The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (28 page)

In the corridor they ran into Schmitz and Otten.

“Where are you going?” asked Schmitz.

“To see the paymaster,” said Schneider. “The girl wants her money.”

“The paymaster’s gone,” said Schmitz. “He left yesterday evening, for Szolnok; from there he’s going to join up with the advance unit.” He lowered his lids for a moment, then looked at the men. No one said a word. The girl glanced from one to the other. “Otten,” said Schmitz, “round up the rear unit, I need a few men for unloading, no one seemed to think of leaving any food for us.”

“And the girl?” asked Schneider.

Schmitz shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t give her any money.”

“Should she come back tomorrow morning?”

Schmitz looked at the girl. She smiled at him.

“No,” he said, “it had better be this afternoon.”

Otten ran along the corridor, shouting, “Rear unit fall in!”

Schmitz went out into the courtyard and stood beside the truck, while Schneider accompanied the girl to her cart. He tried to explain to her that she should come back in the afternoon, but she kept vigorously shaking her head until he realized she was not going to leave without her money. He continued to stand beside her, watched her climb onto the cart, turn her crate up, and take out a brown-paper parcel. Then she hung the feedbag over the horse’s nose and unwrapped the parcel: part of a loaf of bread, a large flat meat patty, and a leek. Her wine was in a squat green bottle. She was smiling at him now, and suddenly, in the midst of chewing, she said “Nagyvárad,” and struck the air several times with her fist, horizontally away from her body, making a solemn face as she did so. Schneider imagined she was demonstrating a fistfight which someone had lost, or maybe—he thought—she was trying to show that she felt she had been cheated. He didn’t know what “Nagyvárad” meant. Hungarian was a very difficult language, it didn’t even have a word for tobacco.

The girl shook her head. “Nagyvárad, Nagyvárad,” she repeated vehemently several times, striking the air again with her fist, horizontally away from her chest. She shook her head and laughed, chewing hard, and took a quick gulp of wine. “Oh!” she went, “Nagyvárad—Russ,” again the boxing gesture, this time prolonged and in a wide arc: “Russ—Russ.” She pointed to the southeast and imitated the noise of tanks approaching: “Bru-bru-bru …”

Suddenly Schneider nodded, and she laughed out loud, but broke off in the middle and assumed a very grave expression. Schneider realized that Nagyvárad must be a town, and the boxing gesture was now quite clear. He looked across to the men standing by the truck and unloading. Schmitz was standing up front beside the driver and signing something. Schneider called out to him, “When you have a moment, sir, would you mind coming over here?” Schmitz nodded.

The girl had finished her meal. She carefully wrapped up the bread and the remains of the leek and stuck the cork back in the bottle.

“Would you like some water for the horse?” asked Schneider. She looked at him questioningly.

“Water,” he said, “for the horse.” He leaned slightly forward and tried to imitate a horse drinking.

“Oh,” she cried, “oh, yo!” Her eyes held a strange look, of curiosity somehow, curiosity and tenderness.

Across the yard the truck moved off, and Schmitz walked over.

Their eyes followed the truck; outside, another column stood waiting for the entrance to become free.

“What is it?” asked Schmitz.

“She’s talking about a breakthrough near a town beginning with Nagy.”

Schmitz nodded. “Nagyvárad,” he said, “I know.”

“You know?”

“I heard it last night over the radio.”

“Is it far from here?”

Schmitz looked thoughtfully at the long column of trucks driving into the yard. “Far,” he said with a sigh, “far doesn’t mean a thing in this war—must be about sixty miles. Maybe we should give the girl her money in cigarettes—right now.”

Schneider looked at Schmitz and felt himself blushing. “Hold on a minute,” he said, “I’d like her to stay for a bit.”

“Suit yourself,” said Schmitz, walking slowly off toward the south wing.

As he entered the patients’ room, the captain said in a low, hollow tone: “Byelyogorshe.” Schmitz knew it was pointless to look at his watch; that rhythm was more precise than any watch could ever be, and while he sat on the edge of the bed, the medical history in his hand,
almost lulled to sleep by that ever-recurring word, he tried to figure out how such a rhythm could come about—what mechanism, what clockwork, in that appallingly patched-up, sliced-up skull, was releasing that monotonous litany? And what happened in those fifty seconds when the man said nothing, merely breathed? Schmitz knew almost nothing about him: born March 1895 in Wuppertal; rank: captain; service: army; civilian occupation: businessman; religion: Lutheran; residence, troop unit, wounds, illnesses, type of injury. Nor was there anything particularly striking about this man’s life: his school record was not good, he had been a very mediocre student, somewhat unreliable; he had only had to repeat a year once, and on graduating he had even had a B in geography, English, and Phys. Ed. He had had no love for the war; without wanting to, he had been made a lieutenant in 1915. He drank a bit, but not excessively—and later, when he was married, he could never bring himself to deceive his wife, however simple and enticing it might sometimes have been to arrange an affair. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Schmitz knew that everything in the medical history was virtually irrelevant as long as he didn’t know why the man said “Byelyogorshe” and what it meant to him—and Schmitz knew that he would never know, yet he would have happily sat there forever, waiting for that word.

Outside it was very quiet. He listened tensely and expectantly to the silence into which from time to time that word dropped. But the silence was stronger, oppressively strong, and slowly, almost reluctantly, Schmitz got up and went out of the room.

After Schmitz had left them, the girl looked at Schneider and seemed embarrassed. She made a hurried gesture of drinking. “Oh, of course,” he said, “the water.” He went toward the building to get some water. At the entrance he had to jump back: an elegant red car drove past him, quietly but a little too fast and, carefully avoiding the parked ambulances, swung toward the rear, where the administrator had his quarters.

On coming back with the pail of water, Schneider had to jump aside again. Horns were sounding, the column was getting under way. In the first truck sat the sergeant major, the others followed slowly. The sergeant major did not look at Schneider. Schneider let the long line of
trucks pass and stepped into the courtyard, now oppressively empty and quiet. He set the pail down in front of the horse and looked at the girl; she pointed to Schmitz, just then emerging from the south wing. Schmitz walked past them out through the entrance, and they slowly followed. They stood side by side watching the column move off in the direction of the station. “The two from the infectious ward actually did bring along some weapons,” Schmitz said quietly.

“Ah, yes,” exclaimed Schneider, “I’d forgotten about that.”

Schmitz shook his head. “We won’t be needing them—on the contrary. Come on, let’s go.” He paused beside the girl. “I think we’d better give her the cigarettes now, eh? Just in case?”

Schneider nodded. “Didn’t they leave us a truck? How are we supposed to get away?”

“One truck’s supposed to be coming back,” said Schmitz. “The MO promised me.”

The two men exchanged glances.

“There come some refugees,” said Schmitz, pointing toward the village: a weary group was approaching. The refugees trudged slowly past without looking at them. They were tired and sad and did not look at either the soldiers or the girl.

“They’ve come a long way,” said Schmitz. “Look how tired the horses are. It’s useless to run away; at that speed they’ll never escape the war.”

A car horn blew behind them, sharp and impatient, insolent. They moved slowly apart, Schneider toward the girl. The administrator’s car was pushing its way out; it was forced to stop, almost hitting a refugee cart. They could see the occupants quite distinctly, they were sitting right in front of their noses, it was like being in the front row at the movies, painfully close to the screen. In front, at the wheel, sat the administrator, his sharp, rather weak profile motionless; beside him on the seat was a pile of suitcases and blankets, firmly fastened with ropes so they would not topple over on him during the drive. Behind him sat his wife, her beautiful profile as motionless as his; both seemed bent on looking neither right nor left. She was holding the baby on her lap, their six-year-old boy was beside her. He was the only one looking out; his lively face was pressed to the glass, and he smiled at the soldiers. It was two minutes before the car could go on—the horses were tired, and somewhere farther along, the trek had stalled. They could see
the man at the wheel grow tense: he was sweating, he blinked rapidly, and his wife whispered something to him from the back seat. There was scarcely a sound, only the refugees calling out wearily along the trek, and a child crying; but suddenly from the courtyard behind them came shouts, hoarse yells, and they looked back. At that instant a stone struck the car, but it only smacked into the folded tent; the second stone knocked a dent in the saucepan tied to the top as if for a family outing. The man who was yelling and running up to them was the janitor; he occupied two rooms in the bathhouse at the far end of the grounds. He was quite close now, standing right in the entrance, but he had run out of stones. As he bent down, cursing, the snag in the trek sorted itself out, and the car, hooting imperiously, got under way. A flowerpot swished through the air but landed only where a second ago the car had been standing, on the swept pavement of blue chips. The clay pot shattered, the fragments rolled apart, forming an oddly symmetrical circle around the lump of soil, which first seemed to retain its shape but then suddenly crumbled apart, releasing the roots of a geranium whose blossoms, red and innocent, remained upright in the center.

The janitor stood between the soldiers. He was not cursing now, he was weeping, the tears clearly visible on his grimy cheeks, and his posture was both touching and horrifying: leaning forward, fists clenched, his grubby old jacket flapping about his hollow chest. He jumped when a woman’s voice screamed behind him in the courtyard, then he turned and walked slowly back, weeping. Szarka followed him, drawing away when Schneider put out his hand toward her. She took hold of her horse, led it outside, climbed onto the cart, and picked up the reins.

“I’ll go and get the cigarettes,” cried Schmitz. “Don’t let her leave—I’ll be right back.” Schneider held the horse firmly by the bridle, the girl brought the whip down on his hand; it hurt, but he hung on. He looked back and was surprised to see Schmitz running. He wouldn’t have thought Schmitz would ever run. The girl raised her whip again, but instead of bringing it down on his hand she placed it beside her on the seat, and Schneider was amazed to see her suddenly smile: it was the smile he had often seen on her, tender and cool, and he went up to the cart and carefully lifted her down from her upturned crate. She called out something to the horse, and when Schneider put his arms around her, he saw that she was still a bit nervous, but she did not resist, she
just looked uneasily about her. It was dark in the entrance; Schneider kissed her carefully on the cheeks, on the nose, and pushed back her smooth black hair to kiss the nape of her neck. He was startled to hear Schmitz throw the cigarettes into the cart. The girl’s head shot up, her eyes went to the red packages. Schmitz did not look at Schneider but turned on his heel and went back into the courtyard. The girl was blushing, she looked at Schneider but deliberately past his eyes, and all at once she called out to the horse, a crisp, short word, and jerked the reins. Schneider moved aside. He waited until she was fifty paces away, then called her name into the silence—she hesitated, did not turn around, raised the whip over her head in a farewell gesture, and drove on. Schneider walked slowly back into the courtyard.

The seven men of the rear unit were sitting over a meal outside what had been the kitchen; there was a pail of soup on the table in the courtyard, and beside it thick slices of bread and meat. Schneider heard muffled blows coming from inside the building. He raised his eyebrows at the men.

“The janitor’s breaking down the door to the administrator’s quarters,” said Feinhals, adding a moment later, “At least he might have left the door open; there’s no point in destroying it.”

Schmitz entered the building with four soldiers to collect all the material for loading. Schneider stayed behind with Feinhals and Otten.

“I’ve been given a nice job,” said Otten.

Feinhals was drinking red schnapps out of an enamel mug; he passed a few packs of cigarettes to Schneider. “Thanks,” said Schneider.

“I’ve been given the job,” said Otten, “of throwing the machine gun and the machine pistol and the rest of the junk into the cesspool, down there where the dud shell’s lying. You can give me a hand, Feinhals.”

“Okay,” said Feinhals. With his soup spoon he was slowly drawing patterns on the table from a soup puddle that ran broad and brown from the center to the edge.

“Let’s go, then,” said Otten.

Shortly after this Schneider fell asleep, bent over the lid of his mess bowl. His cigarette went on burning. It was lying at the edge of the table; the fine ash ate its way slowly out of the cigarette paper, the burning tip crept on, burning a narrow black trail in the table as far as the edge of the cigarette, and four minutes later only a slender gray
stick of ash was left, stuck to the table. This little gray stick lay there a long time, almost an hour, until Schneider woke up and brushed it off with his arm without ever having seen it. He woke up just as the truck was driving into the yard. Almost simultaneously with the sound of the truck they heard the first tanks. Schneider leaped to his feet. The others, who were standing around smoking, were on the point of laughing, but stopped short of it: that distant rumble spoke for itself.