The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (64 page)

Inna woke me at 1617 hours: she had some strong tea and ginger biscuits ready, and we quickly went once more through the files on Hürlanger-Hiss, the unforgotten field marshal to whose memory we planned to dedicate the building.

While I was examining the Hürlanger files once more, my arm around Inna’s shoulder, lost in daydreams of her gift of love, I heard the band music: melancholy overtook me, for, like all the other experiences of this day, to listen to this music in civilian clothes was truly an ordeal.

The band music and Inna’s nearness diverted my attention from the files; however, Inna had filled me in verbally so that I was fully equipped to give my speech. The doorbell rang as Inna was pouring out my second cup of tea; I jumped, but Inna smiled reassuringly. “An important guest,” she said, returning from the hall, “a guest whom we cannot possibly receive in here.” There was a twinkle in her eye as she gestured toward the rumpled bed in all its delightful disarray of love. “Come along,” she said. I got out of bed, followed her in a kind of daze, and was genuinely surprised to find myself face to face in her living room with the Minister of Defense. His frank, rugged countenance was shining. “General von Machorka-Muff,” he said, with a beaming smile, “welcome to the capital!”

I could not believe my ears. With a twinkle in his eye the Minister handed me my commission.

I think, looking back, I must have swayed for a moment and suppressed a few tears; but actually I am not quite sure what was going on inside me; all I remember is hearing myself say: “But Your Excellency—the uniform—half an hour before the ceremony starts….” With
a twinkle in his eye—what an admirable man he is, what sterling qualities!—he glanced at Inna, Inna twinkled back at him, drew aside a chintz curtain dividing off one corner of the room, and there it was, there hung my uniform, with all my decorations on it.… Events, emotions followed so thick and fast that looking back all I can do is give their sequence in note-form:

We offered the Minister some refreshment and he had a glass of beer while I changed in Inna’s room.

Drive to the building site, which I was viewing for the first time: I was extraordinarily moved by the sight of this piece of land on which my pet project is to become reality: the Academy for Military Memoirs, where every veteran from the rank of major up is to be given the opportunity of committing his reminiscences to paper, through conversations with old comrades and cooperation with the Ministry’s Department of Military History; my own feeling is that a six-week course should suffice, but Parliament is willing to subsidize a three-month course. I was also thinking of having a few healthy working-class girls housed in a special wing, to sweeten the evening leisure hours of the comrades who are plagued with memories. I have gone to a great deal of trouble to find appropriate inscriptions. The main wing is to bear in gold lettering the inscription: MEMORIA DEXTERA EST; while over the girls’ wing, which will also contain the bathrooms, will be the words: BALNEUM ET AMOR MARTIS DECOR. However, on the way there the Minister hinted that I should not mention this part of my plan just yet; he was afraid—perhaps rightly so—of opposition from some of his fellow members of Parliament, although—as he put it with a chuckle—no one could complain of lack of liberalization!

There were flags all around the building site, the band was playing:
I used to have a comrade
, as I walked beside the Minister toward the platform. Since with his usual modesty the Minister declined to open proceedings, I stepped up at once onto the dais, surveyed the row of assembled comrades, and, encouraged by a wink from Inna, began to speak:

“Your Excellency, comrades! This building, which is to bear the name Hürlanger-Hiss Academy for Military Memoirs, needs no justification. But a justification is required for the name Hürlanger-Hiss, a name which for many years—to this very day, I would say—has
been regarded as dishonored. You all know the disgrace attaching to this name: when the army of Field Marshal Emil von Hürlanger-Hiss was obliged to retreat at Schwichi-Schwaloche, Hürlanger-Hiss could report a loss of only 8,500 men. According to the calculations of Tapir’s specialists in retreat—Tapir, as you know, was our private name for Hitler—his army should, with the proper fighting spirit, have had a loss of 12,300 men. You are also aware, Your Excellency and comrades, of the insulting treatment to which Hürlanger-Hiss was subjected: he was transferred in disgrace to Biarritz, where he died of lobster poisoning. For years—a total of fourteen years—this dishonor has attached to his name. All the data on Hürlanger’s army fell into the hands of Tapir’s underlings, later into the hands of the Allies, but today, today,” I cried, pausing so as to let my next words sink in, “today it can be taken as a proven fact, and I am prepared to make the material public, it can be taken as proven fact that our great Field Marshal’s army suffered losses at Schwichi-Schwaloche of a total of 14,700 men: it can therefore be assumed beyond any doubt that his army fought with unexampled courage, and his name is now cleared of all blemish.”

While I let the deafening applause pour over me and modestly diverted the ovation from myself to the Minister, I had a chance to observe from the faces of my comrades that they too were surprised by this information; how discreetly Inna had carried on her research!

To the strains of
See’st thou the dawn in eastern skies
I took the trowel and stone from the mason and set the cornerstone in place; it contained a photograph of Hürlanger-Hiss together with one of his shoulder-straps.

At the head of my comrades I marched from the building site to the villa, “The Golden Shekel,” which Inna’s family has put at our disposal until the academy has been completed. Here we had a brisk round of drinks, a word of thanks from the Minister, and a telegram from the Chancellor was read out, before the social hour began.

The social hour was opened by a concerto for seven drums, played by seven former generals; with the consent of the composer, a captain with musical aspirations, it was announced that it would be known as
the Hürlanger-Hiss Memorial Septet. The social hour was an unqualified success: songs were sung, stories told, confidences exchanged, old quarrels forgotten.

Wednesday

We had just an hour to get ready for the church service; in relaxed marching order we made our way just before 0730 hours to the cathedral. Inna stood beside me in church, and I felt encouraged when she whispered that she recognized a colonel as her second husband, a lieutenant-colonel as her fifth, and a captain as her sixth. “And your eighth,” I whispered in her ear, “will be a general.” My mind was made up; Inna blushed; she did not hesitate when after it was over I took her into the vestry to introduce her to the prelate who had conducted the service. “Indeed, my dear child,” the priest said, after we had discussed the church’s position, “since none of your former marriages was solemnized in church, there is no obstacle to you and General von Machorka-Muff having a church wedding.”

It was under these auspices that we had breakfast, in a gay mood, à deux; Inna was elated, I had never seen her quite like that. “I always feel like this,” she said, “when I am a bride.” I ordered champagne.

We decided to keep our engagement a secret for the time being, but as a little celebration we drove up to the Petersberg, a lovely hill a few miles outside Bonn, where Inna’s cousin, whose maiden name was Pelf, had invited us for lunch. Inna’s cousin was adorable.

The afternoon and evening were devoted entirely to love, the night to sleep.

Thursday

I still can’t quite get used to the idea that I am living and working here; it must be a dream! Gave my first lecture this morning: “Reminiscence as a Historical Duty.”

Annoying interlude at midday. Murcks-Maloche came to see me at the villa on behalf of the Minister to report that the opposition had expressed itself dissatisfied with our academy project.

“Opposition?” I asked, “what’s that?”

Murcks enlightened me. I was astounded. “Let’s get this straight,” I said impatiently, “do we have the majority or don’t we?”

“We do,” said Murcks.

“Well then,” I said. Opposition—a strange word, I don’t like it at all; it is such a grim reminder of times that I thought were over and done with.

Inna, when I told her at teatime about my annoyance, consoled me.

“Erich,” she said, putting her little hand on my arm, “no one has ever opposed our family.”

Probably one of the strangest interludes in my life was the time I spent as an employee in Alfred Wunsiedel’s factory. By nature I am inclined more to pensiveness and inactivity than to work, but now and again prolonged financial difficulties compel me—for pensiveness is no more profitable than inactivity—to take on a so-called job. Finding myself once again at a low ebb of this kind, I put myself in the hands of the employment office and was sent with seven other fellow-sufferers to Wunsiedel’s factory, where we were to undergo an aptitude test.

The exterior of the factory was enough to arouse my suspicions: the factory was built entirely of glass brick, and my aversion to well-lit buildings and well-lit rooms is as strong as my aversion to work. I became even more suspicious when we were immediately served breakfast in the well-lit, cheerful coffee shop: pretty waitresses brought us eggs, coffee and toast, orange juice was served in tastefully designed jugs, goldfish pressed their bored faces against the sides of pale-green aquariums. The waitresses were so cheerful that they appeared to be bursting with good cheer. Only a strong effort of will—so it seemed to me—restrained them from singing away all day long. They were as crammed with unsung songs as chickens with unlaid eggs.

Right away I realized something that my fellow-sufferers evidently failed to realize: that this breakfast was already part of the test; so I chewed away reverently, with the full appreciation of a person who knows he is supplying his body with valuable elements. I did something which normally no power on earth can make me do: I drank orange juice on an empty stomach, left the coffee and egg untouched, as well
as most of the toast, got up, and paced up and down in the coffee shop, pregnant with action.

As a result I was the first to be ushered into the room where the questionnaires were spread out on attractive tables. The walls were done in a shade of green that would have summoned the word “delightful” to the lips of interior decoration enthusiasts. The room appeared to be empty, and yet I was so sure of being observed that I behaved as someone pregnant with action behaves when he believes himself unobserved: I ripped my pen impatiently from my pocket, unscrewed the top, sat down at the nearest table and pulled the questionnaire toward me, the way irritable customers snatch at the bill in a restaurant.

Question No. 1: Do you consider it right for a human being to possess only two arms, two legs, eyes, and ears?

Here for the first time I reaped the harvest of my pensive nature and wrote without hesitation: “Even four arms, legs and ears would not be adequate for my driving energy. Human beings are very poorly equipped.”

Question No. 2: How many telephones can you handle at one time?

Here again the answer was as easy as simple arithmetic: “When there are only seven telephones,” I wrote, “I get impatient; there have to be nine before I feel I am working to capacity.”

Question No. 3: How do you spend your free time?

My answer: “I no longer acknowledge the term free time—on my fifteenth birthday I eliminated it from my vocabulary, for in the beginning was the act.”

I got the job. Even with nine telephones I really didn’t feel I was working to capacity. I shouted into the mouthpieces: “Take immediate action!” or: “Do something!—We must have some action—Action will be taken—Action has been taken—Action should be taken.” But as a rule—for I felt this was in keeping with the tone of the place—I used the imperative.

Of considerable interest were the noon-hour breaks, when we consumed nutritious foods in an atmosphere of silent good cheer. Wunsiedel’s factory was swarming with people who were obsessed with telling you the story of their lives, as indeed vigorous personalities are fond of doing. The story of their lives is more important to them than their lives, you have only to press a button, and immediately it is covered with spewed-out exploits.

Wunsiedel had a right-hand man called Broschek, who had in turn made a name for himself by supporting seven children and a paralyzed wife by working night-shifts in his student days, and successfully carrying on four business agencies, besides which he had passed two examinations with honors in two years. When asked by reporters: “When do you sleep, Mr. Broscheck?” he had replied: “It’s a crime to sleep!”

Wunsiedel’s secretary had supported a paralyzed husband and four children by knitting, at the same time graduating in psychology and German history as well as breeding shepherd dogs, and she had become famous as a night-club singer where she was known as
Vamp Number Seven
.

Wunsiedel himself was one of those people who every morning, as they open their eyes, make up their minds to act. “I must act,” they think as they briskly tie their bathrobe belts around them. “I must act,” they think as they shave, triumphantly watching their beard hairs being washed away with the lather: these hirsute vestiges are the first daily sacrifices to their driving energy. The more intimate functions also give these people a sense of satisfaction: water swishes, paper is used. Action has been taken. Bread gets eaten, eggs are decapitated.

With Wunsiedel, the most trivial activity looked like action: the way he put on his hat, the way—quivering with energy—he buttoned up his overcoat, the kiss he gave his wife, everything was action.

When he arrived at his office he greeted his secretary with a cry of “Let’s have some action!” And in ringing tones she would call back: “Action will be taken!” Wunsiedel then went from department to department, calling out his cheerful: “Let’s have some action!” Everyone would answer: “Action will be taken!” And I would call back to him too, with a radiant smile, when he looked into my office: “Action will be taken!”