North (33 page)

"You don't know a thing! You don't know a thing!"

The bookkeepers protest . . .

"Oh yes they do! Oh yes they do!"

"Ah, so you know? Then where's the beadle?"

General silence . . .

"And the pastor? You know that too?"

Nobody knows that either . . .

"Idiots! . . . muttonheads! . . . they've disappeared! . . . disappeared! and you'll disappear too! all of you! . . . do you hear me?"

We hear her all right! . . . Kracht motions everybody to let her yell . . . not to answer, she's nuts . . . naturally we let her . . . naturally she's nuts . . . but that doesn't soothe her at all . . . a high-grade fit! our not looking at her makes it worse! . . . she heaves and writhes . . . she presses the two tunics to her lips . . . she kisses them! . . . she cries into the blood! the clots! . . . she smears her whole face with it . . .

"Can't you hear the bombs?
boom! boom! heil! heil!"

She gets down off her chair and imitates . . .

"Boom! boom! heil! heil!"

She goes behind the secretaries . . . she explodes the bomb in their ears . . . Kracht's too . . .
boom! boom!"

"You'll all blow up! and these
franzosen
here, the whole lot of you! And Simmer too! . . . and the soup!
heil! heil!"

She stamps . . . first one foot, then the other . . .
boom! boom!
. . . and on the windowpanes with her hands . . . her palms . . . boom! . . . nobody says a word . . .

"It'll blow up in your bellies! all of you! . . . his too!
heil! heil!"

Him
is Adolf in his frame . . . she points . . . she's right under him . . . she stamps her feet . . . first one, then the other! . . . she dances . . .
pom! pom!
. . . and she laughs . . . it doesn't seem funny to us . . . her menagerie laugh . . . practically like a hyena . . . she picks up her tunics and paints her face with the blood clots, she makes herself a little moustache like the character in the frame . . . not a good time to look at her . . . everybody pretends not to see her or hear her . . . but even so, she's making too much noise . . . Kracht whispers to her husband and me and Le Vig to help him take her into the next room . . . gently . . . through the door in back . . . she's willing, in fact she's pleased, all of a sudden the fury's gone out of her . . . she's quiet, she lets us pick her up and lake her away with her tunics . . . we lay her down on her back . . . she's not crying any more . . . she's stopped threatening Adolf . . . everybody gets up from the table . . .
heil! heil!
. . . they all go up to their rooms . . . all together and not a word, as if nothing had happened . . . Le Vig and me and Kracht stop for a chat . . . the sky's darker than yesterday, maybe yellower, more sulfury . . . the wind's from the east . . . you can't see any planes but you hear them . . . the RAF . . . not the same sound as the Luftwaffe . . . like a coffee grinder . . . but soft and steady . . . says Kracht . . . he wants my opinion . . . I haven't got an opinion . . . I won't have one tomorrow either . . .
"Musik,"
he says . . .

Okay, why not?
musik!

We withdrew . . . oh, very discreetly . . . Lili, Le Vig, Bébert, and me . . . on my way past the hatrack I left my contribution . . . of course the whole thing was a farce . . . it was no secret to anybody that I was dipping into Harras's cupboard . . . there'd be consequences . . . well, we'd see . . . back in our tower niche we shook our ticks and rags and snippets of rug . . . our rats too . . . they'd stopped running away . . . with the cold weather they were getting bold, familiar . . . Bébert's not the affable type of cat, but he didn't bother with them any more . . . I could see that if we'd put out two three messkits for them we'd have had whole generations hanging around, from the cellar and the woods . . . housecleaning and rats were the least of our worries . . . La Kretzer's fit of hysteria was something to think about . . . of course the whole thing was a comedy . . . this business of screaming at Hitler and (daubing herself with blood and imitating his little moustache . . . plus the
heil heils
. . . could give people a very sticky opinion of us! . . . All Zornhof must have known, even Moorsburg . . . what would Kracht do? . . . the three of us hadn't said a word . . . just witnesses! . . . I could remember the stuff people said after
Les Beaux Draps
° . . . which-was simply a chronicle of the times . . . and still saying it. . . this thing now could be very serious . . . we were just as much "gallowsbird traitors" as on rue Girardon . . . we'd be accused of everything! . . . when you think it over later on, there are certain advantages in bping cursed by all and sundry . . . especially, it dispenses you with having to be nice to anybody. . . there's nothing more emollient, stultifying, emasculating than wanting to be liked . . . "not nice!" . . . that does it, you're free! . . . but now, with that Kretzer bitch, it would get around that we'd attacked the 
Führer!
what could we say? . . . I ask them . . . Lili and Le Vig . . . in a very soft whisper . . . you can't be too careful . . . Le Vig bursts out laughing! . . .

"We're in the plot! ho-ho! That's rich!"

"Plot yourself! man from nowhere!"

"Wait . . . I'll act it out for you!"

He stares at me! . . . first straight, then crosseyed! worse than in his films! . . .

"You're hair-raising, supersonic! supersonic!"

"Say that again!"

Well start fighting if this goes on . . .

"You're the greatest actor of the century! . . . next to you Adolf's a feeble-minded blowbard! so's the
Landrat!"

Lili backs me up . . .

"That's right, Le Vig!"

"You're sure, Ferdie boy?"

"Cross my heart!"

"Well . . . in that case . . ."

So then we settled down to a friendly chat . . .

Life must go on, even if it's no joke . . . just pretend to believe in the future! . . . yes, things are rough right now, but you know that with confidence, dexterity, and good humor, you'll pull through . . . if you've taken sides, well, then it's risky . . . but follow the thread of History and you'll roll in clover . . . the thread of History? here you are, with darkness all around you, balanced on the tight thread of History . . . you're committed! . . . if the thread snaps! if they pick you up in pieces . . . if the rabid drunken spectators make meatballs of vengeance out of your entrails . . . if they pile them into little private Katyns, ° don't go complaining! you committed yourself, didn't you? . . . me, for instance, accused of taking money . . . fortunes! . . . from the Germans! . . . not one accuser, hundreds, from every camp, and all so well informed! . . . Cousteau, who worked for Lesca, ° Sartre, the résister of the Châtelet, ° Aragon my translator, and a thousand more! and Vaillant Goncourt ° who deeply regrets . . . absolutely inconsolable . . . he had me right there in his gun sights! I can pride myself on picking the right thread . . . equally detested on both ends . . . I can say without boasting that the thread of History passes straight through me from top to bottom, from the clouds to my head to my asshole . . . Cromwell, thrown on the junkheap, crawling with worms, didn't have the thread! . . . he found out the hard way! they dug him up and strangled him again and hanged him again! . . . as long as you haven't, dead or alive, got a rope around your neck, you're an unseemly jerk . . . when I see all the people who haven't got the thread and pound the boards, and strut and perorate . . . Kommissars, superthingamajigs, Ministers, two-bit Cardinals . . . the poor, poor bastards! . . .

Hell, I'm flying away! I'll tell you about Cromwell another time! we thought we'd catch up on our connections . . . the dance hall! . . . the grocery store . . . and maybe run into Hjalmar . . . we hadn't heard his drum lately . . . had they disappeared? . . . him and the pastor? . . . they were both very slippery! . . . I say to Lili . . .

"You go see the heiress . . . you can dance up there . . . take the cat in his bag . . . we'll make the rounds, if they start bombing too hard, well come back . . . listen!"

We listen . . . all three of us . . . the walls are shaking . . . trembling same as yesterday, no more . . . and
boom!
pretty far away . . . the sky is just as dark . . . black and yellow . . .

Okay . . . we leave Lili and Bébert . . . we go down . . . the peristyle . . . Le Vig goes in for nature . . . I say to him . . .

"Get a load of that miserable soil! . . . a mash -of yellow soot! the potatoes refuse to sprout! . . . they can stick their lousy Prussia up their ass! all right, the park isn't so bad . . . but they didn't make it. . . all they ever made is gloom . . . their gloomy ways . . ."

"But you'll have to admit, those treetops . . . the filigree of leaves and branches! . . ."

Le Vig had an eye for green harmonies and scalloped sky . . . he was a pagan pantheist . . . he probably still is, out there . . . good idea, at certain times . . . not to look at anything but the leaves and waving treetops . . . but just then we were out to fill our messkits and try to snitch a loaf or two of bread from the
Kolonialwaren
. . . and maybe a jar of ersatz honey . . . I didn't want to go there at night . . . her gimmick about tapping on the window could be a signal for the "resisters" in the bar . . . that we were there for the taking . . . perfectly possible . . . but going there in the daytime wasn't so good either . . . the whole world is farce and hypocrisy in our situation, plainly earmarked for the rope, suspected on all sides, traitors to France and Germany . . . the grocery woman's customers had no doubt . . . they didn't whisper, they shouted it from one end of the store to the other . . . that we were the disgrace of the village, that our place was in a camp or in prison, that we'd come there to steal their food . . . which was a he and an insult because the
Landrat
in Moorsburg had swiped our coupons! we begged, that's a fact, but we paid with bur own money. . . which the bitches didn't turn down. . . or Haras's cigarettes either . . . they took everything we had and treated us like dirt! . . . after a while there's only one question: why haven't they hanged you? officially, so to speak! . . . they'd already liquidated all my furniture and manuscripts . . . and my publisher! . . . it was none of the grocery woman's business . . . let's go! to hell with it! . . . but not too fast! . . . I could see the ground moving . . . not only ahead of me . . . out there! . . . the whole plain! . . . the beet fields rising . . . falling . . . in the distance . . . I'm not really dizzy . . . but maybe I'm not feeling so good . . . damn! . . . the cigarettes! . . . about-face! . . . they hate us and despise us, but it'll be a damn sight worse if we turn up without tobacco . . . we go back . . . quick to the cupboard! . . . three packs, four . . . I lock up . . . we move fast. . . we hadn't taken twenty steps . . . "hey! . . . hey!" Kracht! . . . he looks bad . . . sleepless night? . . . drinking? . . . sick? . . . "Something wrong, Kracht?" He's green and yellow . . . all shriveled up . . . from one day to the next . . . and his little "Adolf" moustache is every which way . . . unhappy? . . . what's wrong? . . . the news . . . no need of news, you only have to look at the sky and hear what's falling . . . nothing to get so upset about . . . he takes us out a little way . . . I don't like this "little way" routine . . . he'd already pulled it on me at the airfield . . .

"Well, Kracht, what's up? was? was? . . ."

If he wants to bump us off, why doesn't he do it? . . . if that's the lay of the land . . . why take us on this excursion? . . . Le Vig, who's given up talking since we left Grünwald, points his finger at his temple, meaning that we've gone far enough, he should make up his mind . . .

"Ach! nein! nein! verrückt!"

And he starts laughing . . . he thinks we're nuts . . . not at all! . . . just frank . . . we were sick of being marched around . . . damned if he doesn't pull his big pistol . . . I knew it well . . . out of the holster! he points at his temple,
his
temple . . . the place I should shoot at . . .

"Nun! . . . nun!
. . . go ahead!"

He insists . . .

"Los!"

He really wants me to . . . but we didn't! . . . we had enough complications without killing an SS-man! . . . no, thanks! . . . sure, he's a swine, but not our cup of tea! him with his little moustache! . . . another think coming! . . . expecting us to cater to his vice, his passion for suicide! hold your horses!

"Nein, Kracht! neinl braver mann, Kracht! freund! freund!
friend!"

We'd always be pals, but there it ended! we'd had enough of his nasty ideas! . . . we put his revolver back in the holster . . . big display of affection! . . . we slap him on the back . . . 
bam!
. . . we hug him and kiss him! . . . he'd given us a scare . . . the whole thing took two minutes, three suicides and resurrections . . . emotional crises don't last long in men . . . women and girls feel at home in tragedy, they want more, more and more! . . . at prayer, knitting by the guillotine, in the arena, in bed, never enough! talking about emotion, ours was fear . . . was he taking us out there to liquidate us? . . . I had my suspicions . . .

"Listen to me, Doctor . . .
"hören sie?"

What was he going to ask us? he looked very embarrassed, almost contrite . . . it must be something ticklish . . . Le Vigan wanted to leave us alone . . .

"No! No! . . . you too, Monsieur Le Vigan!"

He looks at us . . . to see if were laughing at him . . .

"You saw Frau Kretzer? you were there?"

We were there all right . . . but what of it?

"Skandal! . . . skandal!"

It seems that everybody was talking about it . . . we could imagine . . . even in Berlin! . . . pretty thick, the news getting to Berlin so fast! . . . with everything cut off! . . . radio, cables, mail . . . the offices on the blink! . . . but that didn't prevent every last fart from reaching Berlin and touching the minds and tongues of men . . . and women . . . worse than in normal times . . . the gossip flowed, and nothing could stop it . . . the same to the bitter end . . . till the Reich went under . . . in the worst slaughter, under storms of fulminates,
yack yack yack!
. . . ah, Madame! . . . and they add details, they invent! . . . which is why it doesn't surprise me that Caesar in Spain . . . though very busy putting down the rebellion . . . knew exactly what was going on in Rome, hour for hour, in the Circus, in the brothels, in the Senate and slums . . . 

Electric wires are no use . . . neither are special deliveries or guitar cellars once everybody's trembling, jittering, absolutely shaken with fear . . . no machine is needed, they transmit automatically; body and soul . . . duck soup, hiccups, the news . . . you go anywhere near them . . .
pfft!
it's all over you! . . . it overflows, it splatters! . . . you should have stayed away! you're crushed by what they tell you . . . the atmosphere, the true and the false . . . with Kracht now, I couldn't see what had floored him . . . the scandal? . . . that fit of nerves? . . . he wanted us to say something . . . to assure him that be wasn't dishonored . . . he'd already taken measures . . . could I certify that the woman was mad?

"Certainly, Krocht . . . certainly!"

All the same I suggest . . . it might be preferable to call in a doctor from Moorsburg . . . they wouldn't come! . . . as long as I was there, it was up to me, even with no sign of an authorization . . . Harras had told me . . . all the ministries were extremely hostile, extremely anti-Nazi, especially the Interior! . . . I'd have a long wait for my "permit"! . . . nothing to worry about, I'd get it directly and quick through the SS . . . I've got to own up to a little quirk, I wasn't at all eager for that permit . . . too compromising . . . better off without it . . . we wouldn't be in Germany forever . . . but Kracht wanted me to have it . . . he didn't give a shit about the Interior or any other ministry . . . stinking gang of traitors, spies, Anglophiles! . . . and monarchists! . . . string 'em up! . . . I wasn't going to contradict him! . . . I only wanted to calm him down . . . should we go up and see Kretzer? . . . okay . . . where'd he put her? . . . in her room . . . lying down . . . so we retrace our steps . . . we pass the wagon . . . the
bibelforschers'
isba . . . the peristyle . . . Kracht comes with me, Le Vig would wait for me upstairs with Lili and Bébert . . . I knew the Kretzers' place, on the third floor . . . a regular apartment; looking out on the park . . .
knock! knock!
. . . the husband opens . . . he's bawling . . . bathed in tears, his glasses are dripping . . . he implores Kracht not to take his wife away! . . . take her away? where to? . . . he makes Kracht laugh . . .

"Have you seen a car?"

No, he hasn't seen one . . . were we making fun of him? he throws himself at Kracht's feet . . . he implores some more . . .

"Bitte! . . . bitte!"

Kracht pushes him aside, he wants me to look at the wife . . . the first thing I see, I compare them and us, is that they've got nothing to complain about . . . no hovel! . . . very comfortable in fact! . . . big thick carpets, beds, divans . . . curtains with gold and silver spangles! luxury! the furniture's kind of miscellaneous, all styles like Pretorius, but no white pine, very presentable . . . I'm always curious, wherever I go I look at the furniture . . . Kracht asks me . . .

"What do you think?"

He means about Madame Kretzer, not the curtains . . . one thing's for sure, she wants to stay put and not move! she's willing to repent, to sigh and yell and beg our pardon, to roll at our feet. . . anything, but not to go away! . . . they've closed all the windows . . . Kracht's orders! . . .

"She's sick, Doctor, isn't she? the light might be bad for her?"

"Certainly! certainly, Kracht!"

I bend down over this dubious hysteric . . . I get them to lift the curtain, just a little . . . ah, I see the patient . . . I examine her . . . after that fit under Adolf's portrait, I guess she's all in . . . her husband in tears beside her, still on his knees . . . and still imploring Kracht . . .
"bitte! bitte!"
. . . he's taken off his glasses, he was crying too hard . . . no beds in this big room, only sofas . . . my eyes have adjusted . . . I examine Frau Kretzer again . . . she hasn't let go her tunics, she's still clutching them . . . I auscultate . . . her heart's not beating very fast . . . 64 . . . 66 . . . eyelids lowered . . . closed . . . I ask if she eats . . . just a little . . . her husband forces her . . . porridge . . . does she relieve herself? . . . just a little, in a slop jar . . . over there . . . it's true . . . now my opinion? serious? not serious? . . . Kracht wants to know . . . a nervous state! overstimulated, yes! but not so very much! . . . hearing us talk . . . and about her . . . she starts sighing and sobbing . . . but not like downstairs . . . no fireworks . . . muted echoes of the booms outside, coming from the plain . . . hardly opening her lips . . .
boom boo-om!
like at the
mahlzeit
, but soft-pedal . . . well behaved, you could say . . . flat on her back . . .