The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll (93 page)

“Today, in the early hours of the morning, the joint British–American forces landed on the west coast of France. A battle of the utmost violence is in progress. In this solemn hour, comrades, when the cowardly liars are finally confronting us, we will not fail to utter a threefold ‘Sieg Heil!’ to our Führer, to whom we owe everything. Comrades—Sieg …”—“…   Heil!” we shouted. He repeated it twice with us. Then
you could hear a pin drop, and into that silence Hubert suddenly shouted: “Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!” We looked up, startled and horrified, including the doctor. Hubert was standing half-asleep by the doorway of the car, deep lines in his face and wisps of straw clinging to his tunic.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Kramer?” the doctor shouted furiously.

“Sir, because at least they’re confronting us, you see—that’s why I’m shouting hurrah. Now we’ll defeat them, wipe them out, and then the war will be over—hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!”

He was grinning from ear to ear, and the doctor and the rest of us laughed too.

“Dismiss!” said the doctor, “everyone stay with the train—the engine will be here any minute.”

Hubert jumped down from the car and walked over to the doctor; I could see them chatting together. The others crept back into the car; some of them sat down on the stacks of iron, ate their bread and cheese, and drank cold coffee, since they had no
pengö
.

I stayed close to the station exit, waiting for Hubert; my idea was for him to give me some money or come with me so we could treat those parched fellows and the violinist until the landlady was down to the last bottle of that glorious beer.

Hubert slapped me on the shoulder and told me quietly: “Two more hours at least, but I’m not supposed to tell anyone. Are you drunk?”

“Yes.”

“What from?”

“Beer.”

“Any good?”

“Fantastic,” I replied.

“Let’s go,” said Hubert, “where’s this place of yours?”

We slipped away quickly, but as soon as we reached the lovely cool avenue we slowed down. It was warm and summery, and we’d been wounded, and they couldn’t touch us, we were in a proper hospital train—oh God, how wonderful it all was.

“Listen,” said Hubert as we walked on. “D’you know that we have a genuine, bona fide reason to get drunk?”

“No,” I answered.

“Hell,” he said, “they’ve landed, that means the end is near, I tell you—inexorably near. Now at least the end’s no longer out of sight.”

“The end of the war?” I asked.

“Of course. Now the end is near, just wait and see.”

Suddenly Hubert stopped and grabbed my arm. “Quiet!” We could hear the sobbing violin.

“That’s in the bar,” I said with a laugh.

“In
our
bar?”

“Right!” I said, and Hubert again: “Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!” Now we were running.

The parched men welcomed us with loud laughter, even the violinist broke off his playing and nodded at me. And the landlady, my plump, handsome landlady, was positively delighted to see me again. I could tell. I made a short speech introducing my friend Hubert, and they all took him to their hearts. Hubert ordered seven bottles of beer for the three parched ones, for the violinist, for the landlady and for the two of us. He slapped a whole bundle of notes onto the table, and I could see from the eyes of the parched ones, those big, shyly glancing eyes, that the men were poor, and I was touched that they had paid for my beer.

Hubert went round filling all the glasses, then jumped onto a chair and raised his own.

“Men,” he cried, “and this delightful lady, beg pardon! Is it not a thing of glory that we’re all human beings? Is it not wonderful that we are brothers, and is it not disgusting that those pigs started the war in which they want to kill us off? But we’re human beings, and we’re going to take our revenge by continuing to be brothers, by stealing from them and screwing them—begging your pardon, fair lady—screwing them blind! Mates!” he cried, “Hungarian mates, we’re human beings, never forget that. And now let’s drink!”

He emptied his glass, and an expression of amazement spread over his face. “I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed. “This beer is truly magnificent!”

Everyone got carried away in their enthusiasm. We embraced each other, and I had a notion I might be able to kiss our lovely landlady, but she pushed me away with a laugh, and I saw that she was blushing.

Damn it, I thought, what a bastard you are—she’s married and loves her husband, and you young whippersnapper want to kiss her.
And then I stood up and gave another little speech in which I apologized and called myself a bastard. They all understood, including the landlady, who gave me a forgiving smile.

The Hungarians made speeches too, saying that we were brothers and Hitler and Horthy were bastards, and they spat on the floor and sprinkled some beer over it. Each time the landlady brought more beer she chalked seven strokes on a blackboard, and I soon saw that there were quite a lot of strokes. We had a great time, all of us, and told each other the most fantastic stories without understanding a word, and we understood each other famously.

The violinist sobbed out a piece that sounded like wine and silk, dark silk and heavy wine, and when he had finished Hubert suddenly shouted: “Tokay!” But now we noticed that the woman was no longer there. Hubert gently took the violinist’s instrument from him and led him to a chair, where he fell asleep at once.

I had a clear view of Hubert slipping a wad of notes into the violinist’s pocket. Hubert really did have a fantastic amount of money, and I decided to ask him later on what he had flogged. Hubert picked up the violin and started to play; the parched ones danced in time to his music.

Actually I felt like making another speech, there was so much I wanted to say, but I simply didn’t know how to begin.

The landlady returned with a platter of sliced cold meat and bread, and we ate as she watched us with a happy smile. The parched ones tucked in quite nicely, and I realized that they were hungry, really hungry, and it all tasted wonderful, the cold meat and the white bread, and we drank wine as we ate, and meanwhile I learned that
bor
meant wine, the only Hungarian word I knew.

We left some bread and meat on a plate for the violinist, and I spread my new green handkerchief over it to keep away the flies. After our meal, two of the parched ones fell asleep, sinking back into their chairs and closing their eyes; they were gone, sound asleep, and I thought of how hard they must have worked all week, somewhere in the forest, cutting wood or on the farms.

Finally Hubert got up and said: “We have to go now.” He went over to the bar, and the woman counted up all the strokes and did a lengthy calculation.

I made another quick trip outside to the back and thought it was
nice of the handsome landlady to follow me. She looked at me sadly and said some tender words as she stroked my hand; I was sure it was some kind of nonsense, the kind of thing women say to very small children. And then all of a sudden she kissed me on the lips, and I saw her blush deeply before she quickly disappeared again into the bar.

I went out through the garden, and I found the avenue more beautiful than ever. Once again I was drunk and the Hungarian woman had given me a fleeting kiss! I think I must have been in love with her, but I no longer know whether I was in love with her or with that lovely fleeting kiss—not that it matters, I was very happy, and I suddenly felt terribly young because I was drunk and wounded, and now I could feel my whole back sticky with pus.

The avenue was beautiful, and I wished it would never end. There was a sweet and slightly dusty smell of Hungary, of summer and Sunday, and I was as pleased as Punch that my wound was festering, I just didn’t want it to heal quickly! I would go on drinking, for then it wouldn’t heal so fast because the blood goes bad—yes, they’d told me all that in hospital the first time I was wounded, but in Germany there was no booze to be had, and that time my wound had healed up quickly.

The train looked horrible, standing there all sober on the rails, in the heat of the afternoon, and I felt depressed and wanted to go back and kiss the Hungarian woman all over again.

I was pretty drunk, I realized, when suddenly the engine whistled and I had to run. In jumping up I stumbled and made a grab for something, and that made my dressing split open. I could feel the warm pus running down my back into my pants.

They all laughed when I ran my hand down my back and over the seat of my trousers as if I had shit in my pants. I got out of my tunic and pulled off my shirt.

I lay face down on a straw pallet. With a flourish, Hubert threw my shirt out of the train. “
That’ll
fertilize the Hungarian earth!” he cried.

The other corporal kneeled down beside me and cleaned up the rest of the goo, then put on a dressing. I had never been so skilfully bandaged. After packing a thick, clean tampon into the hole in my back, he wrapped it all up neatly with gauze and finally wound a whole roll of bandage round me, fastening it on my chest. “That’s what we call a
rucksack dressing,” he told me.

Hubert looked at him. “Here,” he said, “shake, you old arsehole.” They shook hands and laughed.

“I’ll stand you all some schnapps,” my corporal called out, “and we’ll have a song.”

He passed round the bottle, and a fat infantryman asked: “What are we going to sing?”

“Come, ye harlots of Damascus!”
Hubert suggested.

So we sang that fine song: “
Come, ye harlots of Damascus!
” It had seventeen verses and a completely unmilitary tune; between verses we drank schnapps.

The soup cauldron in my back was beginning to simmer again, slowly filling up once more with liquid, and—I must admit—it was a pleasant, ticklish feeling.

Out with the goo, I thought, now it’s all right for you to get well, as long as that lovely big hole makes you unfit for duty anyway.

Hubert was thrilled by the speed of the train. Standing in the open doorway he kept shouting: “Hurry … hurry … all the way to Germany!”

I sat down beside him, dangling my legs and looking out at the smiling Hungarian countryside. It was terrific to see colourfully dressed people standing there sometimes and waving at us.

I had a long Virginia cheroot between my lips, it tasted deliciously bitter and mild, while in my back the goo of pus and blood and shreds of cloth and hand-grenade splinters went on simmering away.

“Mate,” the infantryman said to me, “you shouldn’t have thrown away your shirt.”

“What d’you mean?”

“The thing to do is wash it,” he said, “wash it in cold water and flog it—they pay a lot here for underwear.”

“Have you been here before?”

He nodded, drew on his pipe, and puffed out the smoke.

“Yes,” he replied, “I’ve been here before, the last time I was wounded, you can buy anything you like here. All you need is
pengö
. And the only way to get hold of
pengö
is by flogging. They’ve plenty to eat and drink, but they’re always on the look-out for underwear and shoes.”

He drew again on his pipe.

“Yes,” he went on, “for a shirt like that, if it’d been washed,
you’d have had no trouble getting twenty or thirty
pengö
, and that means at least two bottles of schnapps—three hundred cigarettes—or three women …”

“Women, too?”

“That’s right,” he said, “women are expensive here because they’re scarce. In the street you won’t find any at all.” He suddenly perked up, looked out and, leaning forward, said: “What the devil! We’re stopping.”

So we were. Waiting on the ramp of the freight platform were lorries marked with red crosses. Hubert had come right up close to me. “Now,” he said under his breath, “it’s now or never.”

A sergeant was already running along the platform, shouting: “Everybody out! Everybody out, you’re being unloaded here!”

“Oh shit,” said the fat infantryman, “we’re hardly out of Romania. This place is right close to Kronstadt.”

“D’you know it?” someone called out.

“Sure I do,” he said, “it’s called Siebenheiligegeorge. It used to be Romanian. Piss, I thought we’d be a bit nearer home by now.”

We all got out and stood on the platform until the doctor came. As each man filed past him he scribbled something on the casualty slip.

“That means either hospital or casualty assembly point,” said the fat infantryman.

Hubert stood in front of me in the queue. When it was our turn the doctor glanced up.

“You’re moving on,” he told Hubert. “There’s no point in leaving you back here with a wound like that. He’ll take the place of the double amputee we’ve unloaded here,” he instructed the sergeant.

“He’s got to move on too,” said Hubert, pointing at me.

“How’s that?”

“He’s my mate,” said the corporal. “We’ve spent seventeen assault days and twenty-five close-combat days side by side in the shit, and the lad has a huge hole in his back.”

The doctor looked at me, and I thought: This is curtains, they’re going to unload you here, and the whole mess wasn’t worth the effort, you’ve no more money, can’t buy any more booze, and it’ll all heal up in no time. Then after two months you’ll be up at the front again in some hole, and who knows whether you’ll be that lucky next time.

“Hm,” went the doctor, his eyes still on me. “Very well then, this
man will take the place of the severe abdominal wound—got that?”

The sergeant nodded and indicated where we were to board the train.

I had no other luggage than my hands in my pockets, and it was glorious to saunter over to the train, but I must admit I was too ashamed to look back to where the others were being loaded onto lorries and driven into town.

“Wait a moment,” said Hubert as I was about to climb aboard. “There’s one catch to it—now we have to stay in bed and won’t be able to get hold of any booze. Come with me …”

We walked back across the rails and entered the station bar from the platform. The bar was deserted except for a few empty beer glasses and a lot of flies and heat and the reek of tepid food. He went over and tapped on the zinc counter top.