The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (73 page)

I first met Schnecker in the summer of 1943. I had been ordered to leave an interpreter unit stationed in Paris and report to a coastal division where I was once again to partake of the joys of “real” infantry service. Leaving the last railroad station behind me, I had reached a sleepy little place that seemed to consist of long, low walls surrounding lush grass. There, in the northwestern corner of Normandy, parallel to the coast, runs a strip of land that breathes the brooding isolation of heath and marsh: here and there a few tiny hamlets, some abandoned, ruined farms, shallow streams meandering sluggishly toward the swampy arms of the Somme or petering out underground.

From the station I had laboriously asked my way to battalion headquarters. There, predictably, I had been kept waiting a considerable time before being directed to one of the companies. The clerk, a corporal, suggested I wait for the mail orderly of my future unit and go along with him. But since that would have meant a four-hour wait outside this desolate château, I asked the corporal how to get there, saluted, and left.

As I was shouldering my pack in the dark corridor, an officer passed by, a tall slim fellow who, in spite of his youth, was wearing the insignia of a captain. I performed the infamous “salute by standing at attention”: he looked at me as if I were made of glass and, without so much as a nod, walked on. It was Schnecker.

Only half a second had passed, but in that half second I felt all the humiliation forced upon us by the uniform. Every second I wore that uniform I hated it, but now I was so choked by disgust I actually felt a bitter taste on my tongue. I hurried after the officer, who was walking toward the orderly room, and planted myself in front of him, thus preventing him from reaching the door handle. I stood at attention again and said, “I request the captain to acknowledge my salute.” My loathing filled me with voluptuous pleasure. He looked at me as if I had gone out of my mind.

“What was that?” he asked huskily.

I repeated my words in an even tone, saluted again, looked at him, saluted again.

The battle was fought only between our eyes. He was fuming, ready to tear me to pieces, but from the ends of my coolly vibrating hair right down to my toes I was filled with a crystalline hatred. He suddenly raised his hand to his cap; I stood aside, opened the door for him, and walked away.

I passed quickly through the lethargic, sleeping village, took, as directed, the third turning on the left toward the coast, and soon found myself in a completely uninhabited area. Noonday heat quivered over the meadows; the road was dusty and stony; there were occasional little groups of trees, lots of bushes, no fields that I could see. I took advantage of the little shade there was and walked on for half an hour; then I suddenly stopped, looked up, and realized that all that time I had been staring unseeingly ahead of me. I was tired and suddenly felt quite exhausted. The roadside was covered with lush grass, but just as I was about to sit down I noticed, scarcely a hundred yards away, a larger group of trees that seemed to indicate a building. In the sultry heat the cows had sought the shade of the bushes. I walked along the flagstone path and stopped outside the building: it was very dilapidated, surrounded by tangled growth. The windows were blind, and above the door was a weathered sign, almost illegible, on which I could just make out the letters “auran” of the word “Restaurant.”

The door was open. I walked into a stale-smelling passageway and opened a brown door on the right. The room was empty. I put down my pack, threw cap and belt onto a chair, pulled out my big handkerchief, and began to wipe the sweat off my face as I looked around.

In taverns like this, one automatically expects a sour old witch of a woman, mustached, dirty, who can offer only some lukewarm stuff. I was very surprised when a young girl, who was not only pretty but clean, came in and greeted me briefly but without hostility with the usual “Good morning, sir.”

I returned her greeting and looked at her much too long. She was very lovely. Her brown eyes were large, slightly veiled, and seemed always to look away. Her reddish-brown hair fell loosely over her shoulders and was tied above her forehead with a blue ribbon. Her hands gave off a smell of milk and udders; her fingers were still spread, slightly curled …

“What would you like?” she asked.

I wanted to say “You!” but with a gesture stopped myself and said quietly, “Something to drink; something cold perhaps.”

She closed her eyes and seemed to be letting my unspoken word sink into her. Then she raised her lids again and said mockingly, “Wine or lemonade?”

“Water,” I said.

“I wouldn’t recommend it, sir,” she said. “Our water is as foul as the Somme.”

“All right,” I said, “wine, then; white, if you have some.”

She nodded, turned, and disappeared.

The place was furnished like most country taverns in France. It used to be customary to dismiss them as being fusty, tasteless, uninviting. True, they did contain a lot of kitsch, both old and modern, but for me every one of those taverns held something of the elusive appeal of Cézanne’s cardplayers.

The girl’s pale face loomed up behind the glass panel, almost like the face of a drowning person rising to the surface once more before sinking for the last time. Quickly I jumped up and opened the door for her. In her right hand she was balancing a bottle of wine and a glass, in her left a soda-water siphon. To my astonishment the siphon, which I took from her, was cool. I commented on it, and while she set down glass and bottle she explained that they always kept the siphons in the well. As she spoke she avoided looking at me and murmured, “If you need anything, just call.” She was about to leave.

I said very softly, “Tell me one thing: Are you always here? Are you the owner’s daughter?”

Now for the first time she turned and looked at me. I had the impression she was smiling.

“Yes,” she said, “I’m always here.”

“Well, then, I’d like to pay. I’ll take the rest of the bottle along, if I may—who knows whether there’s anything available out there?” I pointed toward the coast.

“There are some taverns there too,” she said indifferently, shrugging her shoulders, “but if you like …”

She went to the counter, and it seemed to me she did so merely in order to avoid touching my hand, for in taverns like that the money
isn’t paid formally at a cash register but simply passes from hand to hand. She gave me my change and said coolly, “Goodbye, sir.” I was alone. It was good to know that she had said: I’m always here. I sat down, stretched out my legs, ate, drank, and smoked. After finishing half the bottle, I stood up, adjusted my pack, called in the direction of the door leading to the rear, “Goodbye!” and left.

The road was uneven and tiring; there wasn’t a soul in sight, just meadows with streams trickling away into them, shrubs, clumps of willows, until finally in the distance I made out a straight row of trees that seemed to indicate the coast road. I took another breather, smoked a cigarette under that dull gray sky, and then walked toward the pale, bluish silhouette of the row of trees …

I promise not to become too garrulous. Nothing of what I am telling you is irrelevant if you happen to be interested in your brother’s fate, in the part played by Schnecker and, to some extent, in my person. I can no longer keep silent. Fear and dread have taken hold of me since I have had to cast a brief but enlightening glance behind the rosy façade of the German “restoration” and “restitution,” a glance into Schnecker’s face. The face of an average person.

I forgot to tell you that I don’t care for the sun. There are times when I believe I hate it. If I were to worship any of the idols of ancient or primitive peoples, I would choose to join those somber-minded tribes who offer tribute to the sun as a devil rather than those who venerate it as a god. I don’t hate the light—I love light shining in the darkness—but that harsh summer sun, sheer light, that is something cruel.

The highway I soon reached was flanked only on the right by a row of trees whose shadow fell on open country, a meadow covered by lush, shoulder-high grass. It was only later that I discovered that all the meadows on both sides of the road were mined; left and right, grass and flowers grew with a luxuriance I had never seen before. A few fir saplings were dotted about. For three years no hand had been able to mow or care for those meadows, and no cattle had been able to browse in them.

Somewhere up ahead I had caught sight of a building at what seemed to be an intersection in the shady forest; but that bright sunshine not only dazzled me, it induced in me an almost demoralizing physical pain. The distance seemed endless, although it couldn’t have been more than three hundred yards. After five minutes I reached the building. Another tavern. Scattered about the fir forest were attractive little modern houses, and along the road some other houses. At the intersection stood a little signpost that said B
LANCHÈRES
. The tavern bore a newly painted sign saying B
UVETTE À L’
O
RIENT
. I stepped inside and right away, without looking around, put down my pack and began to wipe the sweat off my face again.

As I gradually came to from my exhaustion, I found myself looking into a terrible face, which was smiling at me. I am sure you don’t know about those creatures that live on the other, the seldom described side of war. Our patriotic literature has no room for reality.

The broad face was heavily coated with powder, the large, pale-blue eyes were bleary, below the eyes were terrible bags. It was the Blanchères tavern’s landlady. She, too, played a major role in your brother’s life: she washed his laundry, which was so important to him, and she washed it thoroughly and was cheap.

“Hello, soldier,” she said to me in a surprisingly deep voice. “Have a seat,” she added.

“Good afternoon, madame,” I said.

“Oh,” she cried, “I’m not madame, I’m mademoiselle!”

“Good afternoon, mademoiselle,” I said.

“What’ll you have?”

I had sat down on one of the chairs near the door.

“Beer, please, if you have any.”

So far I had seen only her head, and automatically assumed her to be fat. It was a shock, when she now approached me, armed with a bottle of beer and a glass, to see that she was as skinny as an old hen, frighteningly ugly.

“Santé!”
she said, without moving away. “You’re new here?”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m on my way to company headquarters.”

“Oh, with that heavy pack?”

“Yes.”

“Then wait a bit.” She looked up at an old-fashioned clock hanging over the bar. “Just wait; the orderly from over in Larnton will be here any minute.” She pointed down the road that led off to the left, whereas according to my instructions I should have walked straight on for another half mile or so. “He comes at four and has a bicycle. He’ll take your pack. He’s a nice fellow. You’re joining the infantry, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. I was surprised at how well informed she was. I looked at the clock: it was a few minutes to four.

Her eyes were almost bursting with curiosity. The main occupation of such creatures is to collect tidbits of news. They are just as garrulous and observant as their sisters of the other kind: the devout churchgoers. She continued the conversation as promptly as a skilled journalist embarking on an interview.

“Your sergeant is a good man,” she said; “the CO is a swine. You’ll see. And that one down there”—she pointed, presumably to a base—“is an angel. He is,” she added firmly, as if I had been about to contradict her.

“Oh?” I merely said, dryly.

“Where’ve you come from?” she went on with hardly a break, the curiosity in her eyes now coupled with a kind of impertinence.

“From Paris.”

“Ah,” she cried again in her rough voice. “Where love reigns supreme!” I said nothing.

“Almost all of them nice fellows, your company,” she prattled on. “In fact, the infantry’s fine anyplace. Poor and fine, that’s what I always say …”

All this time my eyes had been fixed on the road, which looked to me like a haven of peace and shade. It was bordered by dense pine forests that were flecked with pale, sandy patches heralding the proximity of the dunes. On either side of the road, at irregular intervals, stood charming little houses, but it was a while before I noticed that this whole area too was marked off by mine fences and mine warnings. So that explained this graveyard silence.

“How about giving me one?” she suddenly asked, looking at my pack of cigarettes.

“Oh, excuse me!” I said.

“You’re certainly generous with your tobacco—let’s see what you’re like in a couple of weeks!” I had said nothing although she had
taken two cigarettes. “Tobacco is as scarce as hen’s teeth hereabouts.” To my relief I at last saw a cyclist in uniform rapidly approaching out of the shadowy depths of the avenue. He was carrying his rifle in the regulation manner, with its strap across his chest.

“Ah,” she cried, “there he is! Willi!”

She stepped outside and waved to the approaching soldier, whose face I could now plainly see. He was a pale, middle-aged man; his fair mustache, narrow and sparse, looked as if it was stuck onto his upper lip. He was wearing his cap, too, like a new recruit, and there was something eager about his expression.

He dismounted, propped his bicycle outside the door, and came in.

“Hello there,” he said.

“Hello,” I answered.

Willi looked enviously at the girl’s cigarette, then at me, climbed onto a bar stool, and asked, “Did you manage to get some more cigarettes on the black market?”

“No,” she said, “I’m supposed to get some tomorrow, cheap, seven francs each.”

“What about that one?”

She pointed the lighted cigarette at me. I had already fished out my pack and was offering it to Willi. He gave me a surprised look, laughed shortly, and said, “Thanks a lot—you must’ve come straight from home, but then they don’t have that much there either …”

“No,” I said, “but are you that short here?”

“I’ll say we are,” he said. “You’ll find out. We wait every day with our tongues hanging out for our three rationed cigarettes, but they’re gone in an hour, then the butts, and then another twenty-three hours’ craving.”