The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (133 page)

“Becker said nothing. He appeared touched in his professional role as a spiritual adviser, as a paid official of the state, but in human terms, Becker had been completely deadened by everything he had seen, heard, and experienced; by the horrors of the retreat, by hunger, confusion, fear, and bombs. Becker only had a few phrases to offer, you know the sort—ready-made clichés from the spiritual five-and-dime store, the stuff handed out in some confessionals after absolution, one to a customer and on your way … next, please! Of course he urged him to go to confession, to pray, to become a better man … imagine!”

The chaplain seized me firmly by the shoulder and forced my weary face in his direction. His eyes flared excitedly, like sparkling blue lights, his poor, pale face was flushed, his mouth twitching. We faced each other almost like combatants, here by the bier bearing the corpse of the Mad Dog! But I was so tired, so very tired. And yet deep, deep within me lay an urgent, passionate interest in this human destiny, and I had to hear how it had ended.

“You see,” the chaplain groaned, “I can easily imagine it, because I’ve done it so many times myself. I can picture it in living detail. Becker no longer had a personal relationship with him. In the face of this terrible torment he produced nothing but a cool, professional response. Perhaps he was worn down, dulled, as may happen to priests in the confessional … My God, nothing but adultery and baseness, year after year! Perhaps, as a doctor, you understand. You find a corpse less gruesome than thousands of others do who’ve seen far fewer corpses and far less blood, in spite of the war. Unburied bodies are less disturbing and less moving to priests than they are to those who have never peered into the hearts of so-called decent human beings. My God … that’s how it must have been for Becker, you see. The demonic frenzy of the final months of the war had died away and we were in the doldrums, the wind had fallen and everything was still, a becalmed void. Becker was
cool toward him. Indifferent, perhaps even dismissive. Herold said: ‘He pushed me back into my personal abyss …’ And then he plunged into a totally destructive rage.

“He must have been denounced by people who noticed him and found him suspicious. The police were after him; he had to change hiding places several times. They hounded him through the piles of rubble. In the midst of a broad expanse of ruins in the inner city, he finally discovered a bombed-out building with an undamaged cellar, easily accessible and difficult to find, and here, motivated by burning hate, he brooded a few days before emerging as the ‘Mad Dog.’ He found accomplices easily enough—he couldn’t bear to be alone, although he was arrogant and domineering with his henchmen. First they stole enough to make themselves comfortable. Then—planning in cold blood—they amassed a large supply of stolen goods on the black market, stocked their rooms with provisions, and began a hideous game. The whole plan was his; he was the acknowledged leader and judge. He turned up, with a certain aura of mystery, when his henchmen had carried out the burglary and prepared the victim or victims. He declared the method of death according to his mood … shooting … stabbing or hanging … and often simply terrorized them, leaving them quaking under the constant threat.” The chaplain paused for a moment. “They killed twenty-three people that way … twenty-three.”

The two of us stared at the motionless body, moved by a deep feeling of horror—cold terror in our veins. The murderer’s pale red hair shimmered softly through patches of blood and dirt in the dismal light of the room. The cold, thin-lipped mouth seemed still to be smiling, scornful and cruel, appearing to mock our words, our entire conversation. I turned, trembling, and waited uneasily for the chaplain to turn toward me as well. I felt menaced by doleful spirits, and thought his poor, humane face might offer some consolation. But the chaplain remained silent a long time, staring at the dead man … a long time. I don’t know if he startled me out of my thoughts, or prayers, or merely from a state lost in fear, when he touched me lightly on the shoulder. Now his voice was gentle, almost consoling: “And strangest of all, this man, who was never close to any woman, who lived a life of almost celibate purity, died because of a woman. And it occurred to me he might still be alive, might have been a more humane person, had he
found a woman to love, or succumbed only to those vices of all weak men—alcohol and tobacco. In some mysterious sense, he remained chaste. No ruined fragment from paradise could deceive him. And his downfall was brought about by a woman, added to the gang against his will, who wormed her way in, in spite of his objections, his furious outbursts, a woman he could never control, although she committed several murders under his leadership. Worst of all, she was in love with him, and was driven by months of scorn and rejection to murder him. She incited the others, and they fell upon him with a fury more terrible than that reserved for other victims, for it is a diabolical, profoundly shocking enigma that down deep, Hell hates nothing quite so much as itself. They practically tore him to pieces. Yet he was still alive when they found him here at the door with a slip of paper in his breast pocket, on which was written, in a literate hand:
The Mad Dog, for burial by the police
. It was a woman’s writing …”

I no longer had the strength to move. Lost, I stared at the dirty ceiling. My God, was I hungry, tired? I was miserable, the absolute horror of it all beyond my grasp, immersed in my own total wretchedness, incapable of prayer. I felt buried beneath the rubble of despair of our entire world by the chaplain’s report, and a dull, dark personal fear held me in its rigid, iron claws. Then, as if the words were already dashed to pieces within my mouth, I managed to ask: “Do you think that he …?”

But the chaplain had turned around once more. He seemed to be praying, and—strangely—I too was forced to turn and view the body, the unchanged corpse, smeared with blood and filth. Perhaps I prayed, I don’t know … My entire being was a blend of fear and torment and dull foreboding.

But who can describe this state of dull, defensive listlessness in which the mind retains a sharp clarity, a coldness possible only in thought?

Then the door was yanked open so noisily it sounded as if the building was about to be brought down around our heads, and as we turned around, shocked and startled, a harsh voice called out: “All right, let’s get the body and—” But then three uniformed figures noticed us and approached more quietly. Things seemed so strangely bright upon their entrance. One of them, a slim, dark-haired man with an impassive face, said quietly: “Good evening,” and turned to the other two: “All
right now …” But the chaplain, who’d watched in shock all the while, as if lost in thought, finally came to himself. He raised his hands to ward them off and cried out: “No … no … let me do that …” He quickly turned and gathered the frayed human bundle fearlessly, ignoring the shocked cry: “But Father!”

He looked as if he were carrying a dead lover with despairing tenderness.

I followed as in a dream through the warm, terrible brightness of the guard room, out into the damp, dark street, covered with wet patches of dirty snow. A car waited outside, its motor growling, coughing. Slowly, tenderly, the chaplain placed the body on a sack of straw inside the vehicle. There was a smell of gasoline and oil, of war and terror. The darkness, the merciless darkness of winter, lay across the empty façades of the buildings like an unbearable burden.

“But … no … you can’t do that …” one of the policemen cried as the chaplain got into the car. But the third made an unambiguous circular motion at his temple—while the dark-haired one stood by quietly, with what seemed to me a pained smile.

The chaplain gestured for me to come closer, and in spite of the swelling roar of the engine, I heard the words he whispered softly to me, as if it were a secret: “He cried in the end, you know … I wiped away the tears before you came … because the tears—” But the car suddenly pulled away with a powerful surge, and I saw only a final helpless gesture of the figure in black as he was carried off into the cold, gloomy canyons of the destroyed city.

I went to the quay early to meet her. It had been pouring rain for days. The ground of the promenade had softened, and leaves were rotting in the puddles. Although it was mid-August, the smell of autumn was already in the trees, the café terraces had been cleared, the white chairs and tables stacked and hastily covered with canvas. Nearly all the guests had departed; not a person was in sight. A thick, humid haze floated above the water, almost obscuring the strands of rain. The only other person in view was an employee of the shipping company whose cap was visible behind the small window of his tiny ticket booth.

The waiters stood shivering in the corners of the hotel lobbies, waiting on the few guests seeking afternoon coffee or tea.

A week ago I’d sat down beside her in the cinema. I had arrived early, far too early, and as I walked past the yawning usher into the empty, brightly lit movie house, the first thing I saw was the glare of the projector, its flickering light casting black threads upon the bright rectangle of the screen, gently shifting, tumbling about in the void; and right at the front of the empty hall, near the screen, I saw her, just her delicate neck and green raincoat, and although I had a ticket for one of the better seats, I walked forward and sat down beside her.

I felt the damp rising slowly around me now, leaching itself coolly to me, but I didn’t care. My gaze was fixed on the bend in the Rhine where the boat would appear at any moment. The blackboard on which the arrival time had been written in chalk bore only a few smeared, grayish white lines, and water was dripping from the clapper of the bell used to announce arrivals and departures, faster and faster, like a leaky faucet.

A black barge appeared at the far end of the bend, being towed wearily, irritatingly slowly, upstream. I looked at my watch: It was a few minutes to five. If the boat intended to depart again on schedule, ten minutes from now, it had to round the bend at any moment. The man behind the little window of the booth was enjoying a cigarette, his red face veiled now and then by smoke. My coat was already dark from the rain.

The barge had not yet cleared the bend, towing its rear section like a wounded reptile dragging its tail. Just then the fellow opened the booth and his deep voice called out to me: “Pretty boring, isn’t it, Doctor?”

I recognized him now. His wife ran a tobacco store somewhere back up the quay, and not an hour ago I’d bought tobacco there and had a long chat with him about the pros and cons of various brands.

“Just recognized you,” he said, glancing at my cap. “Come on in for a bit.”

He squeezed up against the side of the booth facing the promenade and gestured that I was welcome to take the other side. We stood together like two guards in a sentry box.

“Lousy weather,” he resumed, “bloody lousy. Whole season’s ruined.”

“Yep,” I said, and stared out again at the bend in the river. Then I exclaimed, “There!” as a white boat, lighter and faster, pulled alongside and passed the black barge.

“Waiting for someone? Your wife?”

“Yes,” I said, and instantly regretted having joined him. It would have been more pleasant to stand in the rain and know that in a quarter of an hour I would be sitting at a table with her, drinking hot tea. The man was so close to me that his curious eyes almost touched my forehead.

I kept my eyes glued on the prow of the white boat, which was now passing under the bridge, still in midstream. It was difficult to see the banks, which were veiled by the vapor of the rain, and the lofty, gloomy mountains floated ghostlike above the haze.

“Ah, love …” the old man said, and shoved his cap back on his head. Staring at the boat, I followed its every move as if I myself were on the river, clasping my hands tightly as I recalled how I had simply reached
out in the dark, as the film began. I took her hand and held it, the hand of a stranger who pulled back at first, then gave in, a small hand, hot with shame. Now and then, when the dull shimmer of light from the screen fell upon us, we would glance at one another: I saw a narrow face with pale, serious eyes that seemed to be asking something, and later, when the film had ended, she tried to flee, to lose herself in the crowd, but I spotted her green raincoat again at the tram station.

The boat was now making its way toward the bank from midriver, and only when the man from the booth left and hurried down the smooth gangway did I realize how close the boat was. The motor was clearly audible, and people in raincoats were visible standing by the front exit. The bell was already clanging, its tones ringing out in the rain clouds like signals at sea. I stepped outside, and only then, at that moment, did I realize I felt no touch of joy; only anxiety, restlessness, and the prickling sense of danger that tempts a driver to floor the accelerator on a series of sharp curves.

I tossed my cigarette into a puddle and walked down the gangway. The old man, standing at the bottom, dropped a thick pad between the boat and the piling. A rope was slung over the side of the boat, and the old man wrapped it around an iron stanchion. Then the deckhand slid the gangplank across. I stared blankly at the entrance. Not even her green cape could free me entirely from my trance …

“Good day, Frau Doctor,” said the old man, who was now unloading and stacking cases of empty soft-drink bottles.

I took her arm without looking at her and drew her along with me. “Thank you,” I said hoarsely.

She sighed deeply, but said nothing.

I squeezed her arm mutely. The bell rang out again behind us, and the motor swelled, then receded as we walked through the puddles on the promenade and entered the hotel.

The lobby was nearly empty. I removed her cape and saw for the first time that she was carrying a small suitcase. “Sorry,” I said softly, and took the case, hanging up her cape and freeing myself from my own damp coat and cap. The old art dealer’s widow who had forced her company upon me that morning, drinking brandy and regaling me
with cynical anecdotes, was sitting in the lobby. She glanced up at us, then returned to her pastry. The only other person present was an old gentleman who had besieged the newsstand by noon.