The Radetzky March (20 page)

“We’re just standing around,” she finally said. “Let’s sit down.”

They sat on opposite sides of the table. As once in Sergeant Slama’s parlor, Carl Joseph had his back to the door. Once more
he felt the door as something ominous. From time to time and for no reason, it seemed to open soundlessly and close soundlessly. The twilight deepened. Frau Eva Demant’s black frock dissolved in it. Now she was dressed in the twilight itself. Her white face floated naked, exposed, on the dark surface of the evening. Gone was the portrait of her dead husband on the opposite wall.

“My husband,” said Frau Demant’s voice through the darkness.

The lieutenant could see her teeth shimmering; they were whiter than her face. Gradually he could again distinguish the shiny glow of her eyes.

“You were his only friend. He often said so. How often did he talk about you! If only you knew! It won’t sink in that he’s dead. And,” she whispered, “that it’s my fault.”

“It’s
my
fault!” said the lieutenant. His voice was very loud, hard and alien to his own ears. It was no comfort for the widow. “It’s my fault!” he repeated. “I should have been more careful in seeing you home. I shouldn’t have gone past the club.”

The woman began to sob. He saw the wan face bending deeper and deeper over the table, like a huge white oval flower sinking slowly. All at once, the white hands emerged right and left, receiving the sinking face, cushioning it. And now, nothing could be heard but the woman’s sobs for a while, for a minute, for another minute. An eternity for the lieutenant. Get up and let her cry and leave, he thought. He actually rose. Her hands promptly dropped on the table. In a calm voice that virtually came from a different throat than the weeping, she asked, “Where are you going?”

“To turn on the light,” said Trotta.

She stood up and walked around the table, grazing him as she passed. He smelled a tender wave of perfume; then it was past him and already gone. The light was harsh; Trotta forced himself to look straight into the lamp. Frau Demant held one hand over her eyes.

“Turn on the light over the bracket,” she ordered.

The lieutenant obeyed. She waited by the door, her hand over her eyes. When the tiny lamp under the soft gold-yellow shade was burning, she put out the ceiling light. She took her hand
from her eyes as if removing a visor. She looked very bold in the black dress, with her wan face stretching toward Trotta. She was angry and courageous. Faint trails of dry tears could be seen on her cheeks. Her eyes were as shiny as ever.

“Sit over there, on the sofa!” Frau Demant ordered. Carl Joseph sat down. The comfortable cushions slid from all sides, from the back, from the corners, slyly and cautiously, toward the lieutenant. He felt it was dangerous sitting here and he shifted resolutely toward the edge, placing his hands on the hilt of the upright saber as he saw Frau Eva coming over. She looked like the dangerous commander of all the pillows and cushions. On the wall to the right of the sofa hung the picture of his dead friend. Frau Eva sat down. A small soft pillow lay between them. Trotta did not stir. As always when he could see no way out of the countless agonizing predicaments he stumbled into, he imagined himself able to leave.

“So you’re being transferred?” asked Frau Demant.

“I’m transferring voluntarily,” he said, gazing down at the rug, his chin in his hands and his hands on the saber hilt.

“Do you have to?”

“Yes, I have to!”

“I’m sorry. Very sorry.”

Frau Demant sat like him, her elbows propped on her lap, her chin in her hands, and her eyes on the rug. She was probably waiting for a comforting word, a bit of charity. He was silent. He relished the blissful feeling that his callous silence was a dreadful revenge for his friend’s death. He thought of the dangerous pretty little husband-killing women who often recurred in the conversations of officers. She most likely belonged to the dangerous tribe of weak murderesses. He had to do his best to escape her power immediately. He girded himself to leave. At that moment, Frau Demant’s changed her position. She took her hands from her chin. Her left hand began gently and conscientiously smoothing the silk braid along the sofa’s edge. Her fingers moved along the narrow glossy path leading from her to Lieutenant Trotta, to and fro, regular and gradual. Those fingers stole into his field of vision; he longed for blinders. The white fingers entangled him in a mute conversation that could
not possibly be broken off. Smoke a cigarette: a wonderful idea! He pulled out his cigarette case, his matches.

“Give me one!” said Frau Demant.

He was forced to look into her face when he gave her a light. He felt it was inappropriate of her to smoke—as if nicotine were not permissible during mourning. And there was something exuberant and vicious about the way she took the first puff, the way her lips rounded into a small red ring from which the dainty blue cloud emerged.

“Do you have any idea where you’re being transferred to?”

“No,” said the lieutenant, “but I’m making every effort to get very far away.”

“Very far? Where, for instance?”

“Perhaps Bosnia!”

“Do you believe you can be happy there?”

“I don’t believe I can be happy anywhere.”

“I hope you do find happiness!” she said quickly—very quickly, it seemed to Trotta.

She stood up, came back with an ashtray, placed it on the floor between them, and said, “So we’ll probably never meet again.”

Never again! The words, the feared, shoreless, dead sea of numb eternity! Never again could he see Katharina, or Dr. Demant, or this woman! Carl Joseph said, “Probably not. Unfortunately!” He wanted to add, And I will never again see Max Demant. The lieutenant also thought of one of Taittinger’s bold adages: “Widows should be burned!”

They heard the doorbell, then movement out in the hall.

“That’s my father,” said Frau Demant. Herr Knopfmacher was already entering.

“Ah, there you are, there you are!” he said, bringing a pungent whiff of snow into the room. He unfolded a large dazzling-white handkerchief, loudly blew his nose, and cautiously buried the handkerchief in his breast pocket as if secreting a precious object. He reached toward the door molding, switched on the ceiling lamp, stepped closer to Trotta, and shook his hand. Trotta, who had already gotten up at Herr Knopfmacher’s entrance, had been standing for a while. Through this handshake Herr Knopfmacher announced all the
grief that could be expressed for the physician’s death. Pointing to the ceiling lamp, Knopfmacher was already saying to his daughter, “Forgive me, but I can’t stand such a sad moody light!” It was as if he had hurled a stone at the crape-lined portrait of the dead man.

“My, you look awful!” said Knopfmacher a moment later, in a jubilant voice. “It’s been pretty hard on you, hasn’t it—this misfortune, huh?”

“He was my only friend.”

“You know,” said Knopfmacher, sitting down at the table and adding with a smile, “Please don’t get up!” He went on when the lieutenant was sitting on the sofa again: “He said the very same thing about you when he was alive. What a calamity!” And he shook his head a few times, and his full, reddened cheeks quivered slightly.

Frau Demant drew a wispy handkerchief from her sleeve, dabbed her eyes, stood up, and left the room.

“Who knows how she’ll get over it?” said Knopfmacher. “Well, I coaxed her long enough, before. She wouldn’t listen! You know, dear Herr Lieutenant, every profession has its dangers. But an officer! An officer—do forgive me—should not really marry. Just between you and me—but he must have told you too—he wanted to resign and devote himself exclusively to science. And I can’t tell you how delighted I was to hear it. He would certainly have made a great physician. Dear, good Max!” Herr Knopfmacher looked up at the portrait, let his eyes linger on it, and concluded his obituary: “An authority!”

Frau Demant brought the slivovitz that her father loved. “You’ll join me, won’t you?” asked Knopfmacher, filling some small glasses. He himself gingerly carried them over to the sofa. The lieutenant got to his feet. He had a stale taste in his mouth like after the raspberry drink. He gulped down the alcohol.

“When did you last see him?” asked Knopfmacher.

“The day before,” said the lieutenant.

“He asked Eva to go to Vienna but he didn’t even drop a hint. And she left totally unaware. And then his farewell letter arrived. And I knew instantly that nothing could be done.”

“No, nothing could be done.”

“It’s so out of date—do forgive me—that code of honor! This
is
the twentieth century, after all, just imagine! We’ve got the gramophone, you can telephone someone hundreds of miles away, and Blériot and others are already flying through the air! And—I don’t know if you read the newspapers and keep up with politics, but they say the constitution is going to be thoroughly amended. Ever since they introduced universal suffrage and the secret ballot—one per person—all sorts of things have been happening, in our country and all over the world. Our Kaiser, God bless him and keep him, is not so old-fashioned as some people think. Of course, the so-called conservative forces aren’t all that wrong either. You have to proceed slowly, take your time, think it through. Just don’t rush things!”

“I don’t know anything about politics,” said Trotta.

Knopfmacher was very annoyed. He resented that stupid army and its hare-brained institutions. His child was now a widow, his son-in-law dead, a new one had to be found—a civilian this time—and the title of commercial councilor might likewise have been postponed. It was high time they did away with such nonsense. Young good-for-nothings like the lieutenant should control their exuberance in the twentieth century. The nations were insisting on their rights, a citizen is a citizen, no more privileges for the nobility. The Social Democrats
were
dangerous, but they provided a good balance. People kept talking about war constantly, but it was certain not to come. We’d show them. These times were enlightened. In England, for instance, the king had no say.

“Naturally!” he said. “After all, politics has no place in the army. Although he”—Knopfmacher pointed at the portrait—” did know a thing or two about politics.”

“He was very wise,” Trotta murmured.

“Nothing could be done!” Knopfmacher repeated.

“He may have been,” said the lieutenant—and he himself felt as if an alien wisdom were speaking out of him, a wisdom from the big ancient tomes of the silver-bearded king of the tavern keepers—”he may have been very wise and quite alone.”

He paled. He felt Frau Demant’s shiny glances. He had to leave. The room grew very still. There was nothing more to say.

“We won’t be seeing Baron Trotta anymore either, Papá!” said Frau Demant. “He’s being transferred.”

“But you’ll stay in touch?” asked Knopfmacher.

“You’ll write me,” said Frau Demant.

The lieutenant got up. “Best of luck!” said Knopfmacher. His hand was big and soft, like warm velvet.

Frau Demant led the way. The orderly came, held the coat. Frau Demant stood at their side. Trotta clicked his heels. She said very quickly, “Write me! I’ll want to know where you are.” It was a swift puff of warm air, immediately gone. The orderly was already opening the door. There lay the steps. Now the gate was opened, like when he had left the sergeant.

He walked to town rapidly, entered the first café along the road, stood at the counter, drank a brandy, then another. “We always drink Hennessy!” he heard the district captain say. He hurried to the barracks.

At the door to his room, Onufrij, a blue stroke against bare white, was waiting. The officer’s orderly had brought the lieutenant a package from the colonel. Narrow, in brown paper, it was leaning in the corner. A letter lay on the table. The lieutenant read:

My dear friend, I leave you my saber and my watch.

Max Demant

Trotta unwrapped the saber. Dr. Demant’s smooth silver watch dangled from the hilt. The watch had stopped. It showed ten minutes to twelve. The lieutenant wound it and held it to his ear. Its frail, swift voice ticked comfortingly. He pried the cap open with his penknife, curious and eager to play—a boy. Inside were the initials
M.D.
He pulled the saber from its sheath. Right beneath the hilt, Dr. Demant had used a knife to carve a few clumsy, sprawling letters into the steel.
Live well and free!
said the inscription. The lieutenant hung the saber in the closet. He held the sword hanger in his hand. Its wired silk glided through his fingers—a cool, golden rain. Trotta shut the closet; he shut a coffin.

He turned off the light and stretched out fully dressed on the bed. The yellow shimmer from the troop rooms floated in the
white enamel of the door and was mirrored in the glittering knob. The accordion over there sighed hoarsely and nostalgically amid the roar of the deep voices of the men. They were singing the Ukrainian song about the Emperor and the Empress:

Oh, our Emperor is a good fine man,
And our lady is his wife, the Empress.
He rides ahead of all his lancers brave,
And she remains alone in the castle,
And she waits for him.…
She waits for the Emperor—our Empress.

The Empress had died long ago. But the Ruthenian peasants believed she was still alive.

T
HE RAYS OF
the Hapsburg sun reached eastward all the way to the border of the Russian czar’s territory. It was the same sun under which the Trotta dynasty had gained its tides of nobility and its prestige. Franz Joseph’s gratitude had a long memory, and his benevolence had a long arm. If one of his favorite children was about to do something foolish, the Emperor’s ministers and servants intervened in time, making the foolish person act cautious and sensible. It would scarcely have been appropriate for the sole offspring of the newly ennobled dynasty of Trotta und Sipolje to serve in the province that had given birth to the Hero of Solferino, the grandson of illiterate Slovenian peasants, the son of a constabulary sergeant. The descendant might, of course, exchange service with the lancers for a modest commission in the infantry: he would thereby remain loyal to the memory of his grandfather, the plain infantry lieutenant who had saved the Kaiser’s life. However, the Imperial and Royal Ministry of War was prudent enough not to send the bearer of a title of nobility to the area of a Slovenian village if his name was exactly that of the very village from which the dynastic progenitor came. This view was fully shared by the district captain, the son of the Hero of Solferino. Granted—though certainly not with a light heart—he did permit his son to transfer to the infantry. But he utterly disapproved of Carl Joseph’s desire to be stationed in the Slovenian province. He himself, the district captain, had never wished to see his father’s homeland. He was an Austrian, a servant and official of the Hapsburgs, and his homeland was the Imperial Palace in Vienna. Had he entertained any political ideas about a useful reshaping of the great and multifarious empire, it would have suited him for all the crown lands to be
merely large variegated forecourts of the Imperial Palace and all the nations in the monarchy to be servants of the Hapsburgs. He was a district captain. In his bailiwick he represented the Apostolic Majesty. He wore the gold collar, the cocked hat, and the sword. He did not wish to push a plow across the fertile Slovenian soil. The decisive letter to his son contained the words:
Fate has turned our family of frontier peasants into an Austrian dynasty. That is what we shall remain.