It was in Osnabrück that she told me for the first time that she was afraid of me, when I refused to go to Bonn, and she was determined to go there to breathe “Catholic air.” I didn’t like the expression, I said there were plenty of Catholics in Osnabrück too, but she said I just didn’t understand her and didn’t want to understand her. We had already been in Osnabrück two days, between two bookings, and still had three days ahead of us. It had been raining since early morning, there wasn’t a single film showing that I might have wanted to see, and I hadn’t even bothered to suggest we play parchesi. The day before when we had played, Marie had worn an expression like that of a particularly long-suffering nursemaid.
Marie was lying on the bed reading, I was standing at the window smoking and looking down on the Hamburgerstrasse, sometimes onto the station square, where people were running in the rain from the station to the waiting streetcar. We couldn’t do “the thing” either. Marie was sick. She had not actually had a miscarriage but something of the sort. I had never found out
exactly what it was, and no one had told me. Anyhow she had thought she was pregnant, now she wasn’t any more, she had only spent a few hours in the morning at the hospital. She was pale, tired, and edgy, and I had said it certainly wouldn’t be good for her to make the long train journey now. I would like to have known more about it, whether she had been in pain, but she told me nothing, just cried sometimes, but in a strange irritable way.
I watched the little boy coming along the street from the left, toward the station square, he was wet through and held his school satchel open in front of him in the pouring rain. He had turned back the cover of the satchel and carried it in front of him with an expression of his face like I’ve seen in pictures of the Three Kings offering the infant Jesus frankincense, gold and myrrh. I could make out the wet book covers, almost coming apart. The boy’s expression reminded me of Henrietta. Dedicated, oblivious, exalted. Marie asked me from the bed: “What are you thinking about?” And I said: “Nothing.” I watched the boy go across the square, slowly, then disappear into the station and I was afraid for him; for this exalted quarter of an hour he would have to do five minutes’ bitter penance: a scolding mother, a worried father, no money in the house for new books. “What are you thinking about,” Marie asked again. I wanted to say “nothing” again, then I thought of the boy and I told her what I was thinking about: how the boy arrived home, in some village close by, and how he would probably lie, because no one could believe what he had actually done. He would say he had slipped and fallen, his satchel had fallen into a puddle, or he had put it down for a few minutes, right under a drainpipe from a roof, and suddenly water had come pouring down, right into the satchel. I told Marie all this in a quiet monotonous voice, and she said, from the bed: “What are you trying to do? Why are you telling me all this nonsense?” “Because that’s what I was thinking about when you asked me.” She didn’t believe any of my story about
the boy, and I lost my temper. We had never lied to each other or accused each other of lying. I got so mad I forced her to get up, put on her shoes, and run over to the station with me. I was in such a hurry I forgot the umbrella, we got wet and didn’t see the boy at the station. We went through the waiting room, even to the Traveler’s Aid, and I finally asked the ticket collector at the barrier whether a train had just left. He said, yes, for Bohmte, two minutes ago. I asked him whether a boy had come through the barrier, wet through, with fair hair, about so tall, he became suspicious and asked “What’s the matter? Has he been up to something?” “No,” I said, “I only want to know whether he got on the train.” We were both wet, Marie and I, and he looked at us suspiciously from head to foot. “Are you from the Rhineland?” he asked. It sounded as if he was asking me if I had a police record. “Yes,” I said. “I can only give out information of this kind with the permission of my superiors,” he said. I expect he had had trouble with someone from the Rhineland, probably in the army. I knew a stagehand who had once been swindled by a Berliner in the army, and ever since then treated everybody from Berlin as a personal enemy. During the performance of a female acrobat from Berlin he suddenly switched off the light, she lost her footing and broke her leg. The thing was never proved, they said it was a “short circuit,” but I am sure that stagehand only switched off the light because the girl was from Berlin and he had once been swindled in the army by a Berliner. The ticket collector at the barrier in Osnabrück looked at me with an expression that quite scared me. “I have a bet with this lady,” I said, “it’s a bet.” That was a mistake, because it was a lie and anyone can tell at once when I’m lying. “I see,” he said, “a bet. When Rhinelanders start betting.” It was hopeless. For an instant I considered taking a taxi and driving to Bohmte, waiting at the station for the train and seeing the boy get out. But of course he might get out at any little place before or after Bohmte. We were wet through and very cold when we got back to the hotel.
I pushed Marie into the bar downstairs, stood at the counter, put my arm around her and ordered cognac. The bartender, who was also the hotel owner, looked at us as if he would like to call the police. The day before we had played parchesi for hours and had ordered ham sandwiches and tea sent up to us, that morning Marie had gone to the hospital, and come back looking pale. He put down the cognac in front of us so that half of it slopped over, and looked pointedly past us. “Don’t you believe me?” I asked Marie, “I mean about the boy.” “I do,” she said, “I do believe you.” She was only saying so out of pity, not because she really believed me, and I was furious because I didn’t have the nerve to tell the bartender off about the spilled cognac. Next to us stood a burly fellow who smacked his lips as he drank his beer. After each gulp he licked the foam from his lips, looked at me as if at any moment he was going to speak to me. I am afraid of being spoken to by half-drunk Germans of a certain age, they always talk about the war, think it was wonderful, and when they are quite drunk it turns out they are murderers and think it wasn’t really “all that bad.” Marie was shivering with cold, looked at me and shook her head when I pushed our cognac glasses across the stainless steel counter to the bartender. I was relieved because this time he pushed them toward us carefully, without spilling a drop. It removed the feeling I had had of being a coward. The chap next to us was noisily sipping a schnapps and began to talk to himself. “In forty-four,” he said, “we drank schnapps and cognac by the bucket—in forty-four by the bucket—we poured the rest onto the street and set fire to it—not a drop for the bastards.” He laughed. “Not a drop.” When I pushed our glasses across the counter toward the bartender again, he only filled one glass, looked at me doubtfully before filling the second, and it was only then that I realized Marie had left. I nodded, and he filled the second glass. I drained both, and I still feel relieved that I managed to leave then. Marie was lying upstairs on the bed in tears, when I put my hand on her forehead she pushed it
away, quietly, gently, but she pushed it away. I sat down beside her, took her hand, and she did not pull it away. I was glad. Outside it was already getting dark, I sat beside her on the bed for an hour and held her hand before I began to speak. I spoke softly, told her the story of the boy again, and she pressed my hand, as if to say: Yes, I do believe you. I also asked her to tell me just what they had done to her at the hospital, she said it had been “something gynecological—nothing serious, but horrible.” The word gynecological scares me stiff. To me it sounds sinister, because I am completely ignorant in these things. I had been with Marie for three years when I first heard about the “gynecological” business. I knew, of course, how women have children, but I knew nothing about the details. I was twenty-four years old and lived with Marie for three years when I found out about it for the first time. Marie had laughed when she realized how ignorant I was. She drew my head to her breast and kept saying: “You’re sweet, you really are.” The second person to tell me about it was Karl Emonds, my school friend, who was always fussing over his horrible conception charts.
Later on I went to the pharmacy for Marie, got her some sleeping pills and sat by her bed till she fell asleep. I still don’t know what was the matter with her and what complications the gynecological business had involved. Next morning I went to the public library, read everything I could find on the subject in the encyclopedia, and felt relieved. Then toward midday Marie left for Bonn alone, taking only an overnight bag. She never even mentioned my coming along. She said: “We’ll meet the day after tomorrow then, in Frankfurt.” In the afternoon, when the vice squad arrived, I was glad Marie had left, although the fact that she had left caused me a lot of embarrassment. I assume the manager had reported us. Naturally I always said Marie was my wife, and only two or three times did we have any trouble. In Osnabrück it became awkward. Two police officers, a woman and a man, arrived, in plain clothes, very
polite, punctilious in a way which had probably been drilled into them as producing “agreeable” results. There are certain forms of politeness on the part of the police which I particularly dislike. The policewoman was pretty, nicely made up, did not sit down until I asked her to, even accepted a cigarette, while her companion was “unobtrusively” sizing up the room. “Miss Derkum is no longer with you?” “No,” I said, “she has gone on ahead, I am meeting her in Frankfurt, the day after tomorrow.” “You are an artiste?” I said yes, although it was not true, but I thought it would be simpler to say yes. “Please understand,” said the policewoman, “we have to do a certain amount of spot-checking when people traveling through are taken ill”—she cleared her throat—“abortively.” “I quite understand,” I said—I hadn’t read anything about abortive in the encyclopedia. The police officer declined to sit down, politely, but continued to look around unobtrusively. “May I have your home address?” asked the policewoman. I gave her our address in Bonn. She stood up. Her colleague glanced at the open wardrobe. “Are those Miss Derkum’s clothes?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. He gave his colleague a “speaking” look, she shrugged her shoulders, so did he, looked once more attentively at the carpet, bent down over a spot, looked at me, as if he expected I would now confess to the murder. Then they left. They remained extremely polite to the very end of the performance. As soon as they had gone I hurriedly packed all the suitcases, sent for the bill, and a porter from the station, and left by the next train. I even paid the hotel for the full day. I checked the luggage through to Frankfurt and got onto the next southbound train. I was afraid and wanted to get away. While I was packing I had seen spots of blood on Marie’s towel. Even on the station platform, before I was sitting in the Frankfurt train at last, I was afraid I would suddenly feel a hand on my shoulder and a courteous voice would ask me from behind: “Do you confess?” I would have confessed anything. It was already past midnight when the train went through Bonn. It didn’t occur to me to get out.
I traveled all the way to Frankfurt, arrived there toward four in the morning, went to a much too expensive hotel and telephoned Marie in Bonn. I was afraid she might not be home, but she came to the phone at once and said: “Hans, thank heaven you called, I was so terribly worried.” “Worried,” I said. “Yes,” she said, “I phoned Osnabrück and found you had left. I’ll come right away to Frankfurt, right away.” I had a bath, ordered breakfast in my room, fell asleep and was woken about eleven by Marie. She was like a different woman, very affectionate and almost gay, and when I asked: “Have you breathed enough Catholic air?” she laughed and kissed me. I didn’t tell her anything about the police.
I wondered whether I should let in some more hot water, but it was all used up, I felt I had to get out. The bath hadn’t done my knee much good, it was swollen again and almost stiff. As I got out of the tub I slipped and nearly fell onto the splendid tiles. I wanted to phone Zohnerer then and there and suggest he get me into an acrobatic troupe. I dried, lit a cigarette, and looked at myself in the mirror: I had lost weight. At the sound of the telephone I hoped for one moment it might be Marie. But it was not her ring. It might have been Leo. I hobbled into the living room, lifted the receiver and said: “Hullo.”
“Oh,” said Sommerwild’s voice, “I hope I didn’t disturb you in the midst of a double sommersault.”
“I am not an acrobat,” I said, furious, “I am a clown—there is a difference, at least as much difference as between Jesuits and Dominicans—and the only double thing which could happen here would be a double murder.”
He laughed. “Schnier, Schnier,” he said, “I’m really worried
about you. I suppose you’ve come to Bonn to declare war on us all over the phone?”
“Look, did I call you,” I said, “or did you call me?”
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” he said, “does that really matter?” I did not reply. “I am well aware,” he said, “that you don’t like me, it will surprise you, I like you, and you must admit I have the right to straighten out the things which I believe in and which I stand for.”
“By force if necessary,” I said.
“No,” he said, his voice sounded quite clear, “no, not by force, but firmly, as the person concerned has a right to expect.”
“Why do you say person and not Marie?”
“Because I am anxious to keep the matter as objective as I possibly can.”
“That is your great mistake, Prelate,” I said, “the matter is as subjective as it could possibly be.”
I felt cold in my bathrobe, my cigarette had got damp and wasn’t burning properly. “I shall not only kill you, I shall also kill Züpfner if Marie doesn’t come back.”
“For God’s sake,” he said impatiently, “leave Heribert out of this.”
“Very funny,” I said, “some fellow takes my wife away from me, and he is the very person I am supposed to leave out of it.”
“He is not some fellow, Miss Derkum was not your wife—and he didn’t take her away from you, she left.”