The Boxer (7 page)

“Thank you.”

“Where did you sleep last night?”

“In the woods.”

“Oh, my God!”

Aron went back to Mark. The chair was still there; he sat down without asking the nurse. Mark looked like he was asleep, but Aron had barely sat down when he opened his eyes and
even
turned his head a little in his direction. Aron felt that Mark was smiling at him in a barely perceptible way.

“You are my father,” Mark said, “and I am your son.”

Aron’s tears immediately began to flow again. Mark hadn’t slept for one second, but, like his father outside, he had made calculations. He had arrived at the right result and had understood the lesson. Aron was filled with pride. From Mark’s behavior he deduced an uncommon intelligence — in spite of all the neglect — and a gift for analysis, and the rare ambition of not being satisfied with approximations. The tears were collected in a handkerchief; then Aron risked his first kiss, which Mark registered with astonishment.

Mark’s performance increased Aron’s desire for conversation wherein, he says, the content was less important than the pure joy of hearing Mark’s voice. “What can you remember?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know that you were in a camp?”

“Yes, in a concentration camp.”

“Did you run around there?”

“Yes.”

“Who gave you food?”

“The woman.”

“Which woman? What was her name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was her name Mrs. Fisch?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did she live in the same barrack as you?”

“Yes. We slept in the same bed.”

“Was she old?”

“No, she was beautiful.”

Aron thought it was strange that Mark knew abstract words such as “old” and “beautiful” while he didn’t know such an easy one as “son.” At the same time he felt pleased with himself because he had succeeded, armed with nothing but a little experience, in deducing that this woman, Mark’s savior, existed. Like an astronomer who works out the existence of a distant celestial body, he says, without seeing it, only on the basis of its effects.

Aron resolved to change the subject. Furthermore, he decided on the spot that the exchange should be final; he didn’t want to speak about the camp with Mark ever again. He said, “Now I’d like to introduce myself. Because it’s rather funny that you don’t even know your father’s name. My name is Arno Blank.”

I
interrupt Aron to ask why he had never wanted to speak to Mark about the camp again. Not because I consider his resolution absurd, I say, rather because I can think of several reasons. Aron looks at me for a long time without answering; then he declares that it is enough for today, he’s tired now.

However, the expression on his face betrays what he thinks: He who asks such questions can’t do much with answers.

It is as hard for me now as it was the first day to come to terms with the fact that time and again I will have to rely on suppositions. Unless I discover a cleverer method, or find something that, to Aron’s ears, sounds less crass than a question. Half a day is lost, but we’re not in a hurry, no one is pressuring us.

M
ark was encouraged to repeat the name several times so that he would get used to its strange melody. He didn’t notice the difference between their last names, it didn’t mean anything to him. Aron began a series of bewildering explanations — father, marriage, registry office — yet he stopped as soon as he noticed that Mark could keep his eyes open only with great effort. The last piece of information he gave Mark was that the name Berger had been a mistake, caused by a hearing defect or carelessness of the person who wrote it.

“So what’s your name?”

“My name is Mark Blank.”

“Very good.”

Then the director appeared and said that Mark had to be treated, medicine, food, and sleep. Aron walked out with her. He had intended to talk with Mark a couple of hours later but she said, “That’s enough for today. You can’t imagine how much such a conversation strains him in his condition.”

“Perhaps you think,” Aron said, “that it’s better for him to see nothing but the ceiling all day? He has almost forgotten how to speak.”

“Dear Mr. Blank,” the director said, “I’m afraid you are confused. We have taken over the task of making your son better, not of entertaining him. Or should we assign someone to do nothing but converse with the children all day?”

“Of course you should!” Aron shouted. He went away angrily, without a specific direction. When he turned around he saw her, puzzled, looking after him. He went back, no longer in a rush and not to excuse himself for his lapse.

She even smiled. “Did you forget something?” she asked.

“Yes. I want you to change the name in the papers. His name isn’t Berger.”

“I’ve already seen to that,” she said.

A
ron had barely stepped into Alois Weber’s barrack when he wanted to go out again, he was so shocked. But this would have offended his host. He felt as if he were back, he says; except for a living room, nothing had changed. The well-known smell, thirty or more three-storied bunk beds with rotting straw, and Weber, as if he were joking, said, “Make yourself at home.”

“For God’s sake,” Aron said, “how can you live here?

“What do you mean ‘can,’“ Weber said. “I have to. Maybe I’m not as sensitive as you are. You had trouble?”

Aron told of his troubles. “But the nursing is really good,” Weber said, “as far as I can judge. The nurses are patient and friendly, the medicine comes from America, and the food is plentiful. What more do you want?”

The barrack made Aron restless; Mark and the woman may have slept in one of the beds. He sat on one of two chairs. Weber had achieved a certain degree of luxury, a cupboard, a table, a radio, a standard lamp, an alarm clock, and a palm tree in a bucket. The invitation to spend the night could only mean that Aron should use one of the many empty bunk beds; he asked himself if the woods weren’t preferable.

“I’m thinking,” Aron said, “whether I should simply try again later or not.”

“Try what?”

“Go to him, without asking.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“And why not?”

“It’s simple,” Weber said. “You’re leaving tomorrow but he stays here. Or are you planning to take him with you right away?”

“I can’t.”

“So you see.”

“Where’s your dog?” Aron asked.

It wasn’t his dog, Weber said. He suggested they go for a little walk, the weather was so pleasant, the surroundings were delightful, and they could eat something on the way. Aron was surprised — it was unlikely that somewhere along the way there would be an inn that was still intact — yet since Weber suggested it he agreed. He also agreed because any way of passing time was preferable to staying in the barrack and, as for Mark, Weber was probably right.

They went in the direction of the small town, only a short way, then Weber turned off the road and led Aron across a wide field. From the very first step, Weber produced an endless flow of words; at first he made a number of general comments about the region, Bayern, the correlation between war and crime, or the fight against crop pests, yet he
skillfully
approached his actual topic, Alois Weber’s past. Weber portrayed the thorny career of a Social Democrat, even his grandfather had been a Social Democrat, the field wasn’t wide enough for the whole story. Weber interrupted himself only now and then to point out a fleeing animal or a rare bird, which interested Aron as little as his life history. Weber wasn’t disagreeable, that’s why Aron let him talk; he stopped listening only when Weber got to his twenties. He thought of other things, and Weber didn’t suspect that he was talking to himself. For example, Aron says, he had thought that he wanted to bring Mark to Berlin as soon as possible, but how? Once Weber tugged on his sleeve and asked, “What do you think ofthat?” And Aron risked the answer “Unbelievable.”

That seemed to be appropriate. Luckily Weber didn’t challenge Aron a second time by asking him to declare his view of the circumstances, so they both went about their business undisturbed. Later, when they were surrounded by the woods and Weber, after listening briefly, had reached the point of his unavoidable arrest by the Gestapo, he said, “I’ll tell you later how it turned out, perhaps this evening. Now let’s enjoy the air.”

“You’re not just going for a walk with me?” Aron said. “You’re taking me somewhere?”

Weber grinned and said, “You notice everything.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going to a ranger widow.”

“A what?”

Aron found that Weber’s grin took on a suggestive twist while he explained: in the woods there was a ranger’s lodge, what kind of a German wood would this be if there wasn’t one? The ranger had been killed in the war, yet his widow, pretty and lonely, was still alive; these two facts too were not uncommon in our time. In his heart, Weber thanked destiny for having let him, quite by chance, find the little house during a solitary walk hardly two weeks before. “And we will eat there.”

“She sells food?”

“Nonsense. I haul everything I can find over there.

She also has a child.”

“Why do you do this?” Aron asked.

In spite of the grinning, he says, he expected a philanthropic answer, but Weber teased the obtuse Aron. He said, “You have three guesses,” and he supported this with an
offensive gesture
. “That’s why I do it. Or should I wait till the ten-year mourning period is up?”

“You’re right,” Aron said, “life must go on.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

When they arrived, Aron concluded that he and Weber held completely divergent views on female beauty. The plumpish woman was introduced to him as Margarete; she was considerably younger than Weber, and this had probably had a positive influence on his assessment of her charms. A child was nowhere to be seen; only the dog Aron had already met came toward him. Thus Aron could infer where Alois Weber had spent the previous night. Yes, he told himself, like this the barrack is easier to bear.

The food was good; it consisted of, Aron remembers, potatoes, mushrooms, and canned meat, with red wine on the side. Weber helped with the preparations while Aron sat on a deck chair in front of the house and enjoyed the peace and quiet. He decided to invite Weber for a return visit the following morning when they took leave of each other.

In the meantime supper was on the table, and the way back was overshadowed by the rest of the Weberian story.

D
on’t you want to tell me his story? At least the gist of it?”

“I already told you, I don’t know it.”

W
hen they got back to the home, it was pitch black. Only a few feet away from the lodge, Aron had offered to Weber to go back alone; he would definitely find the way, and an empty bed too. Yet Weber had declined and explained, “At my age one can’t always do as one wants.”

“Which bed do you want?” Weber asked.

“I don’t care.”

Aron lay down on the one closest to Weber’s living corner. He was so tired that the barrack, contrary to all fears, hardly kept him from falling asleep.

The next morning time for conversation with Mark turned out to be brief because Weber, who was already dressed, woke Aron with the news that the car was already waiting outside.

“What’s the time?”

“Six thirty.”

“Are the children awake?”

“No.”

Aron stole into the dormitory, didn’t come across any personnel on the way, and woke Mark up. He put a finger on his lips and whispered, “I have to leave now.”

He waited for an expression of disappointment, Mark’s “Already?” or if and when he’d come back. Yet nothing of the kind happened, so Aron said, “I will come back soon and take you with me to Berlin.”

“What is that, Berlin?”

“Berlin is a big city. But don’t be impatient.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come for you soon. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Aron kissed Mark and said, “And now go back to sleep, you must sleep a great deal.”

The parting from Weber was heartfelt; it even came, Aron says, to an embrace — initiated by Weber. Weber pressed a package with a sandwich into his hand; Aron assured himself that Weber had noted his address correctly.

Then the greeting with Clifford; Clifford said, “We’re early.”

They both sat in the car exactly where they had been two days earlier. Aron breakfasted and drove toward Paula; he already thought,
Yesterday was a day without Paula
. Clifford asked him about his meeting with his son, and Aron gave him some information without going into details.

N
ormally,” he says, “one wouldn’t need to waste one word on the return trip. But I already told you several things over which one normally needn’t waste one word, and I will do it again often. Listen to what happened on the way home. We sit and drive and talk, I forget about what, only our driver is silent the whole time. I can’t talk to him because of the language barrier, you know, but I notice that Clifford isn’t talking to him either. Not even when he’s not talking to me. Perhaps, I think, they can’t stand each other or they drive together so often that they have already talked themselves out. At a certain point the car turns into the wood again and stops next to the fuel truck; Clifford climbs out and beckons to me. I don’t really want to get out, everything is full of sand, but he waves and I don’t want to be impolite. So I get out of the car. In the meantime it’s boiling hot, we walk to the shade, sit on a bench, and smoke. Suddenly there’s such a blast that I feel like the world is falling to pieces. A pressure wave as hard as iron tears me from the bench. I fly a couple of yards and fall in the sand, but I’m not unconscious. My ears hurt. I see Clifford lying not far from me. You must imagine, the pressure was so strong that even the heavy stone bench has fallen over. Clifford isn’t hurt either; he asks what happened and I tell him to turn around. There’s a pillar of smoke. It must be the truck, I immediately think, where our car was parked. Clifford dashes away; I stay sitting on the ground and check if my limbs are intact. In brief, the truck has exploded. Why, nobody knows. Our driver is dead, another soldier is dead, and there are a couple of wounded, too. I think, I only got out of the car because I wanted to be polite and that saved my life. Clifford had to go to Berlin urgently. They found a jeep and a new driver; nothing was left of our car. So we sit again and drive, I’m quiet — what can one say about such a story? — Clifford also says nothing. But suddenly he starts crying, crying like a child. A delayed shock, I think, but he doesn’t stop. I see that he wants to stop but he can’t. I told you, I had the impression he treated the driver as if he didn’t exist, which is why I’m so surprised that this story hurts him so. Until he tells me that the driver was his son. Your son? I ask. His son-in-law. And he cries all the way to Berlin. I imagine how he will tell his daughter, and I remember Weber’s asking whether I wanted to take Mark with me right away.”