The World as I Found It

by Bruce Duffy

  Father Haft’s successor, Father Schöttl, was still in Trattenbach, still stuck there as pastor of Our Lady of Perpetual Disrepair. Father Schöttl was one of those self-appointed reporters who periodically feel the need to fill others in on the drab news, whether or not they want to hear it. Every Christmas Wittgenstein received a card from him, and the news was always the same. The village was as bad, if not worse. Hilda Mueller, the girl he had struck, was a tramp — she had left the village, unmarried and pregnant. Herr Kluck had long since drunk himself to death. Now out of school and working for a grocer, Franz Kluck was about to take the civil service exam in the hopes of becoming a postal clerk.

  Franz and Wittgenstein still corresponded occasionally. Wittgenstein knew that the young man still harbored dreams of going to university, and had Wittgenstein wanted he certainly could have gotten Gretl to finance his education. But he told himself that the young man was probably better off where he was, leading a simple life without unreasonable expectations. Actually, Wittgenstein thought quite a lot about Trattenbach. After the trial, he had sworn never to go back, but by now he was becoming curious. Often, he would imagine slipping back into the village in disguise, there to walk like a spirit among the people to see firsthand how it had all turned out. But of course this was just another fantasy, much like these late-night thoughts of confession.

  Floating Out to See

  EARLIER THAT NIGHT, not long after Max had left in a fury, a delegation of distraught children had gone to Russell to make known their anger at Rabe.

  Bertrand, we think Rabe should be punished for killing our dog, said John, the apparent spokesman for the group. We also think Rabe should be made to bury Daisy.

  There were about eight children, and Russell invited them all into his office to talk about it. Gathering around him on his big leather sofa, the children were angry and upset, and he was amazed, as always, by the child’s fierce and seemingly innate passion for justice. Russell and Dora had done much to try to cultivate this instinct. Under the auspices of the school council, the children had their own court, and they had their own code of punishments: two nights with no dessert, hoeing the garden — that was about the extent of it. But Rabe, Russell explained, was a case quite beyond their court.

  Rabe is sick, he said. He needs the help of doctors, not punishment. Punishment is wicked when it can do no good. For all we know, Rabe couldn’t help himself — and that is assuming that he did indeed poison Daisy. And, mind you, we do not know for a fact that he did. For all we know, Daisy may have died of old age.

  At this John spoke up. But Rabe told Max that he did it.

  Well, now, replied Russell. I expect you’d have confessed yourself, had Max throttled you the way he did poor Rabe.

  That was mean of Max, said six-year-old Mary Berry, bouncing on her seat.

  Yes, it was mean, agreed Russell, falling into that conspicuous, somewhat homiletic voice of his alter ego, the Headmaster. Finding guilt is not easy. Then there’s the problem of what to do once you find it. Why did Rabe poison Daisy — if indeed he did poison her? Why has Rabe done so many other bad things? I, for one, think that Rabe did these things because he is sick and unhappy. A happy boy would not torture a poor innocent animal.

  You mean Rabe is sick so he made Daisy sick? asked a red-haired boy named Alf.

  But Russell could see that this was already getting sticky and hard to explain, the children’s idea of sickness being something one catches rather than something that is passed down, instilled or whatever. And of course there were other questions. Inevitably, the children wanted to know where a dog like Daisy went when she died. Russell told them frankly what he thought: the dog simply died and was no more. He did add, though, that in a sense Daisy would live on through her puppies, who would carry, and pass on, a piece of Daisy just as the children carried and would one day pass on to their children pieces of their own mummies and daddies. But at this Russell saw several of the children, including John, screw up their faces, as if he were leaving, and he realized that they were all afraid of his leaving, of the long leaving. So leaving was the quotient, but the content, again, was pain — pain and the dread of pain, since all was leaving. And then Russell remembered how as babies in their baths, John and Kate would dip their hands into the water, looking at the liquid, then at their hands, and then at him, aghast, not knowing how to separate either their hands from the water or their own bodies from his. And with this anxiety ran another fear: that he might somehow vanish as in a game of peek-a-boo, eclipsed like the sun, never to be restored.

  It was unlikely that Russell could have approached these matters with greater care or sensitivity, but still he was afraid that, no matter what he said, the children would be somehow scarred by the dead dog, the unbalanced boy, the violent man. The main thing, though, was that he was explaining, having learned that often it wasn’t so much the explanation as the sheer care of explaining that matters most to children. But his explanations weren’t just for the children’s sakes; he, too, took comfort in explaining, which was as necessary for him as for them. The children were spread around him like a quilt, a warm, arm-splatched quilt that smelled of sticky skin, of flesh and rain and earth. The children seemed to act as if he were telling them a story, and so in a sense he was. Outside, it was already dark, getting ready to rain again. This was about the time that Wittgenstein was standing out on the road, hearing Max’s confession — another less happy, less satisfactory explanation.

  Late that same night, in a literally eleventh-hour effort to rid themselves of Rabe Peck, the desperate school finally found a place in Salisbury that agreed to take the boy, sight unseen, for a suitably exorbitant price. This was Vale of Muir Lodge, an institution desperately short of funds and full of empty beds and restraining jackets.

  This is nothing but robbery! cried the headmaster, looking pigstuck as he held the telephone. But after spending an hour dickering with the blackguard who ran the place, Russell finally struck an agreement by which Vale of Muir would take the boy for a two-week evaluation period — and with the proviso that if they did not themselves keep the boy, or were not judged suitable, they would secure an appropriate institution that would take him until his mother was found.

  Miss Marmer readily volunteered to take the boy to Salisbury the next day, being all too glad to get away from Beacon Hill — and the headmaster. And later, after Russell had settled matters with Vale of Muir, Miss Marmer gave him another night’s harbor, and not such a bad night, either. The truth was, Miss Marmer felt badly about her outburst that day, when she had railed at him by the stairs during her quarrel with Lily.

  So, early the next morning, after Russell had crept from her room, Miss Marmer took Rabe Peck down to the car, where Tillham was waiting to drive them to the station. Earlier, Tillham had dug a grave for Daisy and laid the dog in it, just as Russell had instructed. Unfortunately, though, the old man had not dug a grave-shaped hole but a round hole, as if he were potting a tree. In fact, when Russell looked into the hole, he wondered for a moment if it was a shrub or piece of rooting, what with the way Tillham had bundled the dog in a ball of twine-bound burlap.

  Dratted old nitwit! muttered Russell to himself, knowing all too well the child’s natural concern for orthodoxy and consistency. He knew the children would be disturbed by the unusual hole, and, sure enough, they were.

  But that’s a round hole, huffed Rose, who had seen her grandmother buried. Graves aren’t supposed to be round.

  A grave can be any shape, Russell replied carefully. Certain primitive peoples used to bury their dead in clay jars. Really, my dear, there is no right or wrong way. It’s merely a matter of custom — I mean the way different people do things.

  But where’s Daisy? squealed Peter, one of the smaller boys, clutching Russell’s leg as he peered down into the hole.

  She’s down there, said Russell, taking the boy’s arm reassuringly. Daisy’s all wrapped up in that burlap there. Quite nicely wrapped, as you can see.
>
  Is she a mummy? asked another boy, with an astonished look. Has Mr. Tillham made her a mummy?

  But with this, little Peter, still clutching Russell’s leg in confusion and having heard something about a mummy, bawled: But I still don’t see … Where’s Daisy?

  There were some tears, and several of the children said some kind words about the deceased, who had never bitten anybody or even barked very much, and who in her day had dropped many a litter. Then, after this eulogy, the children tearfully sang Oh-where-oh-where-has-my-little-dog-gone, the only dog song they knew, while Russell fiercely rubbed his face, trying not to smile.

  Russell wanted the children to see death as a thoroughly natural process, but he needn’t have worried. Scarcely had the children filled in the dirt and covered it over with grass and wildflowers and a turtlish stone with DAISY painted on it than they were asking when they could get another dog. And then they were off, Daisy, for the time being at least, forgotten.

  That was all. When Mr. Tillham returned, Russell took John and Kate, along with Wittgenstein and the Moores, to an isolated beach below the cliffs. It was a huge, luminous day, and the white chalk path that cut down the cliffs to the beach was steep and difficult for them, encumbered, as they were, with baskets, blankets and chairs.

  John, said Russell preemptively, John, mind you — But, waving his arms in the speeding wind, the boy ran whooping down the path like a young goat, heedless of his father’s shouts.

  Picking down the crumbling path, they saw the boy on the beach, lunging at the chopping swells that cracked like eggs against the black rocks, then ran foaming down their mussel-crusted sides. John was quivering with excitement as he ran up to his father, begging, May we swim now, Daddy? May we?

  You may, said Russell sternly. But only if you mind me. Didn’t you hear me calling you back up there? Russell lit his pipe and sent him off with his sister. The boy had no fear of the water. Waiting for the first good wave, he took a step back, then charged into it, squealing as it bowled him over.

  John! cried Russell.

  Suspended under that white bombardment of light and mist, the boy was deaf to him. So let him go, Russell told himself, but he hung on, so powerless as the next wave rocketed down, consuming the squealing boy with the sound of a distant explosion.

  Sitting up higher on the beach, in quite a different element, Wittgenstein was watching Russell and the boy, feeling the same pangs but keeping them well hidden. Truly, Wittgenstein felt a little queer being alone at a beach among these family people, without even Max there as a buffer. And for the Moores and Russell, it was rather queer to see Wittgenstein in such a setting — to see him partake of something purely pleasurable and without purpose. Remembering Wittgenstein’s prudishness in Norway, Moore was correct in his prediction that he would not bathe, but to his amazement and Russell’s, Wittgenstein did go barefoot, rolling his trousers above the knees. Free from the Viva and now Max as well, Wittgenstein did seem more relaxed, in his way. Digging his feet into the crusty sand and working it through his toes, he talked to Dorothy for some time. And later, he took John and Kate exploring, happy to lose himself in the sun’s drumming heat. He didn’t at all mind their calling him Ludwig. Like an abnormally bright child, he answered their questions, but in his answer he always sought to subtly recast the question, returning it like a piece of sourdough in the hope that they might use it to make something more.

  As for Moore, it wasn’t long before the waves coaxed him into the water. Not since the reading parties of their undergraduate days had Moore and Russell seen each other in bathing dress. It was a bit of a shock as the clothes came off, to be subjected to the harsh mirror of one’s contemporaries. The two men tried to seem natural about it, but there it was — old man’s skin, all tucked and puckered and flabby white, hanging off them like filets of haddock. Oh, God, they thought, it had really happened. They were old. Then came the poking, the joking. Not much different, humm? jested Moore in his ancient black woolen one-piece. Not much, said Russell, immodestly sliding his thumbs down the latex belly band of his very moderne black trunks.

  The two men walked down to the skiffles where the children were playing in the sand. Moore didn’t want to intrude. Russell was telling the children about the Spanish Armada as Moore waded out into the deeper water. Behind him, Moore was aware of Dorothy, perched like a nesting bird on the beach in her beige bathing suit. All that morning he had been aware of her, floating up in him like a water beacon. He swam out a short way and rolled over; spat and closed his eyes. His lungs swelled and contracted. The water rocked. Forever it rocked and rocked, and he became even more forcibly aware of Dorothy’s presence, beaming down on him like strong sunshine. It had been so long since he had floated, but what he had lost of his former buoyancy he had gained in perspective. Without Dorothy, Moore knew, he would not be floating so confidently. Oh, he might be wading, might be standing much diminished in the shoals, staring at his white legs, bent and foreshortened in the water. But, no, he would not be floating.

  Intimacy is like a stream within a stream: there is the tantalizing life without, a numinous loom with its light and air and vast trees; and there is the rich, dark, mutual life whose language and nuances are quite invisible to those standing on the periphery. This had been the case the day before. Moore had seen that something was bothering Dorothy when she returned from her birdwatching. He had still felt her unease at dinner, but it was only later, when they were in bed, that Dorothy revealed what it was about. With her binoculars, Dorothy had seen Max and Lily that afternoon. She said she had started to call to them, but then she saw the blanket under Max’s arm and thought better of it.

  I don’t know why I looked at all, she said. Oh, I stopped looking immediately once I saw what they were up to. I’m sure you think I’m a horrid peeping Tom, but it’s true.

  Moore assured her that there was no cause for shame. Curiosity was natural — very natural. Even as they were discussing this under the covers, they could hear another opera playing in the next room. They still didn’t know who it was in there, but Dorothy had her theories. In his reserved way, even Moore was getting curious. He was even more curious when he went down the hall to wash and smelled strong perfume — a cloying, almost swampy fragrance. He couldn’t get it out of his head. All that night, the music seemed to continue; in Moore’s imagination the perfume all but soaked through the walls, filling him with crowded dreams.

  Moore always relieved himself in the early morning, and when he blundered down the hall, half asleep, he smelled the perfume even more strongly. He was sitting on the toilet, waiting for his cramped bladder to unknot, when he heard a door creak open. Moore froze on the seat, his heart pounding. He heard whispers, then slow steps picking down the hall and down the stairs.

  The voice and footsteps were unmistakably Russell’s, and as Moore sat there the whole sorry situation suddenly became clear to him. He took no pleasure in it. He would have put it right out of his mind had it not been for Dorothy’s complaints about his reticence. So he told her about it. Told her for intimacy’s sake — to repay her for her own secret.

  Ironically, then, Russell’s ill fortune had become Moore’s good fortune. All that morning Dorothy had been especially frisky and affectionate, grateful for this confidence he had conferred on her. Life is bad. Life is good. How does one ever decide which version is truer or the more pervasive? Moore’s face was now a mask on the surface of the ocean. His legs were fluttering, and his hands were undulating at his sides. Only as much is learned as is forgotten. One swam off just far enough to discern the shore — just far enough that one could say that one had seen it floating there, one’s wife and life given sensuous shape on the shore. Moore slipped out just far enough to see this, and once he had seen it, he knew, at this stage of his life, that he need venture out no farther. No, Dorothy had no cause for worry this time. Moore didn’t stay out long.

  BOOK IV

  The World After

  Repentance is n
ot a free and fair highway to heaven.

  — Henry David Thoreau, Journals

  Anschluss

  IN SEPTEMBER OF 1938, six months after the Anschluss, Gretl’s butler Frick came to her, his face white with panic as he told her about an SS Sturmscharführer who was waiting downstairs to speak to her.

  Gretl thought it odd that the SS would send only one man: when the SS came, they typically came in force. Gretl knew this not only from friends who had fled or gone into hiding but from her own experience a few weeks before, after her ex-maid had reported her to the Gestapo as a Jew harborer. Ever since, Gretl had been expecting a call in the night, and now she thought they had finally come to arrest her — perhaps they figured a Sturmscharführer was more than enough for one old lady.

  Having more or less prepared herself for this, Gretl only hoped the Nazis would spare Mining and poor Frick, who had been so brave and loyal about staying when all her other servants had given notice. The loss of her house staff had been a heavy blow, but under the circumstances Gretl could hardly blame them for leaving. All over Vienna servants were leaving good situations, while their former employers were hastily departing for worse ones. Most of Gretl’s eleven servants had gone with regret, many of them tearfully, but all had left in fear, taking with them Gretl’s resigned blessings and a generous severance. Knowing that their mistress would not dare report them under the circumstances, several of Gretl’s newer servants, including the maid who reported her, had even left with a little something extra, stuffing their bags with silver, food, clothes and other booty, no doubt figuring that Frau Stonborough would not need these things where she was going.