The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (30 page)

Only two big patches of color were left: one green, a cucumber vendor’s great mound, the other pinkish-yellow, apricots. In the middle of the market square stood the swingboats. They were there permanently. Their colors had faded, their blue and red as dingy and dirty as the colors of a venerable old ship anchored in the harbor and patiently waiting to be scrapped. The swingboats hung down stiffly, not one was moving, and smoke curled up from the chimney of the trailer parked alongside them.

The patches of color were slowly breaking up: the dark and light greens of the intertwined mosaic of cucumbers dwindled rapidly; Greck could see from a long way off that two people were busy breaking it up. The apricots took longer, much longer: a woman, all by herself, was picking the apricots up one by one and carefully placing them in baskets. Cucumbers were evidently not as fragile as apricots. Greck slowed his pace. Deny it, he thought, simply deny everything. That’s the only thing to do if they find out. The only thing. Life was worth a denial, after all. But they wouldn’t find out, he was sure of that. It did surprise him, though, to find that there were so many Jews still around here.

The paving between the low trees and little houses was uneven, but he did not notice it. He was pretty scared, and he had the feeling: The faster I get away from there, the less chance there is of attracting attention, and most likely I won’t have to deny anything. But I must hurry. He was walking faster again now, hurrying along. He had almost reached the square; the cart with the cucumbers was already passing him, and beyond it there was still that woman painstakingly packing away her apricots. Her pile had not yet been reduced by half.

Greck saw the swingboats. Never in his life had he gone for a ride on a swingboat. Such pleasures had not been for him; they were forbidden in his family, first because he was never really well, and then because that was no way to behave, in public, swinging through the air like some silly monkey. And he had never done anything that was forbidden—today had been the first time, and right off something so terrible, almost the worst thing you could do, something that automatically cost you your life.

Greck could feel the panic in his throat, and he lurched quickly, reeling in the sunshine, across the empty square toward the swingboats. Smoke was puffing more vigorously now from the trailer’s chimney. They must have put some more coal on, he thought: no, wood. He didn’t know what they put on stoves in Hungary. And he didn’t care. He knocked on the trailer door: a man appeared, naked to the waist, he was blond, unshaven, and big-boned, his face had something almost Dutch about it; only the nose was strikingly narrow, and he had very dark eyes.

“What is it?” he asked in German. Greck could feel the sweat trickling into his mouth; he licked his lips, wiped the palm of his hand across his face, and said, “The swings, I’d like to go for a ride.”

The man in the doorway screwed up his eyes, then nodded. He ran his tongue over his teeth. Behind him appeared his wife; she was in her petticoat, sweat was dripping down her face, and the dark-red shoulder straps were sweat-stained. In one hand she was holding a wooden spoon, in the other arm a child. The child was dirty. The woman was very dark, somber, Greck thought. There was definitely something sinister about these people. Perhapsthey were suspicious of him. Greck no longer wanted a ride on the swingboats, but the man, whose tongue had finally settled down, said, “Well, if you really want to—in this heat—at midday.”

He came down the steps; Greck moved aside and followed him the few paces to the swingboats.

“How much?” he asked feebly. They’ll think I’m nuts, he thought. The sweat was driving him crazy. He wiped his sleeve across his face and climbed the wooden steps to the iron framework. The man released a brake, one of the swingboats in the middle swayed gently to and fro.

“I guess,” said the man, “you’d better not go too high, or I’ll have to stay here and watch. It’s the law.”

Greck found his German repulsive. It was an odd mixture of softness and impudence, as if he were uttering an entirely foreign language with German words.

“I won’t,” Greck said. “You can go … How much?”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “Give me one pengö,” he said. Greck gave him his last pengö and carefully climbed in.

The little boat was wider than he had thought. He felt quite safe and began to use the technique he had so often been able to watch but
not use. He held on to the iron stanchions, unclasped his fingers to wipe off the sweat, then straightened his knee, bent it, straightened it, and was amazed to feel the swingboat move. It was very simple, all you had to do was make sure the bending of your knee did not interfere with the rhythmic movement set up by the swing: you had to increase the rhythm by throwing your weight back, with straight legs, as the boat swung forward, and by letting yourself fall forward as the boat swung back. Greck saw that the man was still standing beside him, and he shouted, “What’s the matter? You don’t have to stay.” The man shook his head, and Greck ceased to pay attention to him. All of a sudden he knew he had been missing something vital in his life: riding a swingboat. It was glorious. The sweat dried on his forehead, and the gentle coolness of the rocking motion even dried the sweat on his body: the air blew through him, fresh and exquisite, with every swing, and furthermore the world was changed. One minute it consisted merely of a few dirty planks with broad grooves running along them, and on the downward swing he had the whole sky to himself. “Watch out!” cried the man down below. “Hold tight!” Greck could feel the man putting on the brake: a gentle jolt that severely hampered his swinging.

“Leave me alone!” he shouted. But the man shook his head. Greck quickly swung himself up again. This was the glorious part: to stand parallel to the earth as the little boat swung back—to see those dirty planks that signified the world—and then, plunging forward again, to kick your feet into the sky, to see it overhead as if you were lying in a meadow, only this way you were closer to the sky, infinitely closer. Everything in between was insignificant. On his left the woman was carefully packing away her apricots; her pile never seemed to get any less. On the right stood that fat blond fellow who had to obey the law and slow him down; a few chickens waddled across his field of vision, over there was a road. His cap flew off his head.

Deny it, he thought, as he calmed down, simply deny it; they won’t believe it if I deny it. I don’t do things like that. No one would believe I could do a thing like that. I’ve got a good reputation. I know they don’t think much of me because I’ve got chronic indigestion, but they like me in their way, and no one would believe I could do a thing like that. He was both proud and timid, and it was a glorious feeling to find he had the courage to go on this swingboat. He would write to
his mother about it. No, better not. Mama didn’t understand about things like that. Whatever life may bring, always behave with dignity! was her motto. She would never understand how her son, an attorney, Lieutenant Greck, could take a ride in a swingboat, in the middle of a broiling hot day in a dirty Hungarian market square, in full view of anyone—anyone at all—who happened to be passing by. No, no—he could picture her shaking her head, a woman without humor; he knew that and it was no use trying to fight it. And that other thing: oh, God! Although he didn’t want to, he couldn’t help thinking about it, how he had undressed in the Jewish tailor’s back room: a stuffy little hole with scraps of patching material lying around, half-finished suits with buckram tacked onto them, and a repulsively large bowl of cucumber salad with drowning flies floating around in it—he could feel fluid rising into his mouth, and he knew he was turning pale, disgusting fluid in his mouth—but he could still see himself, taking off his pants and revealing his second pair, taking the money, and the toothless old man’s grin following him as he hurried out of the shop.

Suddenly the world began to spin around him. “Stop!” he yelled. “Stop!” The man down below jammed on the brake, he felt it, the hard rhythmic jolting. Then the swing came to a standstill; he knew he looked ridiculous and pathetic, and he carefully stepped out, walked behind the framework, and spat: his stomach had settled down but he still had that disgusting taste in his mouth. He felt giddy, sat down on a step, and closed his eyes; the rhythm of the ride was still in his eyes, he could feel his eyeballs twitching, he had to spit again. It took quite a while for the movement of his eyeballs to calm down.

He rose and picked up his cap from the ground. The man was standing beside him, looked at him impassively; then his wife appeared. Greck was surprised to see how small she was. A tiny, swarthy little thing with a gaunt face. She was holding a mug. The blond fellow took the mug from her and held it out to Greck. “Drink,” he said without emotion. Greck shook his head. “Drink,” said the man, “it will do you good.”

Greck took the mug; the stuff tasted very bitter, but it helped. The couple smiled, they smiled mechanically because they were used to smiling at this kind of thing, not because they cared for him or pitied him.

“Thanks very much,” he said. He felt in his pocket for coins, there were none left, only that terrible great hundred-pengö bill, and
he shrugged his shoulders helplessly. He could feel himself flushing. “Okay,” said the man, “that’s okay.”
“Heil Hitler,”
said Greck. The man merely nodded.

Greck did not look back. The sweat was beginning to flow again. It seemed to come boiling out of his pores. Across the square was a tavern. He longed for a wash.

Inside the tavern the air was oddly chilly yet stuffy. The room was almost empty. Greck noticed that the man standing behind the bar looked first at his medals. The man’s gaze was cool, not unfriendly, but cool. In the corner to the left sat a young couple with dirty dishes on the table in front of them and a carafe of wine, there was a beer bottle on the table too. Greck sat down in the corner to the right so he could look out on the street. He felt a sense of relief. His watch showed one o’clock, and he didn’t have to be back until six. The man came out from behind the bar and walked slowly over to him. Greck wondered what he should drink. He really didn’t want anything. Just a wash. He wasn’t one for alcohol; besides, it didn’t agree with him. Not for nothing had his mother warned him against it, just as she had against riding swingboats. Once again the innkeeper, now facing him, looked first at the left side of his chest.

“Afternoon,” said the man. “What can I get you?”

“Some coffee,” said Greck, “d’you have any coffee?” The man nodded. The nod said everything: it said that the glance to the left side of Greck’s chest and the word “coffee” had told everything. “And a schnapps,” said Greck. But it seemed to be too late.

“What kind?” asked the man.

“Apricot,” said Greck.

The fellow went off. He was fat. His pants made fat rolls across his backside, and he was wearing slippers. Sloppy—like everything else here, thought Greck. He looked across at the young lovers. Swarms of flies were perched on the dirty plates with remains of food, chop bones, little mounds of vegetables, and wilted lettuce in earthenware bowls. Disgusting, thought Greck.

A soldier came in, looked nervously around, saluted Greck across the room, and walked over to the bar. The soldier had no medals at all. And yet there was a warmth in the innkeeper’s eyes that annoyed Greck. Maybe, he thought, because I’m an officer they expect me to have more medals, splendid gold and silver affairs, these knuckleheads
here in Hungary. Maybe I look as though I ought to be wearing medals: I’m tall and slim, blond. Hell, he thought, what a revolting business. He looked out the window.

The woman with the apricots was almost through now, and all of a sudden he knew what he really wanted to eat: some fruit. Oh, that would do him good! His mother had always given him plenty of fruit when it was in season and cheap, and it had done him a lot of good. Fruit was cheap here, and he had money, and wanted to eat some fruit. He hesitated at the thought of the money; his thoughts hesitated. Sweat broke out heavily again. Nothing would happen, and if something did: deny it, deny it, just deny everything. Nobody was going to believe some dirty Jew that he, Greck, had sold him his pants. Nobody would believe it if he denied it, and even if they identified the pants as his, he could say they had been stolen or something. But nobody was going to go to all that trouble. And anyway, why should they find out in his particular case? The affair had opened his eyes in a flash: everyone sold something, damn it all. Everyone. He knew now what happened to the gasoline that the tanks were short of, what became of the warm winter clothing—and they were his own pants, after all, that he had sold, the ones that had been made for him, at his own expense, at Grunk’s, the tailor in Coelsde.

Where were all those pengös supposed to come from? Nobody’s pay was enough for the kind of extravagances that cocky little lieutenant managed to afford, the one who shared his room and ate cream pastries in the afternoon and drank real whisky in the evening, had all the women he wanted, and turned up his nose at anything but a particular brand of cigarette that by this time cost a lot of money.

What the hell, he thought, I’ve been a fool, I’ve been a fool all along. Always respectable and law-abiding, while everyone else—everyone else has been having himself a good time. What the hell.

The innkeeper brought the coffee and the apricot schnapps. “Anything to eat?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” said Greck.

The coffee smelled unfamiliar. He tried it: it was mild, with an odd mildness. Some quite pleasant substitute. The schnapps was sharp and burning but felt good. He sipped it slowly, drop by drop. That was it: he must take alcohol like medicine, that was it.

The apricot patch outside on the square had gone. Greck jumped up and ran to the door. “Just a minute,” he called to the innkeeper.

The old woman was slowly driving her cart across the square; now she was level with the swingboats, and she speeded up her horse to a comfortable trot. Greck stopped her as she turned into the street. She pulled in the reins. He looked at her face: a broad-boned, elderly woman with handsome features, her face suntanned and sturdy. Greck went up to the cart.