Europe After the Rain

by Alan Burns

  It was near the end of the steady, plodding slaughter. They were shooting from the upper storeys of gutted houses; they hurled down bricks; bricks blocked the streets.

  By myself, without a guide, I didn’t know where to go next; I wondered how she was earning her living. It looked like being a filthy business. I was tired of trying to keep warm, tired of the tedious task of rebuilding. “When do we return?” No answer.

  The escort was ready. We drove at seventy miles an hour. We were in control, flying from town to town. The people were aware of our presence: they went about in threes; they whispered as we passed; when we were close they preferred not to speak – it was too risky. We passed an openwork stone wall. “What is that?” “Our monument to the men who died fighting.” “How many men?” “Eight.” “How did they die?” “They were tried and shot.” From their precious supply of petrol they gave us enough for the journey back to town. There were not many hours of daylight left. The driver mumbled: “I think the light will last. We shall make it.” He tried, furiously. One hour’s light still in hand, a bare arm stopped the car; the door opened; he had half clambered in when he cried “Who is in there?” and fell back onto the road. The driver went to him but returned alone. Ahead was a cart loaded with hay; it kept to the middle of the road in spite of our violent hooting; we fired shots in the air and it still kept to the middle of the road; the cart had a front axle and a rear axle; the rebel farmer was a careful driver; we were hundreds of miles from the town painted on the back of the cart. The road was bad – anything might be in store for us. We forced the cart into the ditch at the side of the road; the horse, tangled with the harness, lay on its back in the ditch – the hoofs in the air reminded me of a scene in a film. We heard the man calling out; we found the body gleaming yellow; he wiped the tears from his face, rushed forwards and demanded, was silent when the driver told him, then went over to look at the body and walked on towards the village. A couple of men walked about the village; no effort had been made to repair the doors of the houses. “It is difficult to get anyone interested. They have no civic pride,” the commander informed me. “They are not progressive – they have a school but not one student. The hens lay small eggs and the hogs don’t fatten. What can we do? They are like insects; they store small things they have made; they have gold hidden in the earth or under the roof. It’s been a bad season – they have become victims and left their houses, or they have stayed inside and starved. They need money – only money would protect them against the bandits and the havoc that follows the spring floods. The forests could have been exploited, the railways put in order; three hundred-ton barges could have sailed up that river and passed below the bridge.”

  We tore through the town. We wrecked like fury. The public baths had been only partly destroyed – they had begun to repair the doors. “We have a powerful new light – it was installed the other day – and we have painted the doors.” We wrenched the handles off the doors, shot to pieces the apparatus, slit the padding in the soundproof room. We crowded into the room. We ate bread and ham. “What do you want?” Silence. A boy in a light-grey jacket with a sub-machine gun: “Get out or I shoot.” He stared round at us, his fear shown by his grip on the butt; he was trying to work out what to do next. “We’ll never give up. We’ll fight. We don’t need tractors – we want horses, we want bread.” Some drunken soldiers had shot one of the horses. The commander spoke quietly: “Look at this.” He took a wrapped toffee from his pocket and threw it on the floor a couple of feet in front of the boy. The young soldier, awkwardly, transferring the heavy gun from his right hand to his left, bent forwards to pick up the sweet. A shot sounded but made no echo in the soundproof room. The commander continued: “As for horses, only the collective has the right to own them; if one or a dozen horses die, the individual has no cause to fear.”

  We had breakfast of white rolls and butter, two eggs and coffee. I was accustomed to destruction – there were standards of destruction – the little town had been destroyed. There was nothing. The thing had disappeared. Not a brick visible. A man appeared out of the ground, a boy from a hole stood beside the man. “What do you live on?” “Potatoes.” “No corn?” “I can plant only potatoes.” The commander indicated that things were not so bad now that the land had been cleared of mines: animals were no longer injured by exploding shells. “Not long ago any one of these people would have lost his own son or his wife in exchange for a sound calf or a pig.” He had seen cattle caught in minefields – whole collections of the feet of animals, legs severed at the knee, bones sprouting from bushes; and, in cottages, collections of hoofs, fossilized, kept.

  I changed my plans. I told the commander that I intended to stop at the next large town. “As you please.” Racing through the rain, the driver accelerated, the heavy tyres skidded sideways across the metalled road. I looked back. “Where is the escort?” He seemed indifferent, increased his speed; the rain smashed against the windscreen. “Stop. We must wait for them.” They soon discovered their mistake, and a minute or two later we saw them behind us, as I intended. We drove on towards the town – a few lights miles ahead across the bare land uninterrupted by any tree or building – no traffic, no noise; we travelled slowly. Under waiting clouds we entered the darkened town. The headlights of the lorries flashed on blank spaces – remains of houses, flat ground where shops had stood. “You won’t be able to go any farther.” I got out and walked towards the seven-storeyed silent blaze from the lit windows of the new hotel. Behind me the driver worked in the rain, mending a punctured tyre.

  Chapter 5

  Looking across the town from the marble steps of the hotel, if I did not lift my eyes beyond the ground floor, I could believe I was at home, in the shopping centre of a normal town, but above the ground floor there was nothing. The upper windows had nested snipers, the walls around them had been smashed by shells. The hotel was empty, half-built: it had electricity but no carpets, no glass to the windows. The few undamaged houses were used as barracks – more than five thousand troops garrisoned the town, but they were kept apart, and were often difficult to find. One large old building near the town centre was reserved for officers, the ground floor used as a restaurant, the upper floors for private parties.

  Though I knew the answer to the question, I asked the commander whether anyone lived in the rooms upstairs. He said that the rooms were occupied from time to time. From my seat in the car I could see curtains in one of the upper windows. It was her room. I said I was hungry and asked the commander to take me into the restaurant. “The food is poor,” he replied. “The whole house is badly built. The foundations are shifting; only the ground floor is habitable. The central heating does not work properly – it is always cold and depressing.” He clutched the top of the seat of the car alongside me. I was alone with a fanatic. He tried to get me into an argument, but it was futile – I was ready for him. I kept quiet. I had the information I needed. It was only my need of his help to get into the heavily guarded building that caused me to remain polite to him.

  Two soldiers waited for permission to speak to the commander. They were talking together; there was a laugh, and it had something sly in it. The commander said to me suddenly: “I presume it is still your intention to help us obtain medical supplies?” I answered vaguely: “I’m sorry, it was not possible—” He interrupted: “You were followed. Our information is that the person you visited is in no position to assist us.” I said nothing. “You led us to him. Although he had fled before, we were able to check with certainty his identity and role, we were able to learn something from the documents left behind – among them photographs of the girl in whom you show such interest.” I replied: “She can’t help you. Why do you continue to suspect her?” He held the car door open, but prevented me from getting out. “We have to be careful. She is confused; she has a natural reluctance to discuss her father’s whereabouts, but we are confident that a period of re-education will change her attitude. It would b
e in your interests to persuade her to cooperate.” I looked at my watch: it was five o’clock. I made no comment. I had not changed my plans. “The driver needs food,” I said. “He cannot leave the car unattended.” “We can provide an armed guard for the car.” The commander smiled and went up the steps into the building.

  I got out of the car and spoke to a child who was sitting on the steps. “How old are you?” “Eight.” “Who lives in that big house?” She would not speak again – she had seen the armoured car.

  The commander reappeared at the top of the steps with two armed soldiers. He beckoned me up. When I reached him, he took a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. It was a list of names. I said simply: “There are hundreds of names here.” He replied: “Very few. Practically none.” “But that is impossible.” “We have had dreadful losses.” He spoke hurriedly as he took me past the guards, through the crowded restaurant, swing doors, kitchens, up two flights of stairs. “Now I tell you. I cannot tell you. It is nothing new.” He ran up the stairs ahead of me, laughing in an unexpected way. His military training and his supple leather boots made this kind of game easier for him than for me. Outside a newly painted door he stopped and waited. He took the list from my hand. I said: “These names mean nothing to me.” The door was not opened. Then it was slightly opened. Fear and pleasure in half a face: “Why bring him here?”

  A table. A floor. We faced each other under the glare of the light. Her body rigid, she faced us. We waited. “You work together,” she said defiantly. “Nonsense.” She persisted: “He knew what I had said to you.” The commander moved towards her: “Let’s talk about something more cheerful – about the old days.” He dominated. We had met, but we had met in a fog. Troops marched in the streets; she heard them below; her hand went to the light. She hesitated. The commander took off his spectacles and wiped the dust from them; his eyes were dark blurs. She swiftly looked towards me and managed to convey that she could not speak now. I stared at her. She seemed to shiver. I would have to wait. I asked the commander: “Has she all the things she needs?” He seemed to realize that he had missed something, and answered irritably: “They are on their way.” I had had similar replies before. I said: “Excellent. When precisely may they be expected to arrive?” There was a silence. He said: “Some parcels have been delayed. Your people at a meeting prevented them from being sent.” “So that is the story.” “It is true.” I looked round the room: a long gilt mirror, a lamp, two herrings, a pair of stockings over the sink. “What is her attitude generally?” I asked. “She will not cooperate. She was asked her father’s name; she gave her mother’s maiden name.”

  A kind of sunlight shone into the room – blue without any trace of red in it – so blue as to be harsh. I knew I would get nothing done. I left the room and waited in the corridor. I heard him ask her: “Where is your father?” “I don’t know.” “And your mother?” “She is at home, ill.” “A lie. Why are you not working?” “I am not allowed to work.” “How many are there at home?” “The baby and my brother.” “How old is your brother?” “Thirteen.” “What does he do?” “He carries water.” “Has he a work permit?” “He does not get paid – only tips; it is no life here – he wants to go to America: he would get tips besides his wages…”

  I walked down the corridor; it was full of dust and rubbish – the floor had not been cleaned. In the restaurant I sat at the long table; it was crowded; as I sat down they stopped their conversation to watch me. I walked over to the window and looked out. They lost interest in me and continued talking in low tones. “Things are getting worse.” “He did not come home.” “His wife has gone to look for him – she has not yet returned.” They were everywhere – I could hear nothing but their insistent conversations.

  I moved towards the door. The driver stopped me and told me in the friendliest way that I had “taken the wrong road”. With a grin he showed me what he called his “old autograph book”. My name had been carefully inked out. He closed the book. I knew my luck had come to an end. I tried to regain his friendship – I asked him where his next job would take him. He said he was driving north to search for some pieces of machinery – he had already located some crates, thanks to information given him by a workman who had assisted in the packing. I said I was sorry I had not the time to get from him more details of what would normally have interested me as a commercial operation. I asked him how he acquired machinery and got it transported without cash or credit. “Well, the bits and pieces arrive.” “Who pays the workmen for setting them up?” “They get paid cash for work done.” I could see that he would not disclose more than this.

  I joined a group of young officers; I got them to talk. They had no suspicions – they thought they were telling me secrets, though they knew nothing – they had no idea of the work being done – I could not hint at what I knew. Even here I heard her father’s name – the name that was disturbing the country. In this garrison town, his friends had gathered others who shared his views. I thought of the girl in the room: she was sitting on the bed; she had guessed something. I felt I had left her a mile behind.

  The crowd packed itself tightly round me; I heard the commander mutter to the driver: “This fellow is a foreigner – get more out of him for his fare.” “No use: he asked the price before starting.” The crowd split into two, leaving a corridor along which the commander walked; he called me to come with him. He went to his chair at the head of the table. I was given, as a place of honour, the seat next to his. My elevated position soon became one of isolation. The rest of the company began to ignore my presence. The commander did not speak to me. For some time, I was not able to order a meal, and when I tried to find out what I could get to eat the host became rather embarrassed. It was evident that there was not enough food for such a large party. He did not wish to abandon the banquet; he imagined it was an event in his life. From what I could gather, he insisted that he could provide us with veal cutlets, but naturally it would take time for the meal to be prepared. I could hear the commander making polite conversation to people opposite and on either side of me, but he did not mention or speak to me.

  Someone came in from the street and made some kind of signal to the commander. He came up and stood between us. There was a quiet but agitated discussion. The commander turned to me: “There has been a mistake. This man and his wife were expecting me to have dinner with them, and everything is prepared. But I have, as you see, ordered dinner here and I cannot cancel it. What should I do?” It was seven thirty in the evening; there was still an hour’s daylight and dusk. “We can have a hurried meal here,” I said, “and then go on to the other house for dinner.” He looked surprised, but made no comment. I seemed to have created a bad impression. I had assumed that I was included in the invitation, but from the way in which the stranger looked at me it appeared that I was mistaken. I decided that it would merely magnify the error if I were to make any kind of explanation or apology. “There is nothing to be done,” the commander said at last. I sensed the unspoken protest. He refused the invitation to dinner.

  To make matters worse, we had nearly an hour to wait before the cutlets arrived. The food was almost uneatable. The meat and soup were served together: the meat was overcooked; the soup tasted sweet, like ink.

  I was relegated to my aloof place of honour as the rest settled down to their food. Now and again I caught odd scraps of conversation. Once the subject was myself, who, it appeared, had had the audacity to go into the town on market day in an attempt to meet people from the surrounding countryside. But “they trust the police”, one of them said, and, turning to me: “Nothing you can say will alter their opinions. If you try to find things out, they will say they know nothing.”

  Silence descended on the company as a second huge dish of cutlets was placed on the table. The commander spoke to me: “I advise you to pack up the remains of the food. You never know when you will get your next meal, or you may know someone who would enjoy t
he scraps.” I noticed that he hardly touched the food. Encouraged by his new friendliness, I asked him his opinion of the girl, and I was surprised to discover that he was quite willing to talk about her: “She is no more brutal than the rest; she is not wilfully cruel. Only by practical experiment can the truth be learnt: before condemning her, take her place – pay her that compliment.” “She has no energy,” I said cautiously. “She seems to be thinking of something else most of the time.” “She needs more intelligent training,” he replied. “A hand laid on her side would have been enough – there should have been no need to rely on the sudden pain of the whip. Enough for the hand to have been raised as if to strike, though in moments of excitement—” Through the windows I could see the river. I was suffering from a curious sort of fever, as if I inhabited another body. He continued talking quietly to me: “These bandits are becoming a problem. They are tough – otherwise they would not be alive. They have lost the habits of civilized life. These filthy people are driving us out of this decent town which we have made. They are a lower order of human beings: they are not like the ordinary, decent individual – they are not willing to obey orders, so their decency is gone.” “They need care.” “I’ll give them care. I shall examine them all. If I find one case of disease, I shall destroy every one of them. It will be in the national interest; I shall make them see that. I will talk to their representatives.” “Representatives?” “Worms. I shall convince them. I shall arrange joint control to avoid delays. It is grand work. It is full of difficulties, but we shall get over them. Were you able to talk to the girl alone? Did you discuss our policies?” “She was told ‘no work, no food’.” “She should have come to me.” “Your clerk told her that you were busy and that she was to return in the afternoon.” “Sheer incompetence. I shall be ruthless.” “When she arrived in the town, she went without food or water for twenty-four hours.” “I am investigating that.” He dashed across the room and picked up a telephone receiver. “What is the latest news you can give me about the progress of the investigations?” The girl at the central telephone exchange did not know the part she was meant to play. He slammed down the receiver. “They are following the matter up. We are going to stamp it out. Any bandit found escaping over the frontier is to be brought before the court, dragged in front of a judge. He is to be tried by special tribunal. The minimum sentence is ten years.” I said that she had no wish to escape – she planned to settle in the district. He replied: “Do you happen to know whether she intends to settle here because of the climate, or is she merely trying to get as near the frontier as possible?” “She would like to buy a shop and remain.” “I shall help her. Not only has she suffered terribly, she is also a most valuable asset to the state. You must see her again once more before you go.” He wrote out an order for me to be allowed to visit her. The order was in the form of a travel permit; we were to be taken together to a certain destination – the name of the town was then unknown. I understood what had happened – what arrangements had been made – while I had been entertained with food and friendly conversation.