The Pegnitz Junction

by Mavis Gallant

  This was followed by a dead silence. Herbert beckoned Christine from the corridor. She thought he wanted to stand at the window and talk and smoke, but he smiled and edged her along to one of the empty compartments at the end of their carriage. They sat down close together out of the sun and in a pleasant draught, for there was no one here who could ask them to shut the window. But then Herbert slid the door to, and undid the plushy useless curtains held back by broad ties. The curtains were too narrow to meet and would serve only to attract attention to the compartment.

  “Someone might look in,” Christine said.

  “Who might?”

  “Anybody going by.”

  “The whole train is asleep.”

  “Or if we stop at a station …”

  “No scheduled stops. You know we’ve been rerouted.”

  It reminded her of the joke about Lenin saying, “Stop worrying, the train’s sealed!” She wondered if this was a good time to tell it.

  Herbert said, “Now that we’re alone, tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “Isn’t it a bit of a pose, your reading? Why did you say you were reading for an exam?”

  “I didn’t say it was my exam,” she said.

  “You said that it was in two days’ time.”

  “Yes. Well, I imagine that will be for students of theology who have failed their year.”

  “Of course,” said Herbert. “That accounts for the Bonhoeffer. Well. Our Little Christian. What good does it do him if you read?”

  “It may do me good, and what is good for me is good for both of you. Isn’t that so?” For the second time that day her vision was shaken by tears.

  “Chris.”

  “I do love you,” she said. “But there has been too much interference.”

  “What, poor little Bert?” No, she had not meant interference of that kind. “You mean from him, then?” Sometimes Herbert tried to find out how much she lied to her official fiancé and whether she felt the least guilt. “What did you tell him about Paris?” he said.

  “Nothing. It’s got nothing to do with him.”

  “Does he think you love him?” said Herbert, blotting up her tears as though she were little Bert.

  “I think that I could live with him,” said Christine. “Perhaps there is more to living than what I have with you.” She was annoyed because he was doing exactly what her fiancé always did – veering off into talk and analysis.

  “It is easy to love two people at once,” said Herbert, more sure of her than ever now. “But it can be a habit, a pattern of living; before it becomes too much a habit you ought to choose.” He had seen the theology student and did not take him seriously as a rival. She glanced out to the empty corridor. “Don’t look there,” said Herbert.

  “What if we are arrested?”

  Perhaps he would not mind. Perhaps he saw himself the subject of a sensational case, baying out in a police court the social criticism he saved up to send to newspapers. She remembered the elaborate lies and stories she had needed for the week in Paris and wondered if they were part of the pattern he had mentioned. Suddenly Herbert begged her to marry him – tomorrow, today. He would put little Bert in boarding school; he could not live without her; there would never again be interference. Herbert did not hear what he was saying and his words did not come back to him, not even as an echo. He did not forget the promise; he had not heard it. Seconds later it was as if nothing had been said. The corridor was empty, and outside were the same plain of dried grass and the blind, hot, grey stucco box-houses they had been seeing all afternoon. She felt angry with Herbert, hateful even, because he had an unfailing hold on her and used it.

  She said, “Herbert, that Norwegian is not interested in me; he is interested in you. And you know it.”

  Herbert accepted the accusation as though he were used to every kind of homage. He was tall, intelligent, brave and good-looking. He was generous and truthful. A good parent, a loyal friend. Never bore grudges. His family was worthy of him, on both sides. His distinguished officer father had performed his duty, nothing worse; his mother had defended her faith to the extreme limit. He was thirty-one and had made only one error in a lifetime: he had married a girl who ran away. He sat still and did not protest uselessly or say, “Unhealthy imagination. Projecting your own morbid desires. Insane jealousy,” though he may have been thinking it. He accepted the Norwegian as a compliment.

  She plunged on recklessly, just as she had kept the window open when there could have been fires, and said, “If it’s men you want, you needn’t think I am going to be a screen for you.” He turned slightly and said, “Only one thing matters now – this train, which is running all over the map.”

  She did not wish to lose him. She was afraid of choosing – that was true – and she was not certain about little Bert. When he kept his head turned the other way, she quickly told the story about Lenin. He smiled, no more. There was a way out of their last exchange, but where? She had tried telling her joke with a Russian accent, but of course it didn’t come off. She knew nothing about him. One thing she had noticed: when he had to speak on the telephone sometimes he would say “Berlin speaking,” like a television announcer, or imitate some political figure, or talk broad Bavarian, which he did well, but it took seconds to get the real conversation moving, which was strange for a man as busy and practical as Herbert. She looked round for a change of subject – the landscape was hopeless – and said, “These seats aren’t reserved. Why not move our things here?”

  “No point, we’ve nearly arrived,” said Herbert, and he opened the door and walked out, as if there were no reason for their being alone now. He strode along the rattling corridor with Christine behind him.

  Interference came out to meet her halfway:

  During the conflict we were enemy aliens. Went to be registered in a post office with spit all over the floor. From there to the police. Just as dirty. The jails must be really something once you’re in them. Police had orders, had to tell us we couldn’t go to the beaches any more. Big joke on them – we never went anyway, didn’t even own bathing suits! Were given our territorial limits: could go into Jackson Heights as far as the corner of Northern and 81st. Never went, never wanted to. We could take the train from Woodside to Corona, or from Woodside to Rego Park, we had the choice, and ride back and forth as much as we liked. Never did, never cared to. We could walk as far as Mount Zion Cemetery but never did – didn’t know anyone in it. Could ride the subway from Woodside to Junction Boulevard and back as much as we wanted, or Rego Park to 65th and back. Never did it once that I remember. The men could take the train to Flushing, they still worked at the same place, closely watched to see they didn’t sabotage the submarine galley units. They had three stations from home to work, were warned not to get off at the wrong one. They never did. The thing was we never wanted to go anywhere except the three blocks between our two homes. The only thing we missed was the fresh bratwurst. We never went anywhere because we never wanted to! The joke was on the whole USA!

  They were a happy party in the compartment now. Herbert seemed to feel he had put something over on the universe, and Christine felt she had an edge on both the Norwegian and little Bert. The other three were feeling splendid because they had slept. All were filled with optimism and energy, as if it were early morning. The Norwegian in particular was lively and refreshed and extremely talkative. Inevitably, being a foreigner, he began to do what Herbert called “opening up the dossier.”

  “On the subject of German reparations I remain open-minded,” the Norwegian said amiably. “Some accepted the money and invested it, some refused even to apply. I knew of a lawyer whose entire career consisted of handling reparations cases, from the time he left law school until he retired after a heart attack.”

  “I am open-minded too,” said Herbert, every bit as amiable as the Norwegian.

  The woman in the corner spoke up: “What I keep asking myself is where does the money come from?” She looked
at Herbert, as if he should know. “And these payments go on! And on! Where does it all come from?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Herbert. “The beneficiaries die younger than most other people. They die early for their age groups. Actuarial studies are reassuring on that point.”

  It was impossible for the two strangers to tell if Herbert was glad or sorry.

  “It is only right that you pay,” said the Norwegian, though not aggressively.

  “Of course it is right,” said Herbert, smiling. “However, I object to your use of ‘you.’ ”

  At this the conversation ran out. Christine removed herself from what might have been her share of feeling by opening her book. Instantly little Bert was beside her. “Read,” he said.

  She read, “ ‘Bruno lived in a house of his own. He had a bedroom, a living room, a dining room …’ ”

  “And a playroom.”

  “All right. ‘The living room had red curtains, the bedroom had blue curtains …’ ”

  “No,” said little Bert. “Red in the playroom.”

  Herbert looked at them both; across his face was written, “It’s working. They’re friends.” The woman in the corner had closed her eyes after the abrupt ending of the last conversation, but her mind was awake. The other couple bought a car when the neighbourhood went. The three blocks weren’t safe, they thought. Sometimes they were late for dinner because someone had parked in front of their garage. Otherwise they were always on time. At first they came just for lunch on Sundays, then got in the habit of staying for supper because Jack Benny came on at seven. The only words my sister-in-law ever learned in English were “Jello again.” Once learned, never forgotten. Before the blacks came we had the Catholics. That was the way it went. Once I was waiting with my sister-in-law to cross the street in front of the house when a lot of little girls in First Communion dresses crossed without waiting for the light. So near you could touch them. I said to her, “You’ve got to admit they look nice in the white, like little snow fairies.” One of those little girls turned right around and said in German, “We’re not snow fairies, you old sow, we’re angels – ANGELS!”

  Their train slowed at an unknown station, then changed its mind and picked up speed, but not before they’d been given a chance to see a detachment of conscripts of the army of the Federal Republic in their crumpled uniforms and dusty boots and with their long hair hanging in strings. She saw them as she imagined Herbert must be seeing them: small, round-shouldered, rather dark. Blond, blue-eyed genes were on the wane in Europe.

  Herbert’s expression gradually changed to one of brooding. He seemed to be dwelling on a deep inner hurt. His eyes narrowed, as if he had been cornered by beams of electric light. Christine knew that he felt intense disgust for men-at-arms in general, but for untidy soldiers in particular. His pacifism was certainly real – little Bert was not allowed to have any military toys. His look may have meant that even to a pacifist soldiers are supposed to seem like soldiers; they should salute smartly, stare you frankly in the face, keep their shoes shined and their hair trimmed. The Norwegian turned his mouth down, as though soldiering were very different where he came from. He exchanged a glance with Herbert – it was the first that Herbert returned. The woman in the corner opened her little eyes, shook her head, and said “Chck chck,” marvelling that such spectacles were allowed.

  The principal of Carol Ann’s school had good ideas for raising money. One was the sale of crosses for one ninety-eight. Black crosses with the words HE DIED FOR YOU in white. Meant to be hung on a bedroom wall, the first thing a child would see in the morning. Character building. First of all my cousin did not want any cross in the house. Then he said he wouldn’t mind having just the one so long as nobody said “crucifix.” He couldn’t stand that word – too Catholic. Then his wife said she didn’t want a black cross because the black didn’t match anything in the room. Everything in Carol Ann’s bedroom was powder-blue and white. My cousin then said he did not want to see a cross with any person on it. Once you accept a cross with a person on it, they’re in, he said, meaning the Catholics. My cousin was stricter than your average Lutheran. His wife said what about a white cross with powder-blue lettering? My cousin was really worked up; he said, “Over my dead body will a black cross called a crucifix and with any person on it enter my home.” Finally Carol Ann got a white cross with no person on it and no words to read. It cost a little more, two forty-nine, on account of the white paint. The principal of that school had good ideas but went too far sometimes, though his aim was just to make people better Christians. The school earned quite a lot on the sale of the crosses, which went towards buying a dishwasher cut-rate from the Flushing factory. All the children were good Christians and the principal strove to make some better.

  They were all tired now and beginning to look despondent. Luckily the next station stop was a pretty one, with gingerbread buildings and baskets of petunias hanging everywhere. The woman stirred and smiled to herself, as if reminded of all the charming places she had ever lived in during the past. The Norwegian leaped to his feet. “Good luck,” said Herbert. He had given up trying to find water, toilets, food.

  My cousin-in-law never understood the television. She’d say, “Are they the good ones or the bad ones?” We’d say this one’s bad, that one’s good. She would say, “Then why are they dressed the same way?” If the bad and the good had the same kind of suits on she couldn’t follow.

  “Read something about Bruno,” said little Bert. “Read about Bruno not doing as he’s told.”

  “ ‘The fact was that Bruno could not always tell right from wrong,’ “ read Christine severely. “ ‘When he was in Paris he whistled and called to other people’s dogs. He did not know that it is not polite to call other people’s dogs, even in a friendly way. He ate everything with his fingers. He put his fingers in the pickle jar.’ ”

  “Careful. Our housekeeper does that,” said Herbert.

  “Read about Bruno’s sisters and brothers,” said little Bert. “What did they do?”

  “ ‘Bruno had five brothers. All five were named Georg. But Georg was pronounced five different ways in the family, so there was no mistake. They were called the Yursh, the Shorsh, the Goysh …’ ”

  “Christine, please,“ said Herbert. “It’s silly. The child is not an idiot.”

  “But, Herbert, it happens to be true! All five brothers had five different godfathers named Georg, so they were each called Georg. Is there a law against it?”

  He searched and said, “No.”

  “Well then. ‘The Goysh, the Jairsh …’ ”

  “Don’t confuse him,” said Herbert.

  “Oh, God, Herbert, you are the one confused. My father knew them. They existed. Only one survived the war, the Yursh. He was already old when I met him. He might be dead now.”

  “Well, all that is confusing for children,” said Herbert.

  “You’re not reading,” little Bert complained, but just then the Norwegian came back carrying an ice cream cone. Little Bert took it without saying thank you and at once began eating in the most disgusting manner, licking up the melting edges, pushing the ice down inside the cone, and biting off the end.

  “Herbert,” said Christine. “Please make him stop. Make him eat properly.”

  “Eat properly,” said Herbert, smiling.

  Conscious of so many adult eyes on him, little Bert began to lark about with the ice cream and make a fool of himself, at which everyone except Herbert looked the other way.

  There was a plan to save some German cities, those with interesting old monuments. The plan was to put Jews in the attics of all the houses. The Allies would never have dropped a bomb. What a difference it might have made. Later we learned this plan had been sabotaged by the President of the USA. Too bad. It could have saved many famous old statues and quite a few lives.

  “Now, little Bert,” said Herbert, trying to clean the child’s sticky face with a handkerchief, “we shall be leaving this train about
two minutes from now. Another nice train will then take us to a place called Pegnitz. Pegnitz is a railway junction. This means that from Pegnitz there are any number of trains to take us home.”

  Little Bert could not have been listening carefully, for he said, “Are we home now?”

  “No, but it is almost like being home, because we know where we’re going.”

  “That’s not the same as being home,” said little Bert. He turned swiftly from Herbert and his eyes grew wide and amazed as the pregnant army wife, holding a wall for support, moved past their door. He looked at Christine and opened his mouth, but before he could ask anything loud and embarrassing, their conductor came in with new information: they must not wander too far away from the station during the stopover. They would soon see that they were just a few feet from a barbed-wire frontier, where someone had been shot to death only a week ago. They must pay close attention to signs and warnings concerning hostile police guards, guns, soldiers, dogs, land mines. Although this was good mushroom country, it was not really safe. Someone had been blown up not long ago while reaching for Cantharellus cibarius. The train to Pegnitz would be an unscheduled emergency transport for stranded passengers (theirs was not the only train to have been diverted), and this new transport might turn up at any moment. They were not to worry about their luggage: the conductor would look after everything. The train might arrive at any time, either five minutes or half an hour from now. All danger from the fires was over, the jolly conductor added. His hair was as shiny as leather and he bounded from one foot to the other as he gave the good news.

  Herbert took down the woman’s suitcase. She stuffed all her plastic bags and leftover food into the WINES OF GERMANY carryall. I came back to Germany to bury my poor husband and look after his grave. Very rare for me to miss a day at the grave. I had to go and see about some investments. Otherwise I’m at the grave every morning with a watering can.