. He was tall and very thin, with a pale, tormented face. When Heinrich introduced himself as Susanne’s fiancé and said they had been looking for him, Benedikt regarded him silently for some time. Then, in a quiet but congenial tone, he said: “So we’re friends.” Heinrich nodded, and their friendship began. They sat silently for some time, smoking. Then Benedikt looked up and said quietly: “You believe in Christ.” Heinrich said: “Yes,” although it had not been put as a question. “You’ve surely read my essay on Napoleon. You know, those swine, those constipated penmen, simply left out the opening. I began: ‘May God forgive me if my essay is unworthy. I wrote it in anger at those who make a mockery of His name, yet call themselves Christians.’ And they left that out.” He looked at Heinrich with flashing eyes.

Benedikt stood and paced the room in thought for some time, then finally came to a stop before Heinrich and said: “I’d like to ask you something.” He paused and seemed to be considering whether or not to continue. “In six months a young woman you’ll soon meet will bear my child. I met her in a pawnshop. I’d gone there early in the morning, to pawn the only thing I had of value, my watch, because I hadn’t eaten for days. I passed it across the counter, the watch was appraised, everything was fine, I was to receive five marks. Then the man asked to see my papers … Embarrassed, I stammered that I didn’t have any. He passed the watch back to me and I was about to leave shamefaced when I heard the clear voice of a young woman behind me: ‘I’ll vouch for the gentleman; here’s my identity card.’

“I turned in surprise and looked at her as she handed him her card. She was about my height, with dark hair and a pale face. She regarded me with serious, dark eyes. The man returned her card: ‘In the first place you can’t offer security for someone else, and secondly you’re not an adult yourself, so I can’t take your things either.’

“I took her arm and accompanied her home. I was astonished at how naturally everything came to me. I’d never escorted a young woman before. We talked and talked, and were friends at once. I didn’t fall in love with her; I simply loved her. As we walked we even cheered up and joked about how hungry we were. But for the most part she walked silently beside me, in melancholy sadness. Only occasionally did she show a spark of joy, saying something with a smile. Her smile was charming, the bright, full-blooded smile of a young woman. We said goodbye on a street corner. I told her where I lived and invited her to come see me. She said nothing, but came that very evening.

“When she arrived, I went straight to her and kissed her. She smiled again. She dropped by every evening, and we would sit and talk. First we recounted our lives, then talked about everything, about God, art, politics—it was wonderful listening to her clever words. And then we prayed together. We revered the good thief crucified at Christ’s side, who joined him that very day in paradise.