8
Towards the end of the War, when petrol was running short, so that the brewery vehicles could still deliver the beer, our two lorries were altered to run on gas produced from burning wood. Dad, who used to drive round the villages to see the landlords, also had his Škoda 430 converted to this gas. And Uncle Pepin, who always got the jobs nobody else wanted to do, was appointed stoker on the lorry, and Dad appointed him stoker of the Škoda 430 to boot. Mr Fuks, a bookseller with a shop on the square, had a big Lancia, a sixteen-cylinder model, eight metres long, which he also converted to gas, the mechanics had to attach not just one, but two boilers to that splendid piece of bodywork. Every Saturday, first thing in the morning, two men stoked up the Lancia with oak chips, so that the car would be properly heated up by afternoon and have enough gas to last it out. Then in the afternoon Mr Fuks put on his white spa suit and got into his Lancia, the two mechanics stood behind on the running-board beside the boilers, and Mr Fuks drove out of his narrow yard, but he was always getting stuck fast in the entrance in such a way that the mechanics had to call in workmen with jacks and crowbars to lever the car off the side walls. So the mechanics had to put whitewash marks on the ground in the passage showing him where to drive in order to get out. But the minute he got out the fire in the boilers was always low again, so the mechanics had to stand there poking away with their hooks and piling on more oak chips, and the locals hung around ogling and staring, a lovely sight it was, this outing in his car, smoke rose up from the boilers at the rear, and the mechanics stood there poised to toss on more blocks of oak, and Mr Fuks drove off, through the square he went in his smart white clothes, and once they’d made a single circuit of the square, back he drove straight into his home yard, and again as he went in, like a piston thrusting into a cylinder, he kept getting the Lancia jammed in the passage, so that labourers had to come with jacks and crowbars and prise the vehicle off the wall, and straighten it up, so the mechanics put down more whitewash marks, showing which way the front tyres had to go, to help get the car back in the garage. The beer lorry which Uncle Pepin had to stoke was no better. Either Uncle Pepin stoked it up too much, or else too little, when they loaded the beer, Uncle Pepin bellowed away and engaged its one great boiler in battle with long hooks and pokers, cursing and apostrophising the boiler as if it were a horse or an ox or a stupid, obstreperous person. And so when the beer lorries came out of the brewery, the driver, who loved all this, spent the whole time in fits of laughter, and when there were lots of people on the square, he stopped, though nothing was holding him back, and said, “Josef, something’s up with the engine, there doesn’t seem to be enough gas, you’ll have to go and take a look!” And Uncle Pepin got out of the cabin, bellowing, “Honestly — if Captain Tonser, whose sword I used to carry for him, was to see this Austrian sodger now, he’d he horrified!” And he jumped on the running-board, climbed over the side and put his ear to the boiler, then he gripped it with both hands and felt it over to test just how hot it was, then he raised the lid, every time it seemed as if the fire had gone out, but that was only for lack of air, suddenly the gas ignited and soot exploded into the air, a detonation rang out across the square, and a five-metre-high column of black smoke puffed up, with sparks flying all over the place, and when the smoke cleared, there was Uncle Pepin standing gripping on to the edge of the boiler, with the lid of it bowling over the square, Uncle black in the face with singed eyebrows stood there roaring, “Your Austrian sodger shows his worth in the tightest of situations. Victory is mine again!” And he took his hook and raked in the boiler and put on more chunks of oak, attached and closed the lid, which one of the braver onlookers brought back, because after the explosion all the townspeople had fled . . . And Pepin sat down in the delivery-man’s cabin and yelled with enthusiasm. And so it was with every topping up and stoking of the boiler: Uncle Pepin failed to size up the situation properly, each time he thought it was all right to look in the boiler, because it had almost gone out, but when he lifted the lid to get a proper look, every time a loud report followed and fiery smoke belched upward, like a rocket going off, and always Uncle Pepin failed to get his face away in time and each time the smoke lashed his cheeks. And so it happened once, when a funeral was passing, and Uncle was raking about in the boiler, the horses took fright, they bolted and ran, and another time a platoon of German soldiers were passing on their way back from drill all singing “In der Heimat, in der Heimat”, and after the detonation from the boiler all the soldiers dropped to the ground and took cover, and nearly smashed up the beer lorry, because they thought it was an attempted ambush. On Corpus Christi day the driver said, being a free-thinker, just as the line of girls came past scattering flowers and he was unloading beer for the Catholic Hall, with its altar of birch boughs out in front, the driver said to Uncle Pepin, “The boiler’s going out, we won’t be able to get started . . .” And Uncle Pepin just lifted the lid up a little, and the soot caught fire and the gas ignited and the smuts exploded in the air, and the soot solemnly showered the procession of children in their white and blue, as they scattered flower petals out of their baskets, and though the gust failed to seize the monstrance out of the reverend priest’s hands, no one was able to stop the portable canopy from soaring up, breaking free from their grasp and floating off over the square like a red, gold-lined sail, like a flying Persian carpet . . . Another time during the annual market fair, just as they were delivering beer at Beránek’s on the corner, Uncle was stoking up, just about to put some more on, and him already so black from these explosions, it didn’t wash off, like a true boilerman, swarthy as an Italian or a Gypsy, with singed eyebrows and bald-headed, because his hair or cap always caught fire as well, and again the driver expressed doubts as to whether it was really burning in there, suggested he rake it with the poker, but leave the top well alone, however Uncle, after listening with his ear pressed against the boiler to hear if there was any roaring sound, thought it had really gone out this time, so he lifted the lid and again a loud report rang out in the middle of the fair, and after the detonation and concomitant smoke the villagers scattered and fled, tripping over the trestles, the guy-ropes of the stalls and the canvas awnings, and the stalls collapsed, children screamed and screeched, stallholders cursed and swore, but the onlookers and customers, as they scattered and radiated out from the centre of the vehicle, they stumbled over the raised trestles and tumbled planks, entangled themselves in the fabric and sheeting, and worst of all, on open ground they ran into piles of earthenware pots, and it took hours for the fair to get going again . . . But towards the end of the War Dad no longer used the car even to fetch lumps of beech-wood, he didn’t even go out and tinker with the car either. Uncle Pepin went on going into town though, and he met with ever greater acclaim, especially after people found out that Uncle Pepin had danced on that night to celebrate the assassination of the Reichsprotektor Heydrich, then the gates and windows opened for him all the more, and more and more people wanted, if not to speak to Uncle Pepin, then at least to see this hero, who went on sallying forth to visit his lovely ladies in his corvette captain’s seafaring cap, as if nothing had happened. No one in town was willing to come and tinker with the car with Dad any more, partly because there was a company of Reichs soldiers stationed in the brewery, and partly because they had all taken their turn tinkering with Dad one Saturday and Sunday already. Then came the mobilisation of all means of transport, Dad jacked his car up on blocks, and one night he woke Uncle Pepin up, Dad removed the wheels and put all the pieces in sacks, and then they took the tyres, and the spare tyre as well, went up on to the brewery roof, and Dad opened the top of an old chimney and first he let down a rope, then he lowered Uncle Pepin down the shaft with a torch, and whispered, “What’s it like down there?” And Uncle Pepin reported back merrily that the soot was right up to his chest . . . And Dad was content: “That’s the best preservative, just like putting it in a bath of oil, better than storing the parts in graphite or plumbago or covering
them with tallow or pork fat . . .” Then Dad lowered all the parts to the bottom, and Uncle untied them and stowed them away for better times, at the bottom of that chimney which hadn’t been used for twenty years or more. Then Dad passed down one tyre after another, but as he was lowering the last one, the spare tyre, it broke loose and fell, Dad yelled out, “Jožka, watch out!” There was a dull thud, and soot carried on billowing out of the chimney for ages, Dad leaned forward into that cloud of soot and called, “Jožka, are you all right?” And Uncle Pepin’s merry yell resounded from below: “Nothing happens to a proper Austrian sodger, I’m victorious again! How d’ye like that!” But the hiding place was no longer necessary. The front had shifted so far that now even the trains had stopped, wounded German soldiers made their way through town on their own, on foot, those who couldn’t walk were carted along in barrows, they stood by the ferry in the first village along the Elbe, asking the ferryman to take them across, they stood wretchedly, the white colour of plaster predominant, they resembled pieces of modern art, the bits left over when the plaster wraps are taken off, all along the verdant river bank in the fresh grass and yellow buttercups, legs and arms with gunshot wounds and broken collarbones and bandaged heads, they felt themselves over and stood, stretching out their arms and offering coins, chains and watches in their palms, and the ferryman scratched himself behind the ears, but finally he took all the wounded Germans across in groups, the wounded soldiers thought that over there on the other side of the river they might still find their fleeing armies, they reckoned they still had a chance of getting home, but the ferryman knew there were partisans lying in wait at blockades of felled timber, drains and gullies and roadside ditches, with their machine-guns and rifles at the ready, he knew they’d all had it, but he ferried them across all the same, because, though he had no liking for Germans, nor could he, when he saw that hope in their eyes, that moment of joy at the prospect of being saved, when he saw how pleased they would be to haul their shining bandages and plaster out on to the far bank, then why should he begrudge them their little bit of happiness? Just like those condemned to death, when they have their last realisable wish fulfilled on their last night. And the Germans stuck white pieces of clothing on poles, and set off on their march to the Promised Land. That was the last detachment of Germans, after that a few britzkas still came ricketing about this way and that with their bolting horses and frightened Germans, and in the evening the Russians came, and the Soviet Army. That night Grandad, Mum’s father, stole off to pick some fresh lilac blossom, the Russian soldiers were occupying his yard and they lay down in the beds and fell asleep with their weapons in their hands, they slept like logs, outside the room where the colonel was sleeping a soldier lay across the threshold with his gun and slept and simultaneously kept watch and guarded the colonel, and towards dawn Grandad came with that fresh lilac and tried to put it in a vase, but the vase was in the kitchen, and Grandpa, when he wanted something, he always had to have it, as usual he was so blinded by his desire that he didn’t even notice that the big vase in the sideboard was only there because along with a couple of books it was acting as a vertical support for one side of the dresser, so, holding the plucked lilac in one hand, with the other he tore at that vase, which was holding up a number of plates and sauce-boats and assorted crockery, he tore at it, yelling away, “Nan, where the heck are you, come and give us a hand!” And he went on tearing away at that vase, full of joy over the lovely bouquet of flowers he was going to put on the colonel’s table . . . And then he shouted again: “Girls, where have you got to, for Pete’s sake! Nana!” But Grandma and the maid were holding a pitcher, into which a Soviet butcher was tossing the liver from a disembowelled cow, so Grandad roared out, “Come here, you fucking bitches, why don’t you help me? Damn and blast you!” And he roared it out, because he wanted to give the Soviet soldiers this lovely surprise of lilac blossom . . . And Grandma came scurrying up, just as Grandpa had succeeded in ripping out the vase, and at that very moment the sideboard caved in with a crash, Grandpa stamped on the crockery and yelled, “You bitches, why didn’t you come when I called?” And Grandma rushed to close the windows, but Grandpa opened them again and yelled out of the window to the neighbours, “Stupid idle bitches, won’t even come and get you a fucking vase!” And Grandma shouted out the window, “It’s not true!” and shut the windows again, but Grandpa opened some more and yelled out, “Stupid bitches, I’ll slay the lot of you!” Then he stamped on the crockery, pulled down the whole dresser including the remaining unbroken plates, he stamped and cursed, but then he started stamping a bit less and more slowly, even quit shouting, he sat down, laid the lilac blossoms in his lap; he was shuffling his feet and trying to say something. When Grandma bent over him, he just whispered, “Nan, God bless . . . I’m passing on . . .” And shortly after, Grandma took Grandpa’s pulse, and seeing Anka opening the shed to drag an old cupboard out into the yard, she opened the window and said, “We shan’t be needing none of them wardrobes no more,” nipped on her bike to fetch the doctor and called in at the undertaker’s to have them come over during the afternoon . . . Later that day Dad and Mum put a black band on their coat lapels and got out their black clothes, while Uncle Pepin in his white sailor’s cap went to join in the celebrations, down at the landing place by the river the Russians brought along their accordions, they passed round chunks of roast meat and bottles of vodka, by nightfall they were drunk, a number of the locals couldn’t take this bout of enormous toasts to good health and this drinking to the end of the war, toasts of vodka drunk out of mustard glasses, they vomited in the half-light over by the fence, and the alcohol was so powerful, they were ripping off the planks they clutched on to in the half-light and careering backwards through the yard illuminated with fires and lights, someone even threw up at home in a washbasin set into the wall, and he ripped that porcelain basin right out and went careering backwards over the front doorstep, on to the street, and backwards he went, still gripping on to that basin, he careered right through the dancers and landed on the river bank with the basin on top of him. Only Uncle Pepin drank and clinked glasses with all and sundry, and the more he drank, the soberer he was, he let himself be lured into dancing with the foremost dancer in the army, responding to his little Cossack dance with one of his own, but he embellished it with an extra leap in the air concluded by the splits, then Uncle was enticed by another soldier into some kind of Savoy medley, incorporating a quick Armenian number, a dance with variations a bit like the Moravian Slovaks do, with intricate footwork, Uncle Pepin cottoned on straight away and embellished the footwork to the rhythm of the accordion, with lunging leaps in the air, a flying knave of diamonds, who, before landing, twisted about in the air, then did a forward and a backward somersault on the ground, and the Russian soldiers were crazy about him and clapped and cheered, “Bravo, papashka! Bravo, papashka!” Then another soldier tried Uncle Pepin with a sword dance, he fussed like a cockerel, leaping over an imaginary sword, avoiding its sharp cutting edge, while Uncle Pepin got his breath back, surrounded by his lovely barmaids and beauties, and went on drinking toasts with all and sundry, getting himself ready for his next dance, which he embellished just as he had seen the pair Fuks and Košt’ álová do, as if he had a dancing partner as well, he leapt up and did a handstand, just like he used to do with Miss Vlasta on the billiard table, it seemed as if Uncle Pepin’s lifelong dancing experience had all been building up to this one encounter, where for the first time in his life he found himself with real partners to match, who danced like this, not as a laugh or a joke, but because this was the habitual way for them to dance back home, and so here for the first time Uncle was dancing not just to entertain and give people a bit of a laugh, but for the sake of the dance itself, he could see that the soldiers too were making the dance a contest, they were consulting amongst each other to see who to send up to win a victory over this papashka, since they couldn’t defeat him with alcohol, which they were accustomed to, but which Uncle Pepin
drank just like they did, clinking glasses with his neighbours and drinking for those who couldn’t take it, or couldn’t take any more. And everybody could see that of all the locals round the landing place, the Russians respected and admired Uncle Pepin most, they accorded him the honour of a seat next to the bandmaster, and finally the bandmaster even gave Uncle Pepin a stick of willow and requested him to conduct the brass band, which had come to play in honour of victory. After the dances were over, and the soldiers were slapping Uncle on the back and calling him papashka, and he’d conducted the band, the best Russian dancer agreed that Uncle was as fine a dancer as he himself was, and declared, “I’m taking this papashka back with me to Moscow.” But Uncle Pepin said he couldn’t, he had to pitch barrels at the brewery the next day, he wouldn’t have time till Saturday afternoon, when he could come over to Moscow in an aeroplane if they had any dancing contest for him. For, he added, “Your Austrian soldier is always victorious, wherever he may be.” That night Dad wore his black mourning clothes to wait for Uncle Pepin as he returned at crack of dawn from seeing his barmaids, he took Uncle Pepin up to the roof of the maltings, took off the lid on top of the blocked-off old chimney, lowered Uncle Pepin on the end of a rope and pulled up one part after another, finally the car tyres . . . When everything was safely up, Dad listened, but he couldn’t hear a peep out of Uncle down at the bottom of the chimney. “Jožka, Jožka!” Dad called down the chimney, he shone his torch down, but all that came straying up from the depths of this black gullet were plumes of soot, one after the other. “Jožka, say something!” Dad cried out in despair, then he ran down to the office, where Mr Vanřátko the watchman was fast asleep under the crane wrapped in his bandoleer, he woke him up, but the watchman was so drowsy that at first he thought robbers were after the safe, and he was delighted, but Dad explained that Uncle Pepin was in the chimney and making not a sound, so Mr Vanřátko said, “Just a minute!”, clicked his heels, saluted and reported: “Night-watchman Vanřátko reporting for duty, action stations . . .” And he untied Trik his faithful little doggie, and climbed up with Dad on to the roof of the maltings, then he shone his torch and both called down one after the other, then they tried it both together in chorus, but there was complete silence down below . . . Watchman Vanřátko was full of delight, he took off his Entente belt, laid aside his Mexican rifle and his revolver, Dad put a rope round his chest, and Mr Vanřátko saluted, clicked to attention and reported, “Night-watchman ready for action, sir!” Then he stood easy and Dad lowered him slowly down the chimney . . . And Mr Vanřátko called up, “Reporting, Mr Josef’s here, but he’s asleep! Taking a nap!” And Dad cried, “Tie him to the rope!” And Mr Vanřátko called up, “He’s tied, haul away!” And Dad laboriously hauled Uncle Pepin up, the rope scraped against the edge of the chimney, but slowly yard by yard Uncle ascended out of the seven-metre-high chimney. When Uncle’s head finally appeared, totally black, Dad didn’t have the strength to grasp Uncle by the hand or hold him by the armpits, because he had to hold on to the rope from which Uncle was hanging. When it seemed at last as if he was going to have to let Uncle back down again, Mr Vanřátko called up from below, “Go and tie the rope to the lightning conductor!” . . . And for the first time ever Dad was truly glad that Mr Vanřátko had come to the brewery all those years ago, because for the first time he found that what the watchman was proposing was good advice. He fastened the rope, tied it firmly round the cramp-iron on the lightning conductor, took Uncle by the armpits and pulled him out, then, totally exhausted and wiped out, he slumped right over with his brother into the yellow bed of houseleeks, and there Uncle went on slumbering, sound asleep, lying on his back crowned with a coronet of cold stars. And Dad pulled out Mr Vanřátko as well, fervently squeezing his hand in gratitude at first, but that was too little, he embraced him, and Mr Vanřátko gave him a military kiss with his blackened mouth. Then, with a shock, they both had the same thought: Where was that sailor’s cap? They shone a light down, but the pool of soot had closed over again, and of the white cap there remained not a trace. . .
The Little Town Where Time Stood Still Page 19
