Just as Christine understood all this from the beginning, just as information arrived in the form of an unwieldy package the colour of bricks, Herbert, with sober face, began to speak with the accent of their train conductor. He said she was not far from Buttonshtah, only a few miles. He believed there existed a bus service.
“I know, but vare iss ze boss?” she complained, before she remembered that she was not supposed to know any German, let alone German spoken with that accent. She had been deceived by the look of Herbert; he was nothing more than a local product like herself. “Country pipples,” she said, and showed them what it was to walk off with your nose in the air. Christine caught again, faintly, Dear Ken sorry I haven’t written sooner but you know how it is
Herbert did not want to rub it in but he did say, “You know, an American could live fifty years in Pottenstein without knowing it was Buttonshtah.”
The Norwegian still thought the girl might be an American. He said that perhaps she had mistaken the “P” of “Pegnitz” for the first letter of “Pottenstein,” and been too disturbed to read the rest. But Herbert laughed and said no American would do that either.
By now Christine knew all this. Herbert, who knew nothing, had fixed upon the essence of it: the girl was ashamed of being thought German by other Germans.
Little Bert tugged at Christine, trying to tell her something. “Is there time?” she asked Herbert.
She saw him nod before a new wave of soldiers pushed him back. He’ll write a letter about that, she thought. Little Bert was very good about standing in the queue outside the door marked “Ladies” and neither giggled nor stared once inside. She found it curious that he had asked her and not his father; it was certainly the first time. When they came out Herbert was nowhere in sight; there were twice as many people as before milling about and protesting, and they saw the cultural group, quite red in the face now, the women clutching their furs as if the inhabitants of Pegnitz were bandits. Their leader had lost his spectacles and was barely recognizable without them. His eyes were small and blue, and he looked insane.
“A short wait. In there,” said the stationmaster, running past Christine with a long list of passengers’ names in his hand.
“We can sit down for a few minutes,” said Christine. “In any case, we could never find your father in this confusion.” She saw a place on a bench and squeezed little Bert in beside her. Nearly every inch of bench was occupied by women carrying luggage tied with string. A window on the side opposite the platform gave onto the freight yards.
“Read to me,” said little Bert.
She noticed that some of the women glanced at them with consternation, even disapproval. It was true that little Bert seemed spoiled and that his voice was often annoying to adults.
“I suppose we seem like a funny-looking pair,” she said to him. “Both of us filthy, and you with your bath sponge.”
“The ladies are funny too,” he said.
The women sat grouped by nationality – Polish, French, Greek, Russian, Dutch. Her eyes caught on the Frenchwomen, who were thin and restless, with cheeks flushed either by rouge or tuberculosis, and hair swept up and forward and frizzed with tongs. They were almost uniformly dressed in navy-blue suits and white blouses, and their shoes had thick wooden soles. Their glance was hostile, bright and missed nothing.
But they are not dirty, she said to herself. No more than we are at this moment. I shall tell the truth about it, if I’m asked. Herbert hasn’t washed or shaven since yesterday. He brushed his teeth at Stuttgart, nothing more. As for little Bert …
“Whatever happens,” she said to little Bert swiftly, “we must not become separated. We must never leave each other. You must stop calling me ‘the lady’ when you speak to your father. Try to learn to say ‘Christine.’ ”
The child sighed, as he did sometimes when Herbert took too long to explain. “Read,” he said sleepily.
“I can’t remember a thing about Bruno.”
“Look in your book.”
“My mind is a blank.” Nevertheless she opened it near the beginning and read the first thing she came to: “ ‘Shame and remorse are generally mistaken for one another.’ It’s no good reading that.” She leaned against the child and felt his comforting breath on her arm.
“What happens then?” said little Bert after a pause. “That’s not what you were reading before.”
Their familiar bun-faced conductor now made an appearance. “Oh, thank God,” said Christine. “He’ll know about the train.” He had stopped just inside the door. He scowled at the waiting women and, being something of a comedian, did an excellent impersonation of someone throwing a silent tantrum. First he turned red and his eyes started, then all the colour left his face and he could not part his lips, could only gesticulate. It was extremely clever and funny. Little Bert applauded and laughed, which drew the conductor’s attention. He walked over to them slowly with his thumbs in his belt and stopped a few inches away, rocking on his heels. Suddenly he prodded the bath sponge.
“What have you got there?” he asked. “Who said you could have it?”
“Don’t use that tone with the child,” said Christine. “Children don’t always understand games.”
“Yes, I do,” protested little Bert.
She was surprised to feel the panic – stronger than mere disapproval – that the other women were signalling now. She wondered if they weren’t simply pretending to take fright. It was so evident that he had no power! Why, even the little girls from the summer camp had not been taken in.
He retreated a step – to lend the distance authority required, perhaps – and cried, “Who told you to come here?”
“Please lower your voice,” she said. “We aren’t playing. We have every right to sit where we choose, and the child has a right to his toy.”
“Sponge,” said little Bert. “Not toy.”
The conductor leaned over them, his face so near that she could see specks of gold in his brown eyes. He said, “You won’t say bad things about me, will you?”
“To the stationmaster? I’m not sure.”
“No, to anyone. If anyone asks.”
“You were rude a moment ago,” she reminded him.
“But I was kind on the train. I let you keep the window open when we went through the fire zone.” True enough, but had he really been kind? “You’ll testify for me, then?” he said. “If you are asked?”
“What about these passengers?” she said, meaning the other women. “You were making faces – scaring them. They’re still frightened.” Indeed, some of them looked positively ill with terror. However, now that Christine had shown him up he was unlikely to begin playing again; the game would have no point. “Perhaps you would like to find out about our train?” she said. “The child is quite tired.”
He waddled away, either because he was anxious to show he was still the harmless creature he had been on the train, or because she had alarmed him and he wanted to escape.
“Read, now,” said little Bert. “What happens?”
“I don’t know any more.”
“It’s in your book,” he said.
Dear Ken sorry I haven’t written sooner but you know how it is The girl was still searching for the bus to Pottenstein. Or perhaps she had given it up, couldn’t face the family, knew the letter was hopeless as evidence. It was faint and faded now – committed to a dull mind, to no real purpose. A mush like a mixture of snow and ashes surrounded the information. I suppose several people figure I squared up on you I don’t think you thought that I came to within a hair of getting busted and for all practical purposes I did get busted when I got to the airport I was still tripppping
I went to the restroom to change I didn’t have a poplin shirt or a tie it took me a long time to get myself together
I looked like something from woodstock with a uniform on do you remember the guy in munich who tried to get us to go to his car well, I met him in the restroom he had gotten scared about bringing it int
o the states so he was trying to get rid of it he was in bad shape too I processed out with him as I was
“Why aren’t you reading?” said little Bert. Only stubbornness still kept him awake.
“There’s too much interference,” she said. “I’m waiting for it to stop.”
going through the customs line there were three guys ahead of me they searched the first guy as if they thought he had a ton of smack they asked him to empty his pockets
well, when I saw this the first thing I did was turn white, the second thing I did was fall out of line and look for a place to get rid of what I had on me the room was full of people
I sat down on the convair belt that brought our bags into the room there I took it out of my pockets and put it under the belt, never to see it again I ran back and got in line
I was next by then the guy took one look at me and knew I was scared to death he went over me with a fine-tooth comb and I was never so glad not to have it on me in my life we left there and went to ft dix it was about 9:00 pm they took our records and sent us to bed next morning we got up cleaned the barracks and went on police call after that we turned in to supply one set of greens, one poplin shirt, one overcoat, one field jacket I didn’t have any of this and it didn’t matter that’s all you have to have and they don’t care if you have it or not after that you get a lot of crap about being a veteran, some of which is good to know then you go and get paid and that’s the last thing
after I was paid I took a cab to the airport. there I went to the rest room removed my uniform threw it in the trashcan, dressed went back up and got a ticket to Toledo where my mother lives I stayed with her for two weeks trying to decide what I was going to do next first I thought of sending you the 170 I owe you getting a job, but things were so screwed up there I had to leave or go crazy you will see what I mean when you get out you won’t believe it it’s like being in a crazy house here and you are the only one sane
so I left and came here the trip cost me about 150
I’ve spent some money since I’ve been out here and I have about 42 now I’ve been looking for a job every day I’ve been offered a lot of jobs most of them are 80 or 90 a week clear the reason I haven’t taken any of them is they don’t pay enough you draw 65 clear a week drawing unemployment so working forty hours you only draw 15 more a week
no one is giving the good jobs right now because the economy is slow the only thing I have to pay besides you is 12 a week to my sister for staying here so I’ll be sending you money every week until I get you paid off it really sucks living here with my sister and her husband he’s a nice guy but he and my sister are really concerned over me and they think I’m a great guy and when I’m here with them they never leave me alone they’re great, it’s just that they get on my nerves you’ll understand this better once you get out
when you come over we could take a place together
write and tell me if the junk you had was good or not and how you all came out on it don’t bring any back with you – mail it it’s like gold here my other advice is get out of the army first and forget about her. Once you’re out she can’t touch you tell her you want to find a job first
you’re crazy if you do it any other way tell her you can’t support a family till you’re twenty-one (joke) I hope we can get together after you get out answer this letter right away tomorrow I’m going to get some grass I’ll send you some good luck Ken love PS it’s 80° and I’m going to the beach
“Is it finished?” said little Bert.
“I suppose so. Though nothing is ever finished,” said Christine. She had been disappointed by both the substance and quality of this information.
“You never finished a story,” little Bert said.
“I realize that. I’m sorry.” He did not reply; living with adults had accustomed him as much to apologies as to promises.
She was always running, Herbert complained suddenly. She streaked off like a hare. I went after. She doubled back. I tripped and fell. There we were, together. She seemed confident and competent, and I thought she did not need to be looked after. I must have dozed off. She woke me quite roughly saying, “You are supposed to be awake and making decisions. You are the man. That’s how I’ve always heard it was played.” The day she left she cut a lock of the child’s hair. It was flaxen then. She took it close to the roots along the hairline. Destructive. Careless. When she needed money she sent the lock back to me. I understood immediately, sent money to a post-office address which was all she gave me, and returned the lock as well. After long-distance dialling was installed in the remotest villages she took to calling me late at night, never from the same place twice. So she said. Other people paid, without knowing it. You could tell she had her hand around the mouthpiece. She would say a few words and laugh. I never knew what she wanted. One night I heard, “Do you still love me?” I thought for a long time, wanting to give her a complete answer. After a while I said, “Are you still there?” She called again late in the winter. I said, “The answer to your last question is yes.” She hung up quietly. Then silence. She was twenty-six, would now be twenty-eight.
This fell like dirty cinders. As information, it offered nothing except the fact that Herbert was not far from the waiting room. Perhaps it had no connection with him; in this particular game no one was allowed an unfair advantage. It was old and tarnished stuff which had come to her by error. Complete information concerning Herbert had certainly been caught by someone who had no use for it. It was like the Pottenstein letter – each person involved with it was now in a different place, moving steadily in a new direction. A day of indecision could make all the difference between silvery flakes and mud.
Little Bert yawned and pressed the sponge against his mouth. His muffled voice said, “Read!”
The trouble about the grave is that he’s got family living around Muggendorf. My cousin-in-law tipped them off. They’re watching the grave closely. At the first sign of drought, weeds, plant lice, cyclamen mites, leaf hoppers, thrips, borers, whiteflies, beetles feeding, they’ll take colour photographs of the disaster and use them as evidence. Which would mean the end of the eight hundred dollars.
“What are we waiting for now?” said little Bert.
“For the conductor to tell us about our train. It is much cooler in here.” She had been going to add, “and there is less interference,” but that wasn’t true. At least the other women were silent; ever since Christine had put the conductor in his place they seemed afraid of her too.
“Read,” said little Bert. “You never finished anything.”
“What do you want as a beginning this time?”
“Whatever it says.”
“I did read you a bit of that,” she said. “You didn’t like it.”
Last Sunday they happened to find one bare spot and they planted an ageratum. A reproach. What nobody understands is that it isn’t usual to buy a plot for just a can of ashes. I would have kept them at home, but his will had one whole page of special instructions. What can you put on a plot that size? Not much bigger than a cat’s grave and the stone takes up room. The begonias are choking the roses and vice versa.
Little Bert yawned again, even wider. “You’ll soon be home,” she said.
“What do we do when we get home?” He had been away for a whole week, plus this long day.
And yet they managed to find room for one ageratum. Only one year to go. Hang on, I keep telling myself. Hang on for the eight hundred dollars. Worth hanging on for. After that I’ll be ready to go. Plot purchased and paid up. Nowhere near him.
“You’re not reading,” said little Bert.
She waited a few seconds longer, until the air was clear. Perhaps the silent women were attracting everything to themselves without being conscious of it. Then she distinctly heard Herbert saying, “En quel honneur?” It was loud, for him, and rather frantic. She guessed it must have been his response to a piece of irritating news – that there would be a long delay, for instance. She wondered if sh
e and little Bert should go out to him; but the child was tired and once they had left the waiting room they would have to stand, perhaps for a long time. While she was wondering and weighing, as reluctant as ever to make up her mind, a great stir started up in the grey and wintry-looking freight yards they could see from the window. Lights blazed, voices bawled in dialect, a dog barked. As if they knew what this animation meant and had been waiting for it, the women picked up their parcels and filed out without haste and without looking back.
“No, you stay here,” said Christine, holding little Bert, who had made a blind move forward. He looked at her, puzzled perhaps, but not really frightened. When the door had closed softly behind the last of them she felt a relief, as at the cessation of pain. She relaxed her grip on the child, as if he were someone she loved but was not afraid of losing.
“Read,” said little Bert. “Look in the book.”
“I’ll read for a minute,” she said. “Then we will have to do something else.”
“What?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Go out, or wait here. I’m sorry to be so uncertain.” He sat as near to her as when the room had been full. She opened her book and saw, “ ‘The knowledge of good and evil is therefore separation from God. Only against God can man know good and evil.’ Well,” she said, “no use going on with that. Don’t be frightened, by the way,” she told little Bert, who was not frightened of anything, though in Paris he had pretended to be afraid of the dark.
The Pegnitz Junction Page 8
