Epitaph for a Working ManO (8 page)

Standing against the wall or pacing up and down. You kept a lookout for military vehicles, recited your lines. Other than that you were left in peace. You greeted the village women. They asked, “How much longer is this going on?” They asked, “Are you cold?” They said, “We're being well guarded.” They laughed. Twice a woman from the house next door brought me hot coffee and a bottle of schnapps. “For you and your mates,” she said.

In the morning between seven and eight the schoolchildren came tearing round the bend behind me on their bikes. I pulled back my gun so as not to be knocked over. At eleven they probably came back down the hill from school, but at eleven I wasn't there any more. I was sitting on the stage at the Sternen having something to eat, drinking hot mugs of tea. By one I was back on duty, watching the children trotting up from all sides, those on bikes flitting over the crossroads just before half past one, cutting corners so as to make use of the momentum of their downhill ride to take them as far as possible up the slope to the school. I didn't see the children between four and five because by then I was sitting on the stage again or dozing on one of the mattresses down in the auditorium amid the hubbub of the cantonment. Between seven and nine I watched people coming home late from work; then people who were going out after supper, to the village on foot or through the village toward Egglen in their cars. On Tuesday the brass band rehearsed in the Bären. On Wednesday the village council held its meeting. On Thursday there was gymnastics up in the school gym.

A nondescript village surrounded by mountains.

But the women walked to work in high heels and tight jeans like anywhere else. Girls rode through the November weather on their mopeds. Jackets billowing. Global chic in a rural backwater.

The best time was after midnight, between one and three. The streetlight above the crossroads, the silence in the village. I remembered other times I'd been on watch. If there was one thing I'd liked about the army it was doing guard duty at night. In a place where I would never have stood otherwise; at an hour when I usually slept.

Nothing happened. Nobody sneaked out of a house, nobody came home late. No trysts in the fog.

My old colleague Maria Annaheim came to mind. What about having a little affair myself? Certainly my tall, thin colleague would have been something rather special. That was just it. It wasn't worth trying.

And somebody else? Better no affair than the wrong one. Where there's deprivation there's deprivation and that's all there is to it. Too little intercourse has never done anyone any harm.

Years ago, the winter Father was living alone in the shack in the Späti quarry, I went to see him one Saturday. I knew he'd gone downhill since the divorce the previous summer, but I found him in reasonable shape. He invited me to a meal, busied himself in the improvised kitchen. Living a bachelor life didn't seem to worry him.

When was that? I hadn't yet met Sophie; I was working in Bremgarten, a small printers, the local rag. In those days it was easy to find a job. They even wanted to promote me to foreman, but I refused. I'd never wanted to be anyone's boss. It's true that I don't like obeying orders, but obedience is the lesser evil.

On Wednesday evening we had a break. When I reached the stage in the Sternen, just after nine, there was a feast in progress, with bacon and wine. I sat down and joined in the eating and drinking. Lots of loud talk. About the army in the event of an emergency. Apparently these motor drivers, all of them citizens in their prime, believed an emergency was in the offing. Admittedly military service was bunk; but after all, order must prevail. Service was shit, agreed, but otherwise the Russians would take over. Or else the troublemakers, those we had here. Anyone much younger was a troublemaker. They demonstrated against nuclear power stations. Or for peace. Last Saturday some of them had taken to the streets in Bern. Muddleheads, rowdies, hair down to here. A sergeant – who was just cutting off a slice of bacon – had first-hand information that at the time of the sit-in at Kaiseraugst – surely they remembered that – enormous amounts of roubles had been changed at the banks in the Basel region; no need to say more. He wasn't saying anything, said another – a private, not a sergeant – no, he wasn't saying anything, but they all knew, everyone here knew: they went on demonstrations for a fee, he knew from someone who knew, they got a hundred and ten francs per demonstration, that's what they got. It was a lot more than that now, said a third – a lieutenant or a private or a simple soldier – these days those fellows got paid a hundred and thirty francs, he could swear to it; he didn't want to be political, but once you knew that, certain things became clear. Precisely, said a fourth, it was all steered from abroad, that was for sure, and television fell for it; he knew what he knew, he'd seen it in his own family, at his brother's who had a son and a daughter and they joined every single demonstration, and to cap it all his brother said they were right to do so.

“Anyway you'll meet some people for a change,” Sophie had said the Sunday before I left. The longer they ate their bacon and drank their wine the glibber they became. Civilians in uniform during a break in military operations. Were they all like that? Some only listened, silently. Why didn't they say anything?

By comparison sentry duty was enjoyable.

On Friday, shortly after three in the afternoon, the exercise came to an end. We were posted to the other side of the pass on the way to Basel. For our second week we took up quarters in Rohr.

I'd have liked nothing better than to have remained there on Saturday, in the empty dormitory. At home I was in the way.

How women can put up with men like those, even find them attractive! It had struck me in the showers before we were dismissed. Repulsive. The paunches above the bony legs. The hairy backs. The layers of fat on their bodies. I saw the others, and I saw myself at the same time, more clearly than in a mirror. Sophie would be young for a few years yet. But what about me and people like me? And was it a consolation that our Mr Fritschi too had the beginnings of a paunch, in spite of his tennis and his twice-weekly jogging?

I'd have liked nothing better than to have stayed on in Rohr.

*

On Monday there was live firing on the Helgeberg. From one mountain crest across to the opposite slope, with tracer ammunition, twelve shots a man. Those of us who were not on call yet had to go over to the nearby farmhouse and take turns practising assistance to comrades, throwing hand grenades, NBC alerts. What was to be done in cases of arterial injuries, shock, splinter fractures, spilled-out intestines? A sergeant lectured us. He told us his wife was the president of the Swiss First Aid Association. An atomic flash: immediately throw yourself behind a suitable shelter, protect your hands and face from the radiation; as soon as the shock wave has passed put on your mask and gloves, write your report, and go on fighting. Carrying out orders is what it was called. Dexterity was also required in the case of poison gas attacks: holding your breath, you had to have your gas mask perfectly fitted on your head within ten seconds. We practised. But not all that much. Lessons in theory were less troublesome. How many times had I heard all that before? Every other day at the military training school. At every refresher course, year after year. Perhaps some of them believed it by now. It all sounded so very sensible, and yet it was such complete nonsense. But I didn't say anything. I'd never said much. Why should I have said anything just now? One: remove safety clip. Two: eyes on target. Three: arm hand grenade. Watch out, hand grenade! The missiles whirled in a wide arc through the air and down the embankment.

We slept in the air-raid shelter under the kindergarten. In the corridor the usual stainless steel sinks, the row of mirrors, the taps, one hot-water to six cold; toilet cubicles, urinal; air filtration unit, steel-reinforced door. The kind of military living quarters provided in the basements of all new school buildings.

It's Fritschi's domain. In the whole canton there is not one air-raid shelter he doesn't know about, at least on paper. He organises and he coordinates. He draws up inventories, thinks up new rules and regulations. He also knows all about the compartmentalised basements under the blocks of flats. He's prepared for the bomb. Of course there's still room for improvement. But basically we have the matter under control. It's something the Americans envy us for. A facility which in Germany and other countries is only available to the government, the general staff, and a few of the richest of the rich, is available in Switzerland to every single person under his own house.

According to Sophie, Fritschi believes in it. In his position as head of the cantonal civil defence department he probably has to. The fact that he had to believe in such things whereas I was free to have my doubts made me feel good. At least there was that. If one day the whole of the population was to be cooped up in the cellars, trusting for their survival in God, the government and every species of the military, at least I would receive confirmation that I had been right to have doubts. That at least.

The week went by. Tank recognition, secrecy policy, shooting practice at the firing range, shoe and weapon inspections, ten-kilometre run, patrols, terrain reconnaissance sketches, scissor scope, one-way radio. And every evening we sat around in the pubs. There were no more night exercises.

I spent a lot of money. In the army you make yourself conspicuous if you don't spend money on your evenings out. If someone buys a round at a table, all the others have to follow suit. Work, women, family – even I could contribute to the conversation, albeit only by drawing on past experience.

*

Sophie had visited my father once during my absence, on the Monday of the second week. Mrs Köppel had lent her the car for the evening. Father had been in a good mood.

He'd asked her how I was getting on in the army. She'd recounted what I'd told her about the big field exercise. That had amused him. He'd listened and then started describing his own experiences. Naef had been there too, sitting in his wicker chair near the door.

Frontier defence back in those days. He, Haller, had also served his country. Although he'd never actually had any direct encounters with the Germans: his war had been mainly with his own officers. But in those days that would often have been much the same thing.

And so it happened that one day – he no longer knew quite why, presumably he'd chosen the wrong moment to deliver some home truths – he'd landed in the clink, as they called it in the army. Three days detention, and he had to do his time before he could be discharged for his long leave. The leave had been determined a long time ago: even on frontier defence you can't serve indefinitely. The only trouble was that in the remote hamlet in the Neuchâtel Jura where his company was billetted there was no suitable place for him to be detained. So he'd been sent to do his time in a cell belonging to a neighbouring company several miles away down in the valley. Then, after three days of peace and quiet – he'd been allowed the military service regulations manual and the Bible for reading material – as he stood there in the village square, a free soldier, he reflected that it would be exhausting, impractical and unnecessary to hump his rifle and fully loaded backpack all the way up to his quarters only to have to carry exactly the same stuff back down again two hours later. He was no donkey, and he was no ass: in civilian life he wouldn't have carried twenty kilos around without any reason either. Sapper Haller wasn't lazy: he carried loads – but only if it made sense. If the upper echelons of the army were unreasonable, it was up to those in the lower echelons to see to it that reason prevailed. So he had deposited his backpack and his rifle in the back room of the restaurant in the village square and had walked lightfootedly up to the hamlet. He didn't need all that junk just to report to his own brigade for dismissal, as would be obvious to any civilian. But you couldn't expect that much sense from an army guy. So to be on the safe side, before going and standing to attention in front of the brigade office he'd borrowed a rifle and the requisite baggage from a comrade. The captain, that dimwit, hadn't noticed anything. Luckily he hadn't, or instead of going back home he, Haller, would almost certainly have had to go back to his Bible and the military service rule book, and for more than three days this time.

After he'd finished telling his story, said Sophie, Father had laughed quietly to himself, lightly shaking his head. And he'd added that, all things considered, what with this and that, he'd lived to see quite a lot – and it really hadn't been that bad.

*

Other people cross Africa in a Land Rover. Other people go trekking in Nepal. Losing my job, being on the dole, receiving support – that was something new too. I was back in our three-room flat. It really wasn't a disaster.

He was lying on the bed in his clothes, the covers pulled up to his chin.

It was Naef who had called out “Come in!” He said Haller had lain down straight after lunch. He'd also had a rest in the morning.

Naef was sitting in his corner near the door. Schertenleib was not in the room. I hung up my coat and my scarf on the window knob and sat down.

Father was snoring, lying on his back. The covers rose and fell.

I didn't wake him.

Naef asked me what it had been like in the army. I told him. He mentioned Sophie's visit; it had cheered Haller up. In winter, things could be boring out here. He had treated himself to a change last week: he'd gone on a coach trip. Somewhere near Freiburg – Freiburg-im-Breisgau, not Freiburg in Switzerland. The trip itself had been interesting enough, one of those promotional trips. In the afternoon they had tried to sell him an energy-saving cooking-pot and a thermal blanket.

“You could have got the thermal blanket for me,” said Father suddenly.

He denied that he'd been asleep. He'd heard me come in. We'd talked about the weather.

“You were asleep,” said Naef.

Father sat on the edge of the bed for a while, then moved over to the chair beside the night table.

“The longer you lie around the tireder you get,” he said. It had really hit him this time. Although when he was lying down he didn't notice much. But as soon as he had to walk a few steps his legs grew heavy. Even sitting around exhausted him.

I asked him if he ate enough. If he didn't eat enough it was natural that he'd get weak.

“I've lost my appetite,” he said. Once again he blamed the cooking at the home. “If only they dished up something a bit tasty my appetite would come back. But boiled potatoes, without any sauce, any flavouring, nothing!”

He'd had a little soup at lunchtime.

Not more than a few spoonfuls of watery soup, interjected Naef.

We fell silent, smoked.

Naef said it was true, there was a time when the food had been better than in the last few weeks.

Greyish light in the room. The lower halves of the window-panes were covered in fern frost.

I suggested going across to the Löwen.

“If you think so,” said Father.

The path was frozen. Little flurries of frost drifted down from the trees. I helped Father, supporting him by the arm.

In the pub he didn't say much. He stared ahead, hardly answering when someone asked him something.

At the neighbouring table they were telling jokes. Jokes about Turks, dirty jokes. I knew most of them. Army training courses had always been good for revision.

“What about you, Haller,” said Budmiger. “Haven't you got any funny stories for us today?”

Father turned his head in his direction. “Ha ha ha,” he jeered. “What's the need? With a clown like you!”

He continued to stare blankly at his half-empty glass. And at the neighbouring table the next dirty joke was being told.

“Blithering idiot!” he said.

*

Through the beige-grey Brühl district. I rode out on my moped again at the beginning of December. I always set off early, immediately after lunch. In that way I could start back for home by half past three at the latest. As long as the sun was shining it was still bearable on the moped, even in December. It was only in the woods that it got uncomfortably cold.

I couldn't think of anything to say about death, etc.

A good thing Father didn't start talking about it.

*

Usually I drove out to see him on Saturday afternoons. Thus I fulfilled my duty to visit and in the meantime Sophie could do what she didn't want to stop doing.

Duty – was visiting Father a duty? I didn't dislike riding out to Breitmoos.

The bare poplars, the cleared fields. The countryside might be boring, but it endures. Pylons, houses. Few people outdoors. Only the cars on the road; most of them were driving toward the town.

*

The pain was tiresome. On both sides, especially on the left, right up to the armpits; and also behind, from his neck all the way down his back. He was sitting on his chair by the window, his elbows propped up on the night table. Sitting there stiffly, hardly moving.

Before leaving I had a word with the manager out in the corridor. He took me into his office.

Mr Haller was a difficult case, he said. Terribly stubborn. Once again he wasn't taking his tablets.

What kind of tablets, I asked.

Tablets that were given in such cases. Painkillers mainly.

Had they been prescribed by Dr Lätt?

Not directly, but the doctor was in the picture. There were always medicines left over. Here at the home they didn't throw them away but used them for other residents when they needed them, free of charge of course. Dr Lätt knew that and approved.

The manager pulled open the top drawer of his desk. It was full of opened boxes of tablets.

Had the doctor already been to the home today, I asked. They should get him to see my father as soon as possible. My father would never ask for the doctor himself, whether out of obstinacy or for some other reason. But something had to be done. The pain had grown too strong. Father might not say much, but it was clear that he didn't feel at all well. And if he didn't want to take any pills they'd have to give him injections. He didn't believe in pills. He might still have faith in injections.

The manager promised to talk to the doctor.

On my next visit when I asked him if Lätt had been to see him Father waved the question aside irritably.

He'd heard him outside in the corridor yesterday. His high-pitched voice was audible from afar. But he wasn't going to call him in specially. After all, he knew where he could find him, Haller.

“I'm going to take my stick and give myself a blow on the back of the neck.” Groaning he twisted his arm back and held his neck. “Here – here – and here. It's called ‘giving the rabbit the stick'.”

But he drank a bottle of cider every day, he said. That was better than all those stupid pills they were so desperate to stuff into him. He wouldn't take them to save his life! And that was that!

*

A few days later Doctor Lätt gave him an injection in his shoulder. I was there at the time.

“No,” said the doctor, “it's got nothing at all to do with the other thing.” He meant the metastases. “It's arthritis,” he explained, “in the joints of your shoulders. To start with I'll give you an injection on the left side. We'll see if it works. Then we can give you another injection later on.”

The needle sank deeply into the flesh of his shoulder. Slowly the doctor pressed down the plunger of the syringe. Father sniffed. “Keep going,” he said. “Let's hope it works.”

He'd come by again in three days, said the doctor. He left the used syringe on the table next to the wad of cotton he'd used to disinfect the skin and to dab away the blood.

*

It was a year now since Father had first mentioned the thing on his back; it was the day I'd taken him the usual Christmas presents: the cigarettes, the wine, the books. His vest tended to stick to the boil, he'd said. When he took off his vest in the evening he always tore off the scab. So of course the boil couldn't heal. But some time or other it would dry up; after all he had healthy blood. The only nuisance was that he had to keep putting bagfuls of vests in the wash.

When he visited us one Saturday afternoon three or four weeks later I asked him about it. I'd nearly forgotten. The boil was still there, he said. Sophie insisted on him showing her his back. “You must go to the doctor with that,” she said. “As soon as possible!” Father merely laughed and let her clean up the wound and cover it with a plaster. She gave him the plasters; he should at least get someone to dress his back regularly.

That was no boil, she said after Father had gone. Neither of us had ever seen anything like it before.

*

Through the grey Brühl district. I didn't take the moped any more but rode out on my bike. It took me almost an hour.

Thinking is a singular pursuit. Riding a bicycle, more thoughts came to my mind than on the moped. But even on my bike I seldom had any thoughts I could clearly recall once I'd arrived at the old people's home.

It grew cold after the middle of December, foggy and cold. Pedalling kept me warm. The first time I switched from the moped to the bicycle I'd been dressed too warmly, and I'd arrived at the home in a sweat.

What did he get out of my visits? Probably he didn't object to my coming. Usually he was the one who did the talking. Indeed, what did I have to talk about that was interesting? There's not much you can say about housework or job-hunting.

I had not quite given up looking for a job. Every week I went through the newspapers in the town library. That was soon done.

Listless. There was no better way to describe it. Without motive or purpose. No interest in this, no interest in that.

Once it occurred to me: why have a job at all? From hand to mouth, at the mercy of Sophie or someone else. Cycling through the countryside I thought: like the crows in the field, no danger of starving to death.

*

The cortisone injection in his shoulder had worked. Father resumed his ranting, his sharp tongue back in action.

Last Sunday evening they'd taken him home from the Löwen in a wheelbarrow. He grinned as he told the story. “You know, the weakness in my legs. Anyway I arrived back safely in our posh home. For potatoes boiled in their skins and processed cheese. What more can you want! That afternoon was fun.”

Soon all that would be over.

Apparently, dying was nothing special. A lot of trouble – and not much chance of coming through. You die the way you lived, no better, no worse. Grinning a little, cursing a little, with long silent periods in between. Now sweating, now looking idly out of the window. Day following after day.

Is there any sense in it all? I'd never really asked myself. I'd just lived along from day to day. You had to get by somehow or other. There was always something new you had to cope with. School, apprenticeship, first girlfriend, first job, leaving home, finding a flat, changing your job, changing your girlfriend, military service, rainy holidays, getting engaged, marrying, and so on.

Now I'd had it all. I'd even been on the dole. And for the first time – another first time – I didn't know what was coming next. I didn't even know what I should wish for. A new job or a new profession? For Sophie to give up Fritschi? Or for her to stop putting up with me as a house husband?

At least visiting Father out in Breitmoos was not completely useless. No grand purpose, just a minor one. And there was not much left to wish for there either.

It wouldn't be bad to die younger than Father. Perhaps then one would have the courage to look one's own departure, one's imminent departure, in the face.

Father no longer had the courage. He knew – and yet he didn't know. He still liked living, strangely enough. Limping, coughing, grumbling, griping. He accepted the pain – his crippled ankle had given him pain for years, it was nothing new, you could live with it. You could also die with it.