The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (27 page)

“What is it?” Schmitz asked the sergeant.

“Time to make the rounds,” said the sergeant.

“I’m coming,” said Schmitz. He pulled his sleeve down over his watch when the second hand came to twenty and the captain’s lips had just closed—he stared at the man’s mouth, waited, and drew back his sleeve when the lips began to move. “Byelyogorshe”: the second hand stood exactly at ten.

Schmitz walked slowly out of the room.

That day there were no discharge cases. Schneider waited until eleven-fifteen, then went out to get some cigarettes. In the corridor he stopped by the window. Outside, the senior MO’s car was being washed. Thursday, Schneider thought. Thursday was the day for washing the senior MO’s car.

The building was in the form of a square open toward the rear, toward the railway. In the north wing was Surgery, in the center Administration and X-ray, in the south wing kitchen and staff quarters, and at the far end a suite of six rooms occupied by the administrator. This complex had once housed an agricultural college. At the rear, in the large grounds running straight across the open side, were shower rooms, stables, and model plantations, neatly defined beds containing all kinds of plants. The grounds and orchards went all the way down to the railway, and sometimes the administrator’s wife could be seen riding there with her small son, a six-year-old straddling a pony and yelling. The administrator’s wife was young and pretty, and whenever she had been playing with her son at the end of the grounds she would call in at the administration office and complain about the unexploded shell lying down there by the cesspool, in her view extremely dangerous. She was invariably assured that something would be done about it, but nothing ever was.

Schneider stood by the window watching the senior MO’s driver painstakingly performing his duties; although he had been driving
and looking after this car for two years, he was obeying the rules and had spread the lube chart out on a crate, had put on his fatigues, and stood surrounded by pails and oilcans. The senior MO’s car was upholstered in red leather, and very low-slung. Thursday, thought Schneider, Thursday again. In the calendar of routines, Thursday was the day for washing the senior MO’s car. He greeted the fair-haired nurse hurrying past him and walked a few steps to the canteen door, but the door was locked.

Two trucks drove into the yard and parked well away from the MO’s car. Schneider continued to look out of the window: at that moment the girl who brought the fruit drove into the yard. She held the reins herself, seated on an upturned crate, and drove her little cart carefully between the vehicles toward the kitchen. Her name was Szarka, and every Wednesday she brought fruit and vegetables from one of the nearby villages. People came with fruit and vegetables every day, the paymaster had a number of suppliers, but on Wednesdays only Szarka came. Schneider was quite sure about this: many a time he had interrupted his work on a Wednesday about ten-thirty, gone over to the window, and stood there waiting until the dust cloud stirred up by her little cart at the side of the avenue leading to the station came in sight, and he always waited until she came closer, until he could make out the little horse through the dust cloud, then the cartwheels, and finally the girl with the pretty oval face and the smile around her mouth. Schneider lighted his last cigarette and sat down on the windowsill. Today I’m going to speak to her, he thought, and at the same instant he thought of how every Wednesday he thought, Today I’m going to speak to her, and that he never had. But today he would for sure. There was something about Szarka that he had felt only in the women here, in these girls from the
puszta
, girls who were always shown in movies as hot-blooded, capering ninnies. Szarka was cool, cool and of an almost impalpable tenderness; she behaved tenderly toward her horse, toward the fruit in her baskets: apricots and tomatoes, plums and pears, cucumbers and paprikas. Her gaily painted little cart slipped in between the greasy oilcans and crates, stopped at the kitchen, and she tapped her whip on the window.

Generally at this hour of the day all was quiet indoors. The MO was making his rounds, spreading a mood of anxious solemnity, everything was tidy, and an indefinable tension could be felt in the corridors. But today there was a restless hubbub, everywhere doors were being banged, people were calling out. Schneider was somehow aware of this at the edge of his consciousness; he smoked his last cigarette and watched Szarka negotiating with the mess sergeant. Normally she negotiated with the paymaster, who tried to pinch her behind—but Pratzki, the mess sergeant, was a slightly built, practical fellow, a bit high-strung, who was an excellent cook and reputed to have no use for women. Szarka seemed to be urging him, gesticulating, mostly the gesture for paying, but the cook merely shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the main building, to the very spot where Schneider was sitting. The girl turned and looked almost straight at Schneider; he jumped off the windowsill and heard his name being called in the corridor: “Schneider, Schneider!” There was a moment’s silence, and again someone shouted, “Sergeant Schneider!” Schneider gave one more glance outside: Szarka took her little horse by the bridle and led it toward the main building; the MO’s driver was standing in a large puddle folding up his lube chart. Schneider walked slowly toward the office, thinking of many things before he reached it: that he must speak to the girl today, whatever happened, that the MO’s car couldn’t be washed on a Wednesday—and that it was out of the question for Szarka to come on a Thursday.

He was met by the retinue accompanying the medical officer on his rounds. It emerged from the big ward, now almost empty; white smocks, a few nurses, the ward sergeant, the orderlies, a mute procession led not by the senior MO but by Schmitz, a noncommissioned medical officer, a man who was seldom heard to speak. Schmitz was short and plump and nondescript-looking, but his eyes were cool and gray, and sometimes, when he lowered the lids for an instant, he seemed about to say something, but he never did. The retinue dispersed as Schneider reached the office; he saw Schmitz approaching, held open the door for him, and the two men walked into the room together.

The sergeant major had his ear to the receiver. His broad face wore a look of annoyance. He was just saying, “No, sir,” then the senior MO’s voice was audible through the receiver, the sergeant major looked at Schneider and the noncommissioned MO, gestured to the latter to
take a seat, and smiled as he looked at Schneider. Then he said, “Yes, sir; very well, sir,” and replaced the receiver.

“What’s up?” asked Schmitz. “I take it we’re getting out of here.” He opened the newspaper lying in front of him, flipped it shut again immediately, and looked over the shoulder of Feinhals, who was sitting beside him. Schmitz regarded the sergeant major coolly. He had seen that Feinhals was preparing a map of the surrounding area. S
ZOKARHELY
B
ASE
was printed across the top.

“Yes,” said the sergeant major, “we’ve orders to redeploy.” He was trying to remain calm, but there was a nasty glint in his eyes as he looked at Schneider. And his hands were trembling. He glanced at the crates, painted army-gray, stacked along the walls; with their lids open they could be used as lockers or desks. He still did not offer Schneider a chair.

“Give me a cigarette, Feinhals, till I can get some more,” said Schneider. Feinhals got up, opened the blue pack, and held it out to Schneider. Schmitz took one too. Schneider stood leaning against the wall, smoking.

“I know,” he said into the silence. “I’ll be with the rear unit. It used to be the advance unit.”

The sergeant major flushed. The sound of a typewriter came from the next room. The telephone rang, the sergeant major lifted the receiver, gave his name, and said, “Very well, sir—I’ll have them sent over for signature.”

He replaced the receiver. “Feinhals,” he said, “go over and see if the order of the day is ready.” Schmitz and Schneider exchanged glances. Schmitz looked at the desk and opened the newspaper again. H
IGH
T
REASON
T
RIAL
B
EGINS
, he read. He flipped the paper shut again immediately.

Feinhals returned with the clerk from the next room. The clerk was a pale, fair-haired noncom with fingers stained from smoking.

“Otten,” Schneider called out to him, “will you be opening up the canteen again?”

“Just a moment, if you don’t mind,” said the sergeant major, furious. “I’ve got more important things to do right now.” He drummed on the desk with his fingers while the clerk sorted the sets of paper. He turned the typed sheets facedown and pulled out the carbons. There were three sets, each consisting of two typed pages and four carbon copies. The
typed sheets appeared to contain nothing but names. Schneider thought about the girl. Probably she was with the paymaster now, getting her money. He stepped closer to the window to get a better view of the gate.

“Don’t forget,” he said to Otten, “to leave us some cigarettes.”

“Shut up!” shouted the sergeant major.

He handed the papers to Feinhals, saying, “Take these over to the senior MO for signature.” Feinhals clipped them together and left the room.

The sergeant major turned to Schmitz and Schneider, but Schneider was looking out of the window. It was almost noon, and the road was empty; opposite was a large field where a market was held on Wednesdays: the littered stalls stood abandoned in the sunshine. So it
is
Wednesday, he thought, turning toward the sergeant major, who had a carbon copy of the order of the day in his hand. Feinhals had returned and was standing by the door.

“…   will remain here,” the sergeant major was saying. “Feinhals has a sketch map of the place. This time everything’s to be done in battle order. A formality, as you know, Schneider,” he added. “You’d better round up a few men and have the weapons brought in from the infectious ward. The other wards have already been notified.”

“Weapons?” asked Schneider. “Is that a formality too?”

The sergeant major flushed again. Schmitz took another cigarette from Feinhals’s pack. “I’d like to see the list of wounded. Will the senior MO be leading the advance unit?”

“Yes,” said the sergeant major, “he’s the one that drew up the list.”

“I’d like to see it,” said Schmitz.

Once more the sergeant major flushed. Then he reached into the drawer and handed Schmitz the list. Schmitz read it through carefully, saying each name quietly over to himself; there was silence in the room, no one said anything, they were all looking at the man reading the list. Outside in the corridor there was a commotion. They all jumped as Schmitz suddenly cried out, “Lieutenant Moll and Captain Bauer, for Christ’s sake!” He flung the list onto the desk and looked at the sergeant major. “Any medical student knows that no patient is fit to travel an hour and a half after a serious operation.” He picked up the list from the desk and rapped the paper with his fingers. “I might just as well put a bullet through their heads as load them into an ambulance.” He looked at Schneider, then at Feinhals, then at the sergeant major and
Otten. “They must have known yesterday that we were clearing out today—why wasn’t the operation postponed, eh?”

“Orders only arrived this morning, an hour ago,” said the sergeant major.

“Orders! Orders!” exclaimed Schmitz. He threw the list onto the desk, saying to Schneider, “Come on, let’s get out of here.” When they were outside he said, “You weren’t listening just then—I’m in charge of the rear unit—we’ll talk about it later.” He walked rapidly toward the senior MO’s office, and Schneider strolled away to his room.

He paused at each window on the way, looking out to make sure Szarka’s cart was still standing in front of the gate. By now the courtyard was jammed with trucks and ambulances, and in the middle stood the MO’s car. They had already begun loading, and Schneider noticed that outside the kitchen the baskets of fruit were also being loaded, and the MO’s driver was lugging a gray metal trunk across the yard.

The corridors were crowded. In his room Schneider walked quickly to the locker, poured the rest of the apricot schnapps into a glass, and added some soda water, and as he drank it he could hear the first motor starting up outside. Glass in hand, he went out into the corridor and stood by the window: he had heard right away that the first motor to start up was the MO’s; it was a good motor, Schneider knew nothing about such things, but he could tell by the sound that it was a good motor. Just then the MO crossed the courtyard, he wasn’t carrying any baggage, and his field cap was slightly askew. He looked pretty much as usual; only his face, otherwise rather distinguished, pale, with faint pinkish overtones, was scarlet. The MO was a good-looking man, tall and spare, an excellent horseman who mounted his horse every morning at six, whip in hand, and rode off into the
puszta
at a steady canter, a dwindling figure vanishing into that flat landscape that seemed to consist only of horizon. But now his face was scarlet, and only once had Schneider seen the MO’s face scarlet, and that was when Schmitz had carried out with success an operation that the MO had not wanted to tackle. Now Schmitz was walking beside the MO; Schmitz was quite calm, whereas the MO was waving his arms … but now Schneider had seen the girl coming toward him along the corridor. She seemed to be confused by all the commotion and looking for someone who was not involved in the general exodus. She said something in Hungarian that
he did not understand, then he pointed to his room and beckoned her over. Outside, the first vehicle, the MO’s, was moving off, and the column slowly followed …

Evidently the girl took him for a deputy of the paymaster’s. She did not sit down on the chair he offered, and when he perched on the edge of the desk she continued to stand facing him, trying to make him understand what she wanted and gesturing vigorously as she spoke. It was a relief to be able to look at her without having to listen to her, for it was hopeless to try and understand what she was saying. But he let her talk just so that he could look at her. She seemed rather thin, perhaps she was too young, very young, much younger than he had thought—her breasts were small, the beauty of her small face was perfect, and he waited almost breathlessly for the moments when her long eyelashes lay on the brown cheeks—very brief moments in which her small mouth remained closed, round and red, the lips slightly too narrow. He studied her very carefully and had to admit that he was a bit disappointed—but she was charming, and all of a sudden he raised his hands defensively and shook his head. She stopped speaking at once, looking at him suspiciously; he said softly, “I’d like to kiss you, do you understand?” By this time he no longer knew whether he really did want to kiss her, and it embarrassed him to see her blush, to see the color slowly spreading over that dark skin, and he realized she hadn’t understood a single word but knew what he meant. She took a step back as he slowly approached her, and he could see from the scared look in her eyes and from the thin neck with its wildly pulsing vein that she was three months too young. He stopped, shook his head, and said in a low voice: “Forgive me—forget it—understand?” But the look in her eyes became more scared than ever, and he was afraid she was going to scream. This time she seemed to understand even less. With a sigh he stepped up to her, took hold of her small hands, and as he lifted them to his mouth he saw they were dirty, they smelled of earth and leather, leeks and onions, and he brushed them with his lips and tried to smile. She looked at him in growing bewilderment, until he patted her on the shoulder, saying, “Come along, we’ll go and see you get your money.” Not until he held up his hand and made the unmistakable gesture of paying did she give a little smile and follow him out into the corridor.