The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (33 page)

“Oh,” she cried—he turned to her, she looked tense, excited; her face seemed to have narrowed, it was smooth and brown, and on those pretty cheeks the down was visible almost up to her dark eyes. She still wore bangs, but shorter than downstairs in the picture. She was breathing hard. “Isn’t it a great game?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” she said, “terrible—it’s all so—you say it—so—like a relief map.”

“Three-dimensional, you mean,” he said.

“That’s it!” she cried. “It’s all three-dimensional—it’s like looking into a room.”

The noise in the corridor had died down, the doors seemed to be closed, but Feinhals suddenly heard his name quite clearly. “Feinhals,” shouted the sergeant major. “Where the hell are you?”

Ilona looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Are they calling you?”

“Yes.”

“You’d better go,” she said in a low voice. “Please, I don’t want them to find you here.”

“How long will you be here?”

“Till seven.”

“Wait for me—I’ll be back.”

She nodded, her cheeks fiery red, and stood facing him until he stepped aside to let her into her corner.

“There’s some cake in that parcel on the windowsill,” he said. “It’s for you.” He opened the door, looked out, and hurried into the corridor.

He walked slowly downstairs, although he could hear the sergeant major calling “Feinhals” on the third-floor corridor. He smiled at Szorna as he passed the class of ’42, but the light was already fading and he could not make out Ilona’s face; the big frame hung in the middle of the wall, and the shadows were closing in. And at the bottom of the stairs stood the sergeant major, who shouted, “For Christ’s sake, where the hell have you been? I’ve been looking for you for an hour.”

“I had to go into town, remember? I bought some cardboard for the placards.”

“I know, I know, but you’ve been back half an hour. Let’s go.” He took Feinhals by the arm and walked down to the lower floor with him. The sound of singing came from the rooms, and the Russian nurses were hurrying along the corridor with trays.

The sergeant major had been very easy on Feinhals ever since the latter had returned from Szokarhely; he was easy on everyone and at the same time very much on edge since being given the job of organizing a hospital clearing station. The sergeant major was worried about things Feinhals could not know of. During the last few weeks something had happened in this army of which Feinhals could not be aware and the consequences of which he could not judge. But the sergeant major lived on these things, by them and them only, and the fact that
they were no longer working worried him very much. Until recently, the possibility of a transfer or an unwelcome posting had been relatively remote; every order was circumvented before it even got to the unit. The authority that drew up the order was the first to circumvent it, and confidential phone calls informed the units to which the order was transmitted of the means of circumventing it—and as orders and regulations became more and more threatening, so the means of bypassing them became more and more simple, and in fact no one acted on them except to secure the removal of undesirable people. As a last resort: a medical examination or a phone call—and things went back to normal.

But all this had changed. Phone calls were no good now, because the people you had been used to talking to no longer existed, or existed someplace where they couldn’t be reached—and the ones you did talk to now didn’t know you and had no incentive to help you because they knew you in turn wouldn’t be able to help them. The threads were confused or tangled, and the only thing left to do was to save your own skin from one day to the next. Until now the war had taken place over the telephone, but now the war had begun to dominate the telephone. Authorities, code names, superior officers changed every day, and it might happen that you were assigned to a division which the next day consisted only of a general, three staff officers, and a few clerks …

On reaching the bottom the sergeant major let go of Feinhals’s arm and opened the door himself. Otten was sitting at the table smoking. The table had a distinct black scorch mark from a cigarette. Otten was reading a newspaper.

“Well, it’s about time,” he said, laying aside the paper.

The sergeant major looked at Feinhals, Feinhals looked at Otten.

“I can’t do a thing about it,” said the sergeant major with a shrug. “I have to transfer all those under forty who aren’t on the permanent staff or who no longer qualify as patients. Honestly—I can’t do a thing about it. You’ll have to go.”

“Where to?” asked Feinhals.

“To the redeployment center at the front—and what’s more, ‘forthwith,’” said Otten. He passed the marching orders to Feinhals. Feinhals read them through.

“ ‘Forthwith,’” said Feinhals. “ ‘Forthwith’—nothing sensible ever happened ‘forthwith.’” The marching orders still in his hand, he said, “Do we both have to appear on the same marching orders—I mean, together …?”

The sergeant major gave him a close look. “What d’you mean? Now, don’t go making a fool of yourself,” he said in a low voice.

“What’s the time?” asked Feinhals.

“Just on seven,” said Otten. He stood up, he had already buckled on his belt and placed his pack on the table.

The sergeant major sat down at the table, pulled open the drawer, and looked at Otten. “Suit yourselves,” he said. “Once you fellows are on your way, it’s no longer up to me.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Okay, then, I’ll make out one for each of you.”

“I’ll get my stuff,” said Feinhals.

When he saw Ilona upstairs, he stopped in the corridor and watched her shut the door, then rattle the latch and nod. She had on her hat and coat and was carrying the parcel of cake. She was wearing a green coat and a brown beret, and he thought she looked even prettier than in her red sleeveless jacket. She was short, a shade too buxom maybe, but when he saw her face, the line of her neck, he felt something he had never felt before at the sight of a woman: he loved her and wanted to possess her. She gave the latch one more rattle, to make sure the door was really locked, and then walked slowly along the corridor. He watched her tensely and noticed that she smiled yet was startled to find him suddenly in front of her.

“I thought you were going to wait for me,” he said.

“I’d forgotten I had to leave in a hurry. I was going to leave a message downstairs that I’d be back in an hour.”

“Did you really mean to come back?”

“Yes,” she said. She looked at him and smiled.

“I’ll come with you,” he said. “Wait for me. I’ll only be a minute.”

“You can’t come with me. Don’t.” She shook her head wearily. “I promise I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?”

She was silent, glanced around, but the corridor was empty; it was dinnertime, and subdued noises came from the rooms. Then she looked at him again. “To the ghetto,” she said. “I have to go to the ghetto with
my mother.” She looked at him expectantly, but he merely asked, “What are you going to do there?”

“It’s being evacuated today. Our relatives are there. We’re taking some things to them. The cake too.” She looked at the parcel she was carrying, and held it out to him. “You don’t mind my giving it away, do you?”

“Your relatives,” he said, taking her arm. “Come on—let’s go.” He walked down the stairs beside her, grasping her arm. “Your relatives are Jews? Your mother?”

She nodded. “And me,” she said, “all of us.” She stopped. “Just a moment.” She freed her arm, took the flowers out of the vase in front of the Virgin Mary’s statue, and carefully removed the faded ones. “Will you promise to put fresh water in the vase? I won’t be here tomorrow. I have to be at school. Promise—and maybe some flowers too?”

“I can’t. I have to leave tonight. Otherwise …”

“Otherwise you would?”

He nodded. “I’d do anything to please you.”

“Only to please me?” she said.

He smiled. “I don’t know—I’d do it anyway, I think, but it would never have occurred to me to do it. Just a minute!” he exclaimed.

They had reached the third-floor corridor. He ran along it to his room and quickly stuffed a few oddments into his bag. Then he put on his belt and ran out. She had walked slowly on ahead, and he caught up with her in front of the photos of the class of ’32. She looked thoughtful.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said softly. “I would so much like to be sentimental—I can’t. This picture doesn’t move me, it means absolutely nothing to me. Let’s go.”

She promised to wait for him by the entrance, and he ran quickly into the office to pick up his marching orders. Otten had already left. The sergeant major grasped Feinhals by the sleeve. “Don’t go making a fool of yourself,” he said, “and good luck.”

“Thanks,” said Feinhals, and hurried out of the building.

She was waiting for him at the street corner. He took her arm and walked slowly beside her into town. It had stopped raining, but the air was still moist, with a sweet smell, and they walked along very quiet side streets that ran almost parallel to the main streets but were very quiet, past small houses with little low trees in front of them.

“How come you don’t live in the ghetto?” he asked.

“Because of my father. He was an officer in the last war and got a lot of medals and lost both legs. But yesterday he sent his medals back to the garrison commander, and his artificial legs—a big brown-paper parcel. Please, let me go on alone now,” she urged.

“Why?”

“I want to walk home alone.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“It’s no use. You’ll be seen, someone from my family will see you,” she looked at him, “and then they won’t let me come anymore.”

“You’ll be back?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “For sure. I promise.”

“Give me a kiss,” he said.

She blushed and stood still. The street was empty and silent. Over the wall beside them hung branches of faded pink hawthorn.

“Why should we kiss?” she asked in a low voice; she looked at him sadly, and he was afraid she was going to cry. “I’m scared of love.”

“Why?” he asked softly.

“Because there’s no such thing—or only for a few moments.”

“We won’t have much more than a few moments,” he said softly. He set his bag down on the ground, took the parcel from her, and put his arms around her. He kissed her on the neck, behind the ears, and felt her mouth on his cheek. “Don’t go away,” he whispered in her ear, “don’t go away. It’s not right to go away when there’s a war on. Stay here.” She shook her head. “I can’t,” she said, “my mother gets scared to death if I’m late.” She kissed him once more on the cheek and was surprised to find she didn’t mind—she liked it very much. “Here,” she said. She turned his head as it rested against her shoulder and kissed him on the corner of the mouth. She now felt really glad that she would soon be with him again.

She kissed him once more on the corner of the mouth and looked at him for a moment. She used to think it must be wonderful to have a husband and children; she had always thought of both of them at the same time, but now she wasn’t thinking of children—no, she hadn’t been thinking of children when she kissed him and realized she would see him again soon. It made her sad, yet the thought pleased her. “There!” she whispered “I really must go …”

He looked over her shoulder along the street; it was empty and silent, and the noise from the next street seemed very remote. The little trees had been carefully pollarded. Ilona’s hand was groping for his neck, and he could tell that this hand was very small, firm, and slender. “Stay here,” he said, “or let me go with you. Never mind what happens. It won’t work out—you don’t know what war is—you don’t know the people who make it. It’s not right to separate even for a minute unless you have to.”

“I have to,” she said. “Try to understand.”

“Then let me go with you.”

“No, no,” she pleaded. “I can’t do that to my father, don’t you understand?”

“I understand,” he said, kissing her neck. “I understand everything, much too much. But I love you, and I want you to stay. Please stay.”

She freed herself, looked at him, and said, “Don’t ask me to. Please.”

“I won’t,” he said softly. “Off you go. Where shall I wait?”

“Walk on a bit with me, I’ll show you a little café where you can wait.”

He tried to walk slowly, but she pulled him along, and he was surprised when they suddenly crossed a busy street. She pointed to a little narrow building, saying, “Wait there for me.”

“Will you be back?”

“Yes,” she said with a smile, “I promise—as soon as I can. I love you.”

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth. Then she hurried off; he didn’t want to watch her go so he walked toward the little café.

As he entered, he felt very miserable, very empty, as if he had missed something. He knew there was no point in waiting, yet at the same time he knew he had to wait. He must give God this chance of making everything turn out as it should, as it might have, although there was no doubt in his mind that everything had already turned out differently: she wouldn’t be back. Something would happen to prevent her from coming back—perhaps it was asking too much to love a Jewish girl while this war was on and to hope she would come back. He didn’t even know her address, and he must go through the motions of hope by waiting for her here, although he had no hope. He might have run after her, maybe, and forced her to stay—but you couldn’t force people, you could only kill people, that was the only thing you could force on
them. You couldn’t force anyone to live, or to love, it was useless; the only thing that had any real power over them was death. And now he had to wait, although he knew it was useless. Moreover, he knew he would wait for longer than an hour, longer than tonight, because this was the only thing that linked them together: this little café her finger had pointed out, and the only certainty was that she had not lied. She would come, right away and very quickly, as quickly as she could, if she had the power to decide …

From the clock over the counter he saw it was twenty to eight. He didn’t feel like anything to eat or drink so he ordered some soda water when the proprietress came over, and when he saw she was disappointed, he ordered a carafe of wine. Near the door sat a Hungarian soldier with his girl, and in the middle a fat fellow with a sallow face and a pitch-black cigar in his mouth. He quickly finished the carafe of wine so as to reassure the proprietress, and ordered another. The woman gave him a friendly smile; she was middle-aged, thin and blonde.