The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (119 page)

“Beg, borrow, or steal!”—stealing seems to be the obvious remedy. I should add that the lady is not only frail but proud. Over and over again she has been humiliated, lectured, forced to submit to several thousand well-meant pieces of advice, swallow snide remarks about her beloved son; she has sold most of her furniture, disposed of her collie, to whom she was very attached, and quarreled about this with her best friend, who actually said, “A dog for a dog—that’s no bargain!” She has visited her son in a number of jails, paid legal fees, incurred traveling expenses. The only luxury she still permits herself is the telephone: in order that her son can call her at any time, and she him, if he happens to have access to a telephone. There are even moments when she not only
believes
she understands him but actually does. The social experiences of the past four years have pushed her
inwardly
to the verge of becoming a social dropout, but not outwardly: she is always well groomed, looks younger than she is, and now, after her son has raised the alarm over the telephone, the fateful phrase occurs to her “Beg, borrow, or steal!” and its implications take root in her mind in a manner unforeseen by those who spread such sayings. Steal, she thinks, that’s the solution, when around two o’clock she remembers that spruce little savings-bank branch situated at the edge of a park in a nearby suburb. Before leaving her apartment she feeds her pretty dwarf finches, tiny birds half the size of a thumb, which she can still afford. The word “steal,” so foreign to her, becomes increasingly familiar as she approaches the park in the adjacent suburb, which she reaches by about 3:05. Steal, she thinks, where does one steal bread? In a bakery. Where does one steal sausage? At a butcher’s. Where does one steal money? From a till or a bank. The till is immediately rejected, she finds that too
personal
, she does not wish to rob anyone directly; besides, what till would ever contain five thousand marks? And robbing a till seems to her too much of an imposition, almost an importunity.

Her conscience has long since ceased to bother her, she is already preoccupied with tactical and strategic deliberations. Hidden in some bushes, she looks across to the smart little savings bank, knowing that it closes at two-thirty. The bank is empty of customers, and strange things shoot through her mind: naturally she sometimes watches television, she also
occasionally goes to the movies, and she thinks—not of weapons, not even of toy weapons, but of the stocking pulled over the face: which had always made her shudder because it was an affront to her aesthetic sense, that deformation of a human face. Moreover, she feels it is beneath her dignity here in the bushes to deprive one of her legs of its stocking; besides, it would provide a clue for possible pursuers. In these deliberations—as the indulgent reader will immediately discern—aesthetics, morals, and tactics come together in unique fashion!

In her handbag is a pair of oversized dark glasses—a gift from her son, who thought they would suit her. She puts on the glasses, ruffles her normally neatly coiffed hair, steps out from the bushes, crosses the street, enters the savings bank: behind the window on the right, a young lady sorting vouchers gives her a polite, slightly forced smile because closing time is only a few minutes away; the center window is closed; behind the one on the left stands a young man of about thirty-four, counting the contents of the cash drawer. He looks up, smiles at her politely, and says the usual, “Can I help you, madam?” At that moment she puts her hand into her bag, pulls it out as a clenched fist, steps closer to the window, and whispers, “Unusually compelling circumstances force me to this, I am sorry to say, unavoidable holdup. My right hand contains a nitrite capsule that can cause great havoc. I very much regret having to threaten you, but I need five thousand marks immediately. Give them to me. Or else …”

The tragic drama of the situation is enhanced by the fact that the teller—like most of his colleagues—is also a courteous person who is not in the least alarmed by the “or else” but instantly grasps the lady’s quandary. Furthermore, professional bank robbers never ask for specific amounts, they demand the whole lot. He pauses in his counting—he happens to have just reached the five-hundred-mark bills!—and whispers, “You are putting me in an embarrassing position if you don’t use more force. Nobody will ever believe me about the explosive capsule if you don’t shout, threaten, put on a convincing scene. After all, there are rules for bank holdups too. You are doing it all wrong.”

At that moment the young lady leaves her window, locks the bank from the inside, but leaves the key in the lock. The old lady, no less determined, in fact more determined than ever, recognizes her opportunity. “This capsule,” she whispers threateningly. “Nitrite,” says the teller,
“is not explosive, merely poisonous. Probably you mean nitroglycerine.” “Not only do I mean it, I have it.” It is already clear that the teller, or rather his money, is doomed. Instead of simply pressing the alarm button, he allows himself to be drawn into an argument; moreover, he already has little beads of perspiration on his forehead and upper lip and is puzzling over what the lady might need the money for: Does she drink? Take dope? Has she gambling debts? A rebellious lover? He puzzles too much, fails to make use of his rights, and in this—it is fair to say
strongly
meditative—intermezzo, the old lady simply thrusts her hand through the window (she is smart enough to use her left hand), grabs as many five-hundred-mark bills as she can, runs to the door, unlocks it, crosses the street, disappears into the bushes—and only when she is long out of sight does the teller raise the alarm. It is fairly certain that
this
teller would have confronted a discourteous bank robber with far greater vigor: would have struck the clenched fist, raised the alarm.

Needless to say, the affair had a variety of sequels. Let me allude to the principal ones: the lady was never caught, the teller was not dismissed, merely transferred to a position where he had no direct contact with either cash or the public. When the lady discovered that instead of five thousand marks she had picked up seven thousand marks, she remitted one thousand nine hundred back to the bank and was clever enough not to do this by telegram since that might have led to her identification. She permitted herself a taxi, drove to the railway station, took the next train to her son: that cost her some ninety marks, the remaining ten she spent on coffee and a brandy, which she consumed in the dining car—and felt she had earned. When handing the money over to her son, she placed her hand over his mouth and said: “Don’t
ever
ask me where I got it from.” Then she phoned her neighbor and asked her to feed her pretty dwarf finches. Almost superfluous to add that things turned out well for her son: of course he read in the newspaper about the strange holdup by the “courteous bank robber,” and this act of solidarization by a criminal action on the part of his mother had a morally stabilizing effect on him, more than several thousand pieces of good advice, more than his stabilizing girlfriend. He became a reliable pharmaceuticals salesman with opportunities for advancement, although it must be added that he could not resist saying to his mother on more than one occasion: “Imagine you doing
that
for me!”
What
was never put into words. After much cogitation, the lady fixed the rate of repayment to the bank at one mark a month, her rationale for this low rate being: “Banks can wait.” From time to time she sent the teller some flowers, a book, or a theater ticket, and bequeathed him the only valuable piece of furniture she still possessed: a carved medicine chest in neo-Gothic style.

As we see: courtesy pays, for bank employees and bank robbers; and if bank robbers were completely to exclude weapons or explosive capsules, rude language, and rude behavior from their strategy, the day might come when we would no longer speak of bank holdups but only of forced loans, which will merely be a matter of a nonviolent duel between two different manifestations of courtesy.

I must add that bank robbery, when it takes place without violence or physical injury, is quite a popular offense. Every successful bank robbery in which no one is injured releases feelings of joy and even envy among those who would at any time carry out a successful and nonviolent bank robbery if they had the courage.

It is far more difficult even so much as to mention courtesy in the case of an equally punishable offense such as
desertion
. Strangely enough, deserters are considered to be cowardly, an opinion that on closer inspection fails to hold water. The deserter in wartime risks being shot—by either friend or foe, since he never knows into whose hands he will fall, although he thinks he knows from whose hands he is escaping. Whatever national yardsticks one wishes to apply—and oddly enough all nations are agreed on this—the deserter in wartime risks something, and one should respect his risk. But here I wish to speak about the
courteous
deserter
in peacetime
, about that unknown young man who leaves military service without making use of his rights—for instance, the right to conscientious objection; the young man who clears out, disappears—if possible in a foreign country—simply because he has had enough and is fed up with the main burden of a soldier’s life—boredom; the man who is not attracted by the more or less enforced camaraderie or by the service as such; who is left cold by money, food, driver’s license, educational opportunities, chances of promotion; a nice German boy who—let us say—has read his Eichendorff in school and found him
“overwhelming”; a pleasant youth who never finished school because he found it too boring; who became a carpenter, something he enjoyed; who shortly after passing his apprenticeship test was called up for military service, with a total lack of interest in armored vehicles or weapons of any kind, also with no interest in politics but profoundly, although not exclusively, interested in the manufacture of furniture such as he has observed on a number of visits to Italy in the street-level workshops of Rome and Florence, perhaps also of Siena. Moral problems, such as the occasional out-and-out faking of furniture, do not interest him: he wants—he wanted—to go there, and instead now suddenly finds himself in an infantry barracks in—let us say—Neu-Offenbach. Of course, this young man can be seriously reproached on a number of counts: that he lacks civic consciousness, that he should have cleared out to—let us say—Bologna before, rather than after, being called up. He can be reproached for lacking a sense of duty, although this is not the case, since the master carpenter under whom he served his apprenticeship and who has meanwhile fallen victim to structural changes in the economy, gave him an excellent reference. His parents, his teachers, even his friend, have repeatedly tried to persuade him that one must think
realistically;
yet this pleasant young man does think
realistically
, he thinks about seasoned wood, about glue and screws, about workbenches and curved chair legs, and of course he also thinks about girls and wine and things like that. The point is: the army means nothing to him, it says nothing to him, gives nothing to him. There are such cases. It is useless to deplore it, although
ESSENTIALLY
it is deplorable. That is the way the boy happens to be, and to his credit he did behave in a reasonably fair manner, having faithfully completed his so-called basic training: not that he conceded its necessity, it merely aroused his curiosity. But now he has simply had enough, and he does not turn to some counseling service or other—church, government, nonpartisan—no, he simply clears out; yet, being a courteous person, he does not just sneak off without a word, he writes (from a safe distance and using misleading, i.e., Swiss, stamps) a letter to his captain:

“Dear Sir: The fact that I can find no satisfaction in your profession, which I would have to practice for another year, does not, I trust, hurt your feelings, in the same way that I ask you not to take my desertion personally and certainly not as an insult. It so happens that I am not a
soldier and never will be, and nothing could be farther from my mind than to reproach you for not being a carpenter and probably not knowing what a tenon is, let alone how it is made. Of course I am aware—and I would ask you always to bear this in mind—that, although there are laws to force a man to be a soldier for fifteen months, there are no laws to force him to know anything about tenons, and I realize therefore that my comparison of soldier/carpenter is a lame one. So be it, and since there is this law that forces me to spend another year of atrocious boredom, I wish to inform you herewith that I am breaking that law.

“What pains me is the fact that you were such a nice, agreeable, understanding superior, and that naturally I would prefer to inflict on a lousy, beastly officer the pain I may be inflicting on you. More than once you have protected me, who has so little comprehension of absurd army regulations, from punishment; you have smiled understandingly at many a foolishness that aroused the ire of my corporal and even of my comrades—so understandingly that I suspect a crypto-deserter in you, and again you should take that not as an insult but as a compliment. In short:
as
my superior you were even better than my master carpenter, but
what
you—or rather, the army—doled out to me was, quite simply, intolerable, and this does not apply to the food or the allowance but merely to that appalling activity known as ‘killing time.’ The simple fact is that I do not want to go on killing my time; I want to make it come alive—no more, but no less.

“The only sensible activity, the only one I enjoyed, was the four-day disaster-relief deployment during the floods in Oberduffendorf: it was most enjoyable paddling the rubber dinghy from house to house and bringing the marooned inhabitants of Oberduffendorf hot soup, coffee, bread, and the tabloid—many a face lit up in gratitude! But I ask you, sir, would it not be positively macabre, even wicked, to wait for further disasters in order to find meaning in military service?

“Hoping that you will understand some of my thoughts and not despise my motives, I remain, respectfully yours …”