by Steve Weiner
Nicholas paid. The ferry came. Cadets in blue uniforms rowed him to the other side. They sang Zwei blaue Augen—two blue eyes. A fishing boat net rose dripping.
A silver fish slipped away.
… slipped away …
… slipped away …
QUEEN OF THE BALL
JULIUS BERNAI LEFT Kurhaus Traibaisen, an institute for nervous disorders near the Ybbs valley west of Vienna. A Daimler came. The chauffeur saluted.
“Glory to God.”
Bernai got in.
“Glory.”
The Daimler drove to Vienna. Frozen vineyards whistled past. The Daimler came to Otakring and Linzerstrasse. A U-Bahn station was closed. Trams were stuck. The passengers had gone home. A Meerbisch peasant, carrying wreaths, skidded on a bicycle. The Daimler drove past Haydn’s house to Klub Hermes, a baroque house, with a yellow door.
A doorman greeted him.
“Password?”
“Mehr scheinen als sein,” Bernai said. “More appearance than being.”
“Come in.”
Bernai went in. A butler took his greatcoat. Homosexuals crowded the lobby. Many held glasses of punch. A pale green carpet led to a white stairway. Bernai looked into a mirror. He had an olive complexion, curly black hair, curly black beard, and spectacles.
Bernai stepped down into an atrium. A statue of Hermes was decorated with holly.
A barrister wore an English judicial wig and a black robe.
“May I introduce myself?”
Bernai turned.
“I am Nulli Secundus,” the barrister said. “Second to None.”
Bernai bowed.
“I am the Yellow Sailor.”
Bernai and the barrister shook hands. An ephebe came from the atrium. He gave Bernai a gift.
“For me?”
Bernai opened it: Italian gloves. The ephebe leaned forward.
“A kiss on bright lips …”
Bernai kissed him.
“In a moon-bright garden …”
Bernai kissed him again. Bernai and the barrister circulated.
“How is business?”
“A ship was lost,” Bernai said. “Now it’s a matter of fending off the Jews.”
“A loan?”
“Yes.”
Friedrich Krupp was there. Poland-Queen the Excellent Woman wore valencias popelinette with a pardessus and quilted collar. Rebecca, Mother of the Heavenly Military Company, drank with Felicite, Happiness of the Virginal. Lady Curassier drank with Duchess of Silesia. Cathedral deacons nodded to Bernai.
Men danced, both inborn and konverts. Bernai danced with Rebecca, Mother of the Heavenly Military Company.
“Did you hear about Dr. Friedrich?” Rebecca said.
“No.”
“He married.”
“No!”
“He did.”
“Why?”
“He was in suicidal despair.”
The dance ended.
“Was he a Jew?” Bernai said.
“Not at all.”
Waiters brought cheese pancakes and caraway cheese from Pomerania. Copper pitchers poured Austrian wine. Men treated “cousins” to champagne. Pine branches burned in a fireplace. Resin crackled
There was a pantomime. Cows, played by boys with horns, trampled Herod, who then tramped from Jerusalem to Lower Austria with a bag of skulls. When he got to Lower Austria the skulls turned into the boys again.
Homosexuals sang.
Three kings with a star
Searched for God to wish him well.
They came to the big house
Of Herod by the window
Three kings, he said, come in
and I will give you wine and beer.
Suddenly marionette Kaspar popped from red curtains. Homosexuals shouted.
“Jo, Kaspar!”
Kaspar swaggered. Snabelbeck, red-nosed devil, jumped out. Jan Klapper rode a beer barrel. Death came, a deformed animal. After the puppet play an announcement was read. Death of Mother Elizabeth Christine. There was a long silence.
Bernai stood.
“Song for him!”
Felicite played a piano trill. Bernai was a baritone.
The passing partner is true …
It was three A.M. The party was over. Bernai put on his greatcoat. He went out. An Austrian cavalry lieutenant rode by and saluted. Soldier-prostitutes stood by the Daimler.
A Viennese policeman came.
“Was there sleeping together?”
“No.”
“Was there together-handling?”
“No.”
“Unchastity or seduction?”
“No.”
“Be careful, Herr Bernai.”
The policeman left. Bernai smoked. There was a billboard: Krupnik has prepared everything for you. Coal carriers trudged to the Danube. A girl stood by a carriage. She took off her blue hat. Flax-blond hair fell under the streetlight.
“Isn’t it cold?” Bernai said.
“I don’t mind it.”
She was about nine.
“Where are your parents?”
“In the carriage.”
A man in a carriage tucked a bear robe around his wife. Bernai tipped his hat. The man tipped his hat.
“You’re very pretty,” Bernai said.
“It’s a holiday.”
The Daimler came. Bernai got in.
“Glory to God,” the chauffeur said.
“Glory.”
The Daimler left Vienna. Bernai sang.
O, if only I were a thief …
Bernai got out at Kurhaus Traibaisen. Wind blew. Stone walls of the courtyard dropped snow. A raven pecked at Eros. He went in. Bernai took off his boots by a curved marble stairway. Down a black-and-white-tiled corridor was Dr. Dehmel’s study. Through French doors was a breakfast room, set for the morning, and a dormant rose garden.
Bernai carried his boots up the stairway. He went into his suite. He turned on a light held by Amphitryon. A red shotgun and bandolier hung over a fireplace. Blue-and-pink Meissen candleholders stood at frosted windows. Dr. Dehmel had given him a present: liqueur-filled chocolates. There was a note: In delirium fulfilled.
“Ah, Dehmel.”
He laughed.
“Amicus pectorum,” he said. “Bosom friend.”
He undressed. He tasted a chocolate.
“Exquisite.”
Julius Bernai was nude. In the mirror: bandy legs, belly in black hair, hairy shoulders, hairy chest, red mouth, snub nose. He turned side to side.
“I could be a Negro,” he said.
He giggled.
“Or a Croatian.”
He took another chocolate.
“Or a Hungarian.”
Amphitryon’s electric candle made his belly glow.
“But not a Jew.”
Peasants from the Ybbs valley came to Eros with torches. Bernai put on a robe. He opened the window. They took off their caps.
Gut wein und Bier hâma selber.
Wir mussen nu reisen Bethlehem.
Da geht nieda der Schein.
Good wine and beer we have ourselves.
We must travel now to Bethlehem
Down there is the Sign
Bernai threw money.
“Bravo!”
The peasants left, bowing. Curtains hung still. Moonlight crinkled. Amphitryon’s light flickered.
Bernai laughed.
“Yes,” he said. “I am a sensation.”
UP THE ELBE
NICHOLAS CARRIED his yellow-and-red suitcase to Moorfleeter Dike.
Meltwater trickled. Flat-headed clouds piled over North Germany. Women in white caps, aprons, and wooden shoes, repaired nets. To the east, miles of grassy dikes curved upriver. Raftmen walked logs of disassembled rafts. Stoves, utensils, blankets were boated to a floating booth. The men took bicycles from behind the office or went by tugboat to Baumwall and took the U-Bahn back to Mundsburg.
Nicholas went down to Erwartung—Expectation�
�a river oil tanker. The pilot was a tall man with gray eyes. Oily rags stuck out of his pocket.
“Are you going upriver?” Nicholas said.
“To Lauenburg.”
“Can you take me?”
“Can you work?”
“I’m German.”
“Let’s talk.”
Nicholas climbed up the ladder. He put his suitcase down. They shook hands.
“I am Teetje Bogaerde,” the pilot said.
“Nicholas Bremml.”
“You’re from Hamburg?”
“Nikolaifleet.”
“A family man?”
“No.”
“Do you know boats, Herr Bremml?”
“I was in the merchant marine.”
“What ship?”
“Yellow Sailor.”
“I never heard of it. Follow me.”
Bogaerde led Nicholas over hoses. Below a hatch was a battery cabinet, air compressor, and small generator. They went into the kabüüs. It had one window, a map of the Lower Elbe, brown walls, brown chairs, a torn brown sofa. There was a painting: Moonrise on the Elbe.
“Sit.”
Nicholas sat. A black sailboat, black sails, Ficklor and Förster, went by.
“Where is your ship now?” Bogaerde said.
“It broke in the Gulf of Danzig.”
“Why?”
“We were in shallows. One of our men let in seawater by mistake.”
“Why?”
“He was young and stupid.”
Bogaerde cut slices of cucumber, bread, and butter. He put cheese in a ring around the cucumber and carried the plate to the table. He tore pages of Der Holzmarkt—Timber Market—for place mats. They ate. Nicholas shielded his eyes from the Elbe’s glare through the window. Bogaerde closed the shutter. Nicholas wiped his forehead.
Bogaerde drummed the table.
“Tja …”
Bogaerde wiped butter from his lips. He chased away a fruit fly.
“You cook, wash our clothes,” he said. “I’ll take you to Lauenburg.”
“Danke, Herr Bogaerde.”
Bogaerde took pink shot glasses from a cabinet. He filled them with cherry sekt. They clinked glasses.
“Said, done!”
“Said, done!”
They went outside. Bogaerde turned.
“Jacek!”
“Jo, baas?”
Jacek Gorecki turned. He wore red suspenders over a red plaid shirt and blue trousers in black rubber boots. His eyes had changed color.
“Nicholas?”
“Jacek!”
They embraced.
“You’ve lost weight,” Jacek said.
“No!” Nicholas laughed. “I wear bigger trousers!”
“Ha!”
Bogaerde put a hand on Jacek’s shoulder.
“Do you know each other?” he said.
“We worked together on Yellow Sailor,” Jacek said.
“Is he okay?” Bogaerde said.
“He’s okay.”
Bogaerde went to the pilothouse. He started the engine. Fish scattered.
“Throw the mooring rope, Jacek!”
Jacek threw the rope.
“Alle kloor!” he shouted. “All clear!”
Erwartung moved against the current up the Elbe. Grassy dikes passed: Warwischer, Hewer, Zollenzpeiker. A Hamburg tram bell faded. A train conductor blew a copper horn. That, too, faded. There was a rustling of trees.
“Nicholas,” Jacek said.
“Jo.”
“Help me wind the hoses.”
Nicholas and Jacek rolled hoses.
“Where is Karl?” Nicholas said.
“Sent to Farmsen.”
“Mentally retarded?”
“Officially.”
“Well, I never liked him,” Nicholas said. “What about Alois?”
“I don’t know.”
“You look different, Jacek.”
“How?”
“A different man.”
Jacek looked away.
“It’s much better here,” he said. “We were sick on Yellow Sailor.”
“Are you still going to Polish Silesia?”
“Yes.”
“To work mines owned by the homosexual Bernai?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll never be free of him, Jacek.”
“No.”
They tied the rolled hoses and hung them from a spike.
“It’s not safe there now for Germans,” Nicholas said.
“Screw the Poles.”
Germany passed: black iron gates, gazebo, rowboats, redbrick houses, red geraniums. Nicholas spat benzin from his mouth. Already droplets of oil were in his hair. A Czech boat—ONWDG Company, white-and-red band, and blue star—went to Hamburg.
“Herr Bogaerde is a German war hero,” Jacek said.
“What did he do?”
“He killed five Frenchmen with a captured machine gun,” Jacek said. “He won the Iron Cross.”
“The Iron Cross?”
“The Iron Cross.”
“Mein Gott.”
Erwartung crossed the river to a red pole with a red square: deeper water. Nicholas looked around.
“What are you looking for, Nicholas?”
“The abort.”
“Over the side.”
Nicholas went to the rail. He unbuttoned his trousers.
“Ah …”
He urinated into the river.
“Ik piss …”
A farmer’s wife on shore was offended.
“Buer, wat schitt dien Froo?” Nicholas shouted. “Farmer, what shits your wife?”
Orchards of apples, cherries, pears, and plums were in blossom. Erwartung passed the Ilmenau at Winsen. The river bent into Winsener Marsh. Smaller dikes now looped behind the big grassy dikes. Redbrick houses stood under willows. A heron settled slowly on a post.
Bogaerde tied up at a ferry tavern. A bald waiter with skeleton keys came. Bogaerde ordered beer. They sat on the deck and closed their eyes, facing the sun. The waiter served and they opened their eyes. On the Elbe a boat’s motor failed. The pilot dropped anchor and rowed to the tavern’s telephone.
“May I ask you a question, Herr Bogaerde?”
“Of course, Nicholas.”
“In your opinion, Herr Bogaerde,” Nicholas said, “what is a German war hero?”
“A man who sees that no escape is possible,” Bogaerde said.
“Just that?”
“Once he realizes that, he can do anything.”
“But until then—?”
Bogaerde shrugged.
“We live or die. Nothing to get excited about.”
Bogaerde leaned back and closed his eyes and again faced the sun. Without opening his eyes, he handed Nicholas twenty marks.
“Nicholas. Go up Altengamme Dike. Buy potatoes and apples. Any farm will sell.”
“Jo, Herr Bogaerde.”
Nicholas crossed the river road and went into an allee of blossoming chestnut trees. He crossed a white wooden bridge. A rowboat was half sunk in algae. He came out on a road to Curslack and Neuengamme and got lost in a sudden swirl of blossoms. He found the road, bought potatoes and apples, and carried them back to the tavern.
Bogaerde held out a chocolate.
“For you, Nicholas.”
Elbe kilometer markers passed: 136, 245, 346. After Geesthacht, Elbe-current-kilometer 584, there were no more tides. A Silesian coal boat, raised center, black tarpaulin, chugged to Hamburg.
Linked rafts floated downriver tied together by willow lengths. The middle raft had a pole in a hole. That was the brake.
The Elbe turned white. Deer walked leafy paths. It was late afternoon under milky clouds. Kilometer 592, Spadenland, went by. Erwartung stalled. Jacek took the wheel, Bogaerde went below. Erwartung re-ignited.
“This boat won’t hit bottom,” Jacek said.
“It was Karl’s fault.”
“You sank us, Nicholas.”
River police
came alongside.
“Now what?”
A policeman came to the rail.
“Komm raus!”
Erwartung slowed against the current until it stopped.
“Los! raus!”
River police boarded Erwartung and left with two sacks of sugar.
Erwartung kept on toward Lauenburg. It got muggy. Nicholas cut bread, sliced wurst, boiled potatoes, and fried apples in butter. They ate on deck. Bogaerde passed a black bottle of kööm.
“Sing, Nicholas,” Bogaerde said.
“I can’t.”
“Germans sing.”
“I am not like most Germans,” Nicholas said.
Bogaerde laughed.
“Of course you are, Nicholas.”
Jacek played his concertina. Nicholas sang.
Musz i denn, musz i denn …
Sun set behind Erwartung. The Elbe was gold-red and blue swirls. Mosquitoes hovered. Leaves fluttered on the banks. Germans in hunting jackets, carrying rifles, walked the paths. Fog rolled in. A locomotive crossed a double-towered bridge.
Bogaerde pointed.
“Lauenburg …”
Lauenburg was a medieval town with houses on an embankment. Erwartung turned to the north shore, churning salmon-pink tendrils.
Erwartung stopped by a pontoon. Jacek tied up at iron rings. Nicholas lifted a lantern. They took their suitcase and duffel bags to Hotel Möller. They went to Zum Alten Schiffhaus—At the Old Ship House.
They went in. It was warm and smokey. Artillery Regiment Lauenburg’s flag stood in a corner. Photographs of North Sea disasters hung on the walls. A red-haired woman served cognac.
There was a proverb: Friends in need come a thousand at a time. Bogaerde greeted the Elbe Brotherhood at a booth: he shook one man’s hand, then rapped the table three times.
“Why did he rap the table?” Nicholas said.
“It signifies he has symbolically shaken everybody else’s hand,” Jacek said. “It saves time.”
They sat. They drank.
“Nicholas,” Bogaerde said. “Did you hear about the island farmer who tried to commit suicide?”
“No.”
“Listen. One day he decided to commit suicide, so he tied a rock around his neck and walked into the sea. He walked a mile and the water got to his shoelaces. He carried the rock another mile and the water got to his ankles. It was getting dark. He walked another mile and the water got to his boot tops. He threw the rock away. Shit, he said. I’ll live.”
