Dirty Snow

by Georges Simenon

  Besides, they hadn’t put him in a prison, but in a school, and that had to mean something.

  5

  THE NINETEENTH day.

  They hadn’t put him in a prison, but in a school.

  Automatically he picked up where he’d left off the day before. It was an exercise. You got used to it quickly. It started by itself, and then the wheels kept going round, like a watch. You did this and that. You made the same movements at the same times, and, as long as you took some care, your thoughts went on ticking.

  There was nothing annoying about the school itself, but if there really were sections, as Timo claimed, Frank was certainly in a serious one, since they shot prisoners almost every day. If they kept on paying no attention to him, or pretending not to, it might become more disturbing.

  They hadn’t questioned him before and he still wasn’t being questioned. They didn’t spy on him. If they had been watching all the time he would have noticed. They simply left him alone. They’d done nothing about his clothes, which he’d been wearing for nineteen days. He hadn’t been able to wash properly once, since he was never given enough water.

  But he wasn’t angry at them. As long as it didn’t imply contempt, he didn’t mind. He hadn’t shaved. Other young men his age didn’t have real beards, but he had started shaving just for fun when he was very young. Before, he shaved every day. His beard was almost an inch long now. At first it was bristly, but it was starting to feel soft.

  In town there was a real prison. Naturally, they’d taken it over, and it must be full. It didn’t follow that they put the most interesting cases there.

  Nothing proved they were making fun of him. He had come to the conclusion that if the guards never spoke to him it was because they couldn’t speak his language. The prisoners who brought him his pitcher of water and emptied his pail also avoided speaking. They could roam freely about the buildings. Some of them were shaved and had their hair cut, which showed that there was a barber in the school. If they didn’t take him to the barber, did that mean they’d forgotten about him? Was he being kept in solitary?

  Someone was at the bottom of all this, an informer, something of that sort. He reviewed the names and the actions of everyone, studied all the possibilities. It always embarrassed him to sit on his pail with that big window through which everything could be seen from the walkway. Yet he wasn’t ashamed of being unshaven anymore, of his dirty underwear and clothes, all wrinkled because he slept in them.

  The others went down for exercise at nine o’clock. Probably, they made them go out that early on purpose, so they would feel the cold even more, especially the ones without overcoats. Why didn’t they wait until eleven or noon, after the sun had warmed things up a little?

  That wasn’t his problem, since he never went out. If he had, he would have missed the scene at the window a little later.

  The wheels kept going around, his thoughts had started to whir again, which didn’t stop him, after nine o’clock, from waiting. It was nothing, less than nothing, in fact. It would have been impossible in a real prison, where they’re careful to prevent contact with the outside, even for an instant. It seemed that no one had thought of the window. And it had been careless of them not to take adequate precautions, because it could turn out to be important.

  Beyond the assembly hall or gym, on the other side of the courtyard, there seemed to be an empty space, perhaps a street, perhaps a row of low single-family houses like most of the others in this neighborhood. Far away, much farther, rose the back of a building at least four stories high and almost entirely hidden by the gym. Because of the slope of the roof one window was visible, only one, probably on the top floor, suggesting the tenants there were poor.

  Every morning, a little before nine-thirty, a woman opened the window. She wore a dressing gown—like Lotte—with a light-colored scarf around her head, while she shook out the rugs and blankets over the emptiness below.

  From so far away you couldn’t make out her features. But from her brisk movements and from what she was doing, he guessed she had to be young. In spite of the cold, she left the window open for a long time while she came and went, tending to things inside, her cooking or her baby. He knew she had a baby, since the clothes she hung out to dry on the line stretched across the window were always tiny.

  Who knows? Maybe she was singing. She must be happy. He was fairly sure she was happy. After she closed the window she would be in her own home, with all the familiar household smells taking possession again.

  That day, his nineteenth, he was furious because they came to get him at a quarter past nine, or at least before she had appeared at the window. Ever since his arrival he had been waiting for them to come. He thought about it all day long. And now that it had happened, he was furious because they had disturbed him a quarter of an hour too early.

  A civilian, accompanied by a soldier, stopped on the walk-way outside his door. He had a brown mustache. He made Frank think of a school principal. Immediately Frank said to himself it must be one of the two men who had been beating the man ahead of him while he was waiting on the day of his arrival. He was a man who beat prisoners when he was ordered to—beat them calmly, without hate or enthusiasm, just as he might add up columns of figures in an office.

  Were they taking Frank down for that? Neither the civilian nor the soldier took the trouble to glance around the room. They said nothing. They simply motioned for him to come. The civilian went ahead and he followed, unthinking, without looking into the other classrooms, though he’d intended to. There were other things to see. It was the hour when the prisoners were taking their exercise in the large courtyard. He saw them from the walkway and also as he came down the stairs outside.

  He forgot to observe them closely. Later he could only remember a sort of long, dark snake. They walked single file about a yard or so apart, and formed an almost closed oval, undulating a bit.

  If they hit him, what would it mean? That they’d made a mistake, that they suspected him of things he hadn’t done—because they couldn’t care less about Mademoiselle Vilmos. Strangely, he never even thought about the non-commissioned officer. That seemed to him so minor he felt innocent.

  They turned toward—they turned him toward—the little building where he’d been received the first morning, and he went up the same steps. This time they didn’t keep him waiting. Without pausing, they took him into the office of the old gentleman, who was at his place behind the desk, and Frank, looking around the room, saw his mother.

  His first reaction was to frown, and, before looking again, before speaking, he waited for instructions from the official. He seemed just as indifferent as before. He was busy writing, in a very small hand, and it was Lotte who spoke first. It was a moment or two before her voice sounded natural. It had been too flat, like a voice in a cave.

  “You see, Frank, these gentlemen have permitted me to come see you and to bring you a few things. I didn’t know where you were.”

  The last words were said quickly. They must have set guidelines. There were certain subjects she could broach, others that were forbidden.

  Why was he so glum? In truth, he felt uneasy. He didn’t trust her. She came from somewhere else. She looked too much like herself. It was awful how much she looked like herself. He recognized the scent of her powder. She had put rouge on her cheeks, the way she always did when she went out. She was wearing her white hat with a tiny veil halfway over her eyes, out of vanity, because of the little wrinkles on her “onionskins,” as she called her eyelids. She must have spent at least half an hour in front of her mirror in the big bedroom. He could see her putting on her kid gloves, fluffing out her hair to either side of her hat.

  “I can’t stay long.”

  They had told her how long she could stay. Why didn’t she say so?

  “You look well. You don’t know how happy I am to see you looking so well.”

  That meant: “To see you alive.”

  Because she had thought he was dead
.

  “When did they tell you?”

  She answered in a low voice, casting an anxious eye on the old gentleman.

  “Yesterday.”

  “Who?”

  She didn’t reply, but said with forced animation, “Guess what, they’ve let me bring you a few things. First, some clothes. At last, my poor Frank, you’ll be able to change.”

  This failed to give him the pleasure he would have imagined. Two weeks before, he would have valued it more than anything.

  He shocked her. His appearance shocked her. She looked at his rumpled clothes, the collar of his coat turned up to hide his filthy, tieless shirt, his unkempt hair, his nineteen-day-old beard, and his shoes with no laces. She was sorry for him, you could feel that. He didn’t need anyone’s pity, especially Lotte’s. She was sickening, with her makeup and white hat.

  Would the old gentleman like a taste of her? Had she tried? She had probably paid special attention to her underthings.

  “I put everything in a suitcase. These gentlemen will give it to you.”

  He saw her eyes casting about, and he recognized his own suitcase standing against the wall.

  “You mustn’t, above all, let yourself go …”

  Let himself go how?

  “Everybody has been very kind. Everything is going well.”

  “What’s going well?”

  He was brusque, almost curt. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t seem to help it.

  “I’ve decided to close down the shop.”

  She held her handkerchief, rolled into a ball in the palm of her hand. She looked like she was ready to cry.

  “Hamling advised me to. You’re wrong not to trust him. He’s done everything he could.”

  “Is Minna still there?”

  “She doesn’t want to leave me. She sends her best. If I could find an apartment somewhere else, we’d move, but it’s practically impossible.”

  This time the look Frank gave her was pitiless, almost ferocious. “You’d leave the building?”

  “You know how people are. Now that you’re not there it’s even worse.”

  He asked curtly, “Is Sissy dead?”

  “Good Lord, no! Why on earth would you say that?”

  She glanced at her little gold wristwatch. Time still counted for her. She knew how many minutes were left.

  “Does she go out?”

  “She doesn’t go out. She’s … Well, Frank, I really don’t know how she is. I think she’s depressed. She can’t seem to get well.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her myself. Nobody sees her except her father and Monsieur Wimmer. They say she’s neurasthenic.”

  “Has Holst gone back to driving his streetcar?”

  “No. He works at home.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’m not sure. Bookkeeping, I think. The little I know comes from Hamling.”

  “He sees them?”

  Before, the chief inspector only knew the Holsts by name.

  “He’s been to see them a few times.”

  “Why?”

  “Come on, Frank, what do you expect me to say? You ask me questions as though you didn’t know the building. I don’t see anyone. Anny left. It seems she’s being kept by a …”

  Here, you didn’t have the right to talk about members of the Occupation forces.

  “If Minna had left me, too, I don’t know what would have become of me.”

  “Have you seen any of my friends?”

  “No.”

  She was disconcerted, disappointed. She must have been excited and happy at first, the way people are when they visit a sick person in the hospital, bringing grapes or oranges, and he hadn’t thanked her at all for her good intentions. Instead you would have sworn he blamed her, held her responsible for her own disappointment.

  He pointed to a package beside her on the chair. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing. Things in the suitcase I wasn’t allowed to leave.”

  “I don’t want you to move to another building.”

  She sighed impatiently. Didn’t he understand that she couldn’t say what she wanted to? Yes, he knew. But he didn’t care. The other tenants were making life impossible for Lotte? So what. He absolutely forbade her to leave the building. Was it for her or for him to decide? Who counted most?

  “Has Holst spoken to you?”

  She seem embarrassed when she replied: “Not directly.”

  “He sent you a message through Hamling?”

  “No, Frank. Why bother about it? It’s nothing to worry about. My time is up. If I’m to see you again, I mustn’t overdo it the first time. I’d like to kiss you, but I guess I’d better not. They might think you’re slipping me a message or whispering something in my ear.”

  He didn’t want to kiss her anyway. She must have been there for some time before he had come down, since they’d had time to go through the suitcase.

  “Don’t give up. Take care of yourself. But mostly, don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “You’re acting so funny.”

  She, too, was eager to for it to be over. She would go wait for her streetcar opposite the gate and snivel all the way back home.

  “Good-bye, Frank.”

  “Good-bye, Mother.”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  Of course! Of course! What did she think? That he was going to let himself fall to pieces?

  The old gentleman raised his eyes to look from one to the other, then motioned Frank to take the suitcase. A civilian escorted Lotte across the courtyard, and you could hear the sound of her high heels tapping on the hard-packed snow and then fading away. The old gentleman spoke slowly, choosing his words. He insisted on finding just the right term, and was very careful about his pronunciation. He had taken lessons and was still trying to improve.

  “You will now go and get yourself ready.”

  He enunciated each syllable. He didn’t seem to be a bad sort. He just liked things done the right way. He hesitated before launching into a longer sentence, rehearsing it in his mind before he risked speaking out loud.

  “If you desire to be shaved, they will take you.”

  Frank refused. A mistake. It would have given him a chance to see more of the buildings. He wasn’t sure what had made him refuse. He wasn’t particularly happy about being dirty or playing the bearded prisoner. The truth was—it would take him days to admit it—that when they mentioned his beard, he had automatically thought of Holst’s felt boots.

  There was no connection. He didn’t want any sort of connection. He wanted to think about something else.

  And there was no lack of things to think about now. They let him carry his suitcase. Again, on the way back to his classroom, a civilian went ahead of him and the soldier followed. He almost had the illusion of being escorted to a room in a hotel. They closed the door and left him alone.

  Why had he been ordered to get ready? It was an order, no doubt about it. The moment had come. They were taking him somewhere. Would they make him bring his suitcase? Would he come back afterward? They must have removed the newspaper wrapping from the things in the suitcase— everything in it was disordered. There were little cakes of pink soap that reminded him of Bertha’s skin, a smoked salami, a largish piece of salt pork, a pound of sugar, chocolate bars. And he found half a dozen shirts and several pairs of socks, as well as a new sweater his mother must have just bought. There was even, at the bottom, a pair of thick woolen gloves he would never think of wearing outside.

  He changed clothes. He had missed the woman at the window. He was thinking too fast. Today didn’t count. They were rushing him, and that made his mood worse. He even began to regret his solitude and all his little habits. When he came back, if he came back, he had to straighten it all out in his head. He munched on the chocolate without realizing that it had been nineteen days since he had done that, and what lingered after Lotte’s visit was a sense of disa
ppointment.

  He didn’t know how it had happened, but he was disappointed. There had been no point of contact between them. He had asked her questions, and it had seemed to him, it still seemed to him, that what she answered had nothing to do with what he asked.

  Yet she had given him all the news as quickly and straightforwardly as possible. She couldn’t have been hounded by the authorities because she had only been told where he was the day before. So he hadn’t been in the newspaper. The local police had had nothing to do with his case, or she would have heard from Hamling.

  Hamling continued to visit the apartment, but he had crossed the landing like someone fording a river. Now he was going to the Holsts’. Why? Holst no longer drove a streetcar. There was a very simple reason for that. Because of his job, Holst had had to come home in the middle of the night every other week, and while he was away Sissy was alone. He must have found some other job that kept him busy only during the day.

  Sissy was never alone. He knew well enough how his mother and people like her talked about such things. If she used the word “neurasthenic,” if she seemed embarrassed, it must be a lot more serious than that.

  Was Sissy crazy?

  He wasn’t afraid of words. He made himself say it aloud: “Crazy!”

  That was it! With the two men, her father and old Wimmer, taking turns staying with her, and the chief inspector coming from time to time, sitting in a chair in his overcoat and galoshes, which left wet marks on the floor.

  They were going to take Frank somewhere. Otherwise there was no sense telling him to get ready. Well, and now he was ready much too soon. There was nothing to do and no use thinking in the meantime. That would only lessen his power to resist. After the chocolate, he gnawed on the salami. It hadn’t occurred to his mother that he wouldn’t have a knife. And there wasn’t any water left to wash his face with. He smelled of smoked meat.

  Where were they? Why didn’t they come for him? If only they’d take him! And, more than anything, bring him back as soon as possible and leave him alone.