He comes out of the room, immediately grabbing his push broom. Without another look up or another word, he quickly walks down the hall.
I am so confused that I feel a bit stunned. When I can get my body to respond, I walk down the corridor, hoping to catch sight of him, but as I round the corner, there’s no trace.
I wouldn’t know what I would do if I found him anyway. He didn’t seem interested in talking. There is no point in trying to find him, so I leave the building and head to my car. I think of the young man playing such a haunting version of the Christmas carol I’ve loved since childhood. The thoughts of the song, of the man, of his reactions, keep my tired mind busy for the rest of the evening.
I go back to the building around the same time the next evening in hopes of hearing more music from the talented janitor with the German accent, but he is not there. I have no idea if he’s assigned certain buildings to clean or if his assignments take him all over campus. Why do I need to hear the music again? Why do I need to see him again?
What is it about that man that is driving me to visit the building each night? A week passes, and I begin to stop in during the day, as if I will see him cleaning amidst the students and faculty. I run that night over and over through my head. He said but six words and barely looked at me. I could only take in a few small details of him, but there’s something that makes me wish we could have a drink together. From somewhere deep inside of me, I know, without understanding why, I need to know this man.
It becomes not quite an obsession, but much of my attention and focus is given to finding him again. My thoughts are plagued with questions I feel driven to ask, observations that hadn’t presented themselves to me in the moment, but now that I am distanced from it, they are all around me. How does a janitor play such beautiful music? Why is he not a student himself? I now remember the flash of scar I saw across his right temple. How did he get it? Why was he standing there trembling before me as if I was anyone of authority?
Why was he sorry for playing the piano? I can’t imagine anyone would mind, especially given the building was nearly deserted and how beautifully he played. I’m sure if a staff member had heard him, they would’ve praised him, asked him to be a part of something more than just cleaning up after privileged students.
Nearly three weeks after having heard the music and experienced the enigma of the man who’d played it, I am beginning to think it was all an illusion, or a dream. But today, as I walk toward Doe Memorial Library with my friend Charles Baum, I see him, the janitor. He walks into the library quickly, head down, hands thrust deep into his pockets.
My pace increases. I forget about everything except the need to find out more about him until a hand on my arm slows me down. I don’t stop as I turn around, asking Charles with a raised eyebrow what it is he wants.
“What’s the hurry? Why are you running?” he asks as he struggles to keep up with me.
No time for answering until we’re inside the building. I scan my surroundings but cannot catch sight of the man.
“John,” Charles says to me, again holding onto my forearm, but this time tugging on me until my feet come to a complete stop. “What’s going on?”
Charles shakes his head as he pulls off his stocking cap. His red hair is matted down. He begins to look around the library, and he runs his hand through his hair. “What guy?”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, my eyes taking in the people around us. I still can’t find him. Realizing I’ve lost the man again, I turn back to my friend and think about what I might tell him. Charles is a trustworthy person. Not only is he a friend, he leads the same quiet existence as I do, and he understands the need for discretion.
Charles’s left eyebrow goes up as a small smirk appears on his lips. I’m not sure what it means until he asks, “Is he handsome?”
I let out a deep sigh. “I suppose he is.” I’m not worried about saying this to Charles. His ability to understand is because he’s like me. “But he plays the piano, and—”
Charles interrupts, “Is that him?”
I follow the line of his arm and extended finger, and I see the back of the man’s head, covered with that sandy-blond hair, right before he enters the stairwell. Again, I am moving, Charles following me. We start up the stairs, following the sound of footsteps.
When we see the janitor again, he enters a room with restricted access. Only graduate students and faculty are allowed inside. I think for a moment that he must be here to clean it, but as we enter after him, I see he goes directly to the back.
I hide behind a stack of books, watching as the blond man with the scar on his temple sits down next to a scholarly-looking man. When the man in the tweed jacket looks up, I see it is Professor Fournier. When I was in my second year, I took an undergraduate survey course of his on European history. Now he teaches graduatelevel political science classes. I don’t know much about him, but I know he’s incredibly intelligent and comes from France.
Charles whispers something in my ear, but I shush him. I’m interested in the quiet interaction of the janitor and the professor. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but there is a familiarity in their expressions and body language.
The blond man’s neck is bent, his head bowed again. Professor Fournier’s black hair falls over his forehead as he ducks his head in an attempt to look at the other man’s face.
Suddenly, Charles sneezes. Both men at the table look up. I think I turn away before the blond can see my face. I begin to feign looking at the books as I sidestep toward the door, pulling Charles along with me. My only hope is that the other men think nothing of us being here. I don’t know what they are saying or why they are even sitting together, but my first instinct is that it some kind of clandestine meeting.
The sight of a highly regarded professor and a lowly janitor doubles the questions in my mind. As Charles and I make a hasty departure from the room and settle down at a regular table, there is no denying my curiosity.
My friend says nothing until sometime later. “What are you thinking? I swear if you tug any more at that little goatee of yours, it’ll come right off in your fingers.” I draw my eyes to him but remain silent. “Still thinking of the cleaning boy?”
I trace my lips with the tip of my index finger for a second before allowing them to curve up into a smile. Shaking my head, I tell Charles, “You think all male friends are lovers.”
Another weekend passes without any new clues about the mysterious janitor. I don’t see him, but new information comes to me from Charles over a drink at a small local bar late Tuesday night. I finally agree to meet him here. My friend has been attempting to get me to come to his favorite off-campus spot for years, but I’ve almost always declined.
“I spoke with Liza,” Charles says as he sits down next to me, helping himself to one of my cigarettes. “She knows absolutely everything about everybody.”
I take a swig of my beer, then a hit off my cigarette, waiting for him to tell me something interesting. Charles enjoys drawing things out, especially if it makes him the center of attention for even a moment longer.
He waits for his Manhattan, letting his eyes roam over the other patrons of the bar. When his drink is handed to him, he returns his gaze to me. After another accentuated draw from his cigarette and a pointed look from me, he takes a small sip, then begins to talk.
“It seems your young cleaning boy is the brother of Professor Fournier, even though they look
nothing
alike. Intriguing, no? Apparently he never speaks either.”
Leave it to Charles to find the most theatrical way of ending the retelling of his findings. I know he wants me to ask, and I want to know, so I oblige him. “What do you mean, ‘outburst’?”
He crosses his legs, snubs out his cigarette, and levels me with his green eyes. “Apparently our custodial friend attended university at our beloved campus, but Liza says he had uncontrollable outbursts on at least three occasions. She says the rumor is it’s because of the war. As if he thinks he’s in a combat zone.”
I swallow the rest of my beer in a hard gulp and smash the butt of my cigarette in the ashtray before immediately lighting another.
It feels hot in this stuffy place. Suddenly, I’m claustrophobic. My flesh is burning, but a chill runs through me. A few beads of sweat form on my forehead.
Jumping when I feel something on my arm, I look down to see Charles’s hand. I bring my gaze up. His worried expression brings me out of what could’ve been a devastating spiral into a delusion of war. They don’t happen much, but when they do, they’re terrible.
I shake my head and manage to give my friend a small smile. When he removes his hand, I take a long pull from my cigarette. I wonder if Professor Fournier’s “brother” is really a veteran. I wonder if his accent makes him my enemy.
Or at least
made
him my enemy years ago. I’m not a soldier anymore. The war in Germany is long over. I am a student now.
Charles buys me another beer and pushes it toward me. He doesn’t speak until I’ve drank half of it. Then he continues as if I hadn’t almost just had an episode. “Anyway, the cleaning boy—”
“Stop calling him that,” I say as I blow out a lungful of smoke. “He’s not a
boy
. He’s very clearly
not
a
boy
.”
My friend gives me another smirk; I roll my eyes at the implication in it. “The
man
who cleans —is that better?” I nod, and he goes on, “
Lives
with the professor. It sounds nothing short of scandalous, if you ask me.”
I think about this information for a moment. Maybe Charles was right when he said they were lovers. I don’t know many brothers who
live
with each other this late in life. The professor had to be in his forties, and the shy janitor who plays beautiful music looked to be in his thirties. It seems odd that they would be living in the same house still.
Maybe Charles’s information is false. It wouldn’t be the first time his reporting of “information” turned out to be nothing more than inaccurate gossip.
I will have to find out for myself.
Later that night, I have the dream again. It’s cold. I’m
so
tired. The combat has been hard and hasn’t let up for over a year. Every day is nothing more than a continuation of the last. Over five hundred days. I can’t take much more without snapping.
Then there are the bodies. So many of them, eyes open, staring into my eyes, unseeing, but accusing me of moving too slowly. The rot. The decay. Some have been dead for months, others freshly killed.
In my dream, I always know what I’m headed into, but I can’t stop myself from going. I have to go in. I am
ordered
to go in. Every time, it’s the same. Finding the bodies. Feeling the disgust, the horror, the blind
rage
at what had obviously happened to those people.
Then it’s the killing. I can feel the hate as if it is not the dream—as if I am back overseas. I see the uniforms, and I can’t help but hurl insults and vulgarities. It doesn’t matter if they are field soldiers in camo or officers in their pressed olive uniforms. It doesn’t matter if they have pistols or rifles in their hands or if their arms are in the air in surrender. My thought is only of one thing: punishment.
Wiping them out—making them pay—is the only thing I think of as my finger depresses the trigger of my weapon. It is the only thing I can focus on as I watch—as I
let
—those who had no power seize it, giving back the brutality they’d endured for years.
And then I see him. Never been in my dream before, but now he’s here. His pale blue eyes stop me. He’s on his knees, hands behind his head. All of his power is gone. He is surrendering. To my right I hear the click of weapons being drawn and pointed. Pistols, rifles, machine guns.
I scream, but it is silent.
His eyes are fixed on me. I don’t know if he’s pleading or taunting me with his expression. All I know is what my gut is telling me. This can’t happen.
But it does.
Before I can launch my body into motion, the shots ring out. I can see the impact of the bullets as they enter his chest slowly, blood spraying out of the wounds. It’s forced out of his mouth as those pale blue eyes widen in pain and terror.
The last thing I hear is “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to” echoing in my mind as I sit up in bed. I’m covered in sweat. My fingers are wrapped tightly around my feather pillow.
The sheets are soaked as I shove them off of me. My stomach lurches. I just make it to the toilet in time to empty the contents of my stomach into it.
After I am out of the shower, cleaned and in new bed clothes, I sit out on my porch and smoke. My thoughts never make sense after the dream, but tonight I feel they are even more muddled. There is now another element to ponder.
Could the janitor I’ve become obsessed with have been in the war too? Could he have been fighting for the other side? Could he have shot at me? Was he the man who’d rushed at me near the Moder River? Had it been his knife that was drawn, ready to slice me to pieces, only to run when Big Jim came at him?
I don’t want to believe he is my enemy. It makes me sick to think of him in that way. But if what Charles said about his “outbursts” and being in the war is true, there’s only one possible answer. He’s a member—or
was
a member—of the Wehrmacht or Waffen-SS.
The sickness I feel in my stomach doesn’t subside as it normally does. Nothing makes sense. Why would a former German soldier be living with a French professor in California?