The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (18 page)

Would he have to tell the nurse where his father was and where Hubert went at night? They hadn’t asked him, and it was better not to answer unless you were asked. They’d told him in school … damn those Luxembourgers … and the kids … the Luxembourgers ought to stop shooting; he had to get to the kids … they must be crazy, completely out of their minds, those Luxembourgers. Hell, no, he wasn’t going to tell the nurse where their father was and where their brother went at night, and maybe the kids would take some of the bread after all … or some of the potatoes … or maybe Frau Grossmann would notice there was something wrong: for there was something wrong; it was funny, there was always something wrong. The principal would bawl him out at school too. The injection had been wonderful, he could feel the prick, and suddenly there was that bliss! That pale-faced nurse had filled the needle with bliss, and he’d heard them all right; he’d heard that she had filled the needle with too much bliss, much too much bliss, he was no
fool. Grini with two i’s … nonsense, he’s dead … no, missing. This bliss was glorious, one day he’d buy the bliss in the needle for the kids; you could buy anything … bread … whole mountains of bread …

Hell, with two i’s, don’t these people know a good German name when they hear it …?

“None,” he shouted suddenly, “I was never baptized!”

Maybe their mother was still alive after all? No, the Luxembourgers had shot her; no, the Russians … no, who knows, maybe the Nazis had shot her, she had got so terribly mad at them … no, the Yanks … for God’s sake, what did it matter if the kids ate the bread, ate the bread … a whole mountain of bread, that’s what he’d buy the kids … bread piled up to the sky … a whole boxcar full of bread … full of anthracite; and bliss in the needle.

With two i’s, damn it!

The nun hurried over to him, felt at once for his pulse, and looked round in alarm. Dear God, ought she to call the doctor? But she couldn’t leave the delirious child alone now. The little Schranz girl was dead, gone, thank God, that child with the Russian face! Why didn’t the doctor come. She ran round behind the leather couch …

“None,” shouted the child, “I was never baptized!”

His pulse was getting wilder and wilder every moment. Sweat stood out on the nun’s forehead. “Doctor, doctor!” she called, but she knew quite well that no sound penetrated the padded door.

The child was now whimpering pitifully.

“Bread … a whole mountain of bread for the kids … chocolate … anthracite … the Luxembourgers, those swine, they oughtn’t to shoot, damn it, the potatoes, sure you can take some of the potatoes … go ahead, take some! Frau Grossmann … Father … Mother … Hubert … through the crack in the door, through the crack in the door.”

The nun was weeping with anguish; she dared not leave. The child was beginning to thrash about and she held on to him by the shoulders. The leather couch was so horribly slippery. The little Schranz girl was dead, that little heart was in Heaven. God have mercy on her; dear God, mercy … she was innocent, a little angel, an ugly little Russian angel … but now she was pretty …

“None,” shouted the boy, trying to flail around with his arms. “I was never baptized!”

The nun looked up in dismay. She ran to the sink, keeping an anxious eye on the boy, but there was no glass; she ran back, stroked the feverish forehead. Then she went over to the little white table and picked up a test tube. The test tube was soon full, it doesn’t take much water to fill a test tube …

“Bliss,” whispered the child, “fill the needle with lots of bliss, all you’ve got, for the kids too …”

The nun crossed herself solemnly, deliberately, then sprinkled the water from the test tube over the boy’s forehead, saying through her tears, “I baptize thee …” But the boy, suddenly sobered by the cold water, jerked up his head so violently that the tube fell from the nun’s hand and smashed on the floor. The boy looked at the startled nun with a little smile and said feebly, “Baptize … yes …” Then he dropped back so abruptly that his head fell on the leather couch with a dull thud, and now his face looked narrow and old, frighteningly yellow, as he lay there motionless, his fingers spread to grasp …

“Has he been X-rayed yet?” cried the doctor, chuckling as he came into the room with Dr. Lohmeyer. The nun merely shook her head. The doctor stepped closer, felt automatically for his stethoscope, but dropped it and looked at Lohmeyer. Lohmeyer removed his hat. Lohengrin was dead …

My black marketeer is an honest citizen these days; it was a long time since I had seen him, months in fact, and today I came across him in quite a different part of the city, at a busy intersection. He has a wooden booth there now, all done up in the best white paint; a handsome corrugated iron roof, solid and brand-new, shields him from rain and cold, and he sells cigarettes and all-day suckers, quite legally. At first I was pleased; it is always nice, after all, to see someone find his way back to normal life. For when we first met, things were going badly for him, and we were depressed. We still went around in our old army caps, and whenever I came by some cash I used to go and see him, and we would have a chat, about being hungry, about the war; and now and again, when I didn’t have any money, he would give me a cigarette, or I would take along some bread-ration coupons, as I happened to be clearing rubble for a baker at the time.

He seemed to be doing all right now. He looked the picture of health. His cheeks had that firmness that comes only from a regular intake of fats, his expression was self-confident, and I watched him bawl out a grubby little girl and send her packing because she was short five pfennigs for an all-day sucker. And all the time he kept feeling around in his mouth with his tongue as if he were forever trying to pry shreds of meat from between his teeth.

Business was brisk; they were buying a lot of cigarettes from him, and all-day suckers as well.

Maybe I shouldn’t have—I went up to him and said, “Ernst,” intending to have a word with him.

He was very surprised, gave me an odd look, and said, “What’s that?” I could see he recognized me but that he wasn’t too keen on being recognized.

I was silent. I behaved as if I had never said “Ernst” to him, bought some cigarettes, since I happened to have some cash, and left. I watched
him a while longer; my streetcar wasn’t in sight yet, and I didn’t feel in the least like going home. At home I’m always being pestered by people wanting money—my landlady asking for the rent, and the man with the electricity bill. Besides, I’m not allowed to smoke at home; my landlady always manages to smell it, she gets mad and I’m told that I seem to have money for tobacco but none for the rent. It’s a sin, you see, for the poor to smoke or drink. I know it’s a sin, that’s why I do it secretly, I smoke outdoors, and just occasionally when I’m lying awake and everything is quiet, when I know that by morning the smell will have disappeared, then I smoke in my room too.

The terrible thing is that I have no profession. For you have to have a profession. That’s what they tell you. There was a time when they used to say it was unnecessary, all we needed was soldiers. But now they say you have to have a profession. Just like that. They say you are lazy when you don’t have a profession. But that’s not so. I’m not lazy, but the jobs they give me are jobs I don’t want to do. Clearing rubble and carrying rocks, and things like that. After two hours I’m soaked with sweat, everything becomes a blur, and when I go to the doctors they tell me there’s nothing wrong. Maybe it’s nerves. Nowadays they talk a lot about nerves. But I believe it’s a sin for the poor to have nerves. To be poor and to have nerves, that seems to be more than they can stand. But my nerves are all shot, I can tell you that; I was a soldier too long. Nine years, I think. Maybe more, I’m not sure. Once upon a time I would have been glad to have a profession, I wanted very much to go into business. But once upon a time—what’s the use of talking about it? Now I don’t even feel like going into business anymore. What I like to do best is lie on my bed and daydream. I figure out how many hundreds of thousands of man-hours they need to build a bridge or a big house and then I think that in a single minute they can smash both the bridge and the house. So what’s the point of working? To my mind there’s no sense in working. I think that’s what drives me crazy when I have to carry rocks or clear rubble so they can build another café.

A minute ago I was saying it was nerves, but I think that’s the real reason: it’s all so senseless.

Actually I don’t care what they think. But it’s terrible never to have any money. You’ve simply got to have money. You can’t get along without it. There’s a meter, and you have a lamp, naturally you need
light sometimes, you switch it on, and right away the money’s pouring out of the light bulb. Even when you don’t need any light, you have to pay rent for the meter. That’s the whole trouble: rent. It seems you’ve got to have a room. At first I lived in a cellar, it wasn’t too bad down there—I had a stove and used to steal briquettes; but they unearthed me, they came from the newspaper, took my picture, wrote an article to go with the picture:

“Returning Veteran Lives in Poverty.” I had to move, that’s all there was to it. The man from the housing office said it was a matter of prestige for him and I had to take the room. Sometimes, of course, I make some money. Obviously. I run errands, deliver briquettes and stack them up nice and neatly in a corner of someone’s cellar. I am very good at stacking briquettes, and I don’t charge much either. Needless to say, I don’t earn much; it’s never enough for the rent, sometimes it’s enough for the electricity, a few cigarettes and bread …

I was thinking of all this as I stood at the corner.

My black marketeer, who is now an honest citizen, threw me a suspicious look from time to time. That bastard knows perfectly well who I am, people do know each other, after all, when they’ve spoken to one another almost every day for two years. Maybe he thought I was going to steal something. I’m not as dumb as all that, to steal something at a busy spot with streetcars stopping every minute and even a cop standing at the corner. I steal things in quite different places: naturally I steal things sometimes, things like coal. Wood too. The other day I even stole a loaf in a bakery. You wouldn’t believe how quick and easy it was. I just took the loaf and walked out, I walked along quite calmly, as far as the next corner, then I started to run. I’ve lost the nerve I used to have, that’s all.

I certainly wouldn’t steal anything at a corner like that, although sometimes it’s easy, but I’ve lost my nerve. Several streetcars stopped, including my own, and I could see Ernst looking sidelong at me when mine came up. That bastard still remembers which is my streetcar!

But I threw away the butt of my first cigarette, lit another, and stayed where I was. I’ve progressed that far, at least, that I throw away butts. Yet over there someone was creeping around picking up butts, and you have to think of the other fellow. There are still some people who pick up cigarette butts. They aren’t always the same ones. In the
POW camp I had seen colonels doing it, but this one wasn’t a colonel. I watched him. He had his own system, like a spider lurking in its web he had his headquarters somewhere in a pile of rubble, and whenever a streetcar stopped or started up he would emerge and walk unhurriedly along the curb collecting the butts. I would have liked to go up to him and speak to him; I feel we are two of a kind. But I know it’s no use; those fellows never say anything.

I don’t know what was the matter with me, but that day I just didn’t want to go home. The very word: home … I was past caring now, I let one more streetcar go by and lit another cigarette. I don’t know what’s wrong with us. Maybe some professor will find out one day and write an article about it in the paper; they have an explanation for everything. I only wish I still had the nerve to steal things, like I did in the war. In those days I used to be quick and easy. In those days, during the war, when there was anything to be stolen, it was we who had to go out and steal it; they used to say: Don’t worry, he knows how to do it, and off we would go to steal something. The others just helped eat and drink up the stuff, send it home and all that, but they didn’t steal anything. Their nerves were in perfect shape, and they managed to keep their copybooks clean.

And when we came home they got out of the war as if they were getting out of a streetcar that happened to slow down just where they lived, and they jumped off without paying the fare. They turned aside, went indoors, and lo and behold: the dresser was still standing, there was a little dust on the bookshelves, your wife had potatoes stored in the cellar, and some preserves; you embraced her a bit, as was right and proper, and next morning you went off to find out whether your job was still open: the job was still open. Everything was fine, your medical insurance was still okay, you had yourself de-Nazified a bit—the way you go to the barber to get rid of that tiresome beard—you chatted about decorations, wounds, acts of heroism, and came to the conclusion you were a pretty fine fellow after all: you had simply done your duty. There were weekly streetcar passes again, the best sign that everything was back to normal.

Meanwhile the rest of us stayed on the streetcar and waited to see if somewhere there would be a stop that seemed familiar enough for us to risk getting off: it never came. Some people went on a bit farther, but
they jumped off somewhere too, trying to look as if they had reached their destination.

But we went on and on. The fare went up automatically, and we had to pay for our bulky, heavy baggage as well: for the leaden mass of nothingness that we had to lug around with us. First one inspector got on, then another, and we would shrug our shoulders and show them our empty pockets. They couldn’t throw us off, the streetcar was going too fast—“and we were human beings after all”—but they wrote down our names, over and over again they wrote down our names, the streetcar went faster and faster; the smart ones jumped off quickly, anywhere; fewer and fewer of us stayed on, and fewer and fewer of us had the guts or the desire to get off. At the back of our minds, we meant to leave our baggage on the streetcar, to let the Lost and Found auction it off as soon as we reached the terminus; but the terminus never came, the fare went up and up, the streetcar went faster and faster, the inspectors got more and more skeptical—we are a highly suspect lot.