Birth and death – an everlasting sea . . .
Ah yes, Goethe . . . he must have left his tiny copy of Faust somewhere. When he volunteered in 1914 it had gone into the field with him. Where was it now? He’d take it again if he had to join this great train of refugees. Would he himself have to leave his native land? No, not a bit of it . . . or not yet, anyway.
‘In the First War we softened up the Russians too.’
•
Head Trustee Drygalski was standing at the roadside, making sure that everything was done properly. He kept careful check lists, and got the leaders of the trek to show him their permits; yes, they could move on, place of origin, destination, number of horses pulling the cart. Sometimes he climbed up on the carts to make sure there wasn’t a soldier hidden among the household goods. And he told refugees where to go; every house had to take some in, individuals or whole families. It was only for a day or two, three at the most, as no one stayed any longer. It all had to be managed correctly, and Drygalski was the man for that.
Now and then he went home to see how his wife was. He added wood to the glowing embers in the stove, straightened her bedclothes, put a glass of water within reach.
He couldn’t take in any refugees with his sick wife, and his office was needed for all those files and for telephoning. The roll-top desk against the wall, the table with the telephone on it.
•
There was one young girl who had no one in the wide world left. Had she said her name was Käte, or was it Gerda? She had plump red cheeks. Drygalski showed her the attic room and its beautiful view to the north, the Georgenhof and the wide fields to the west, now covered with snow. The wind blew over them. And cart after cart was now going along the road. This had been his son’s room, years ago now, he told the girl. Fallen in Poland. The table at which he had prepared for the Technical College still stood by the wall. There was a folder of sketches in the drawer; no one had ever looked at them again. Also drawings of designs to improve the Albert Leo Schlageter Settlement. And an idea for an inauguration pageant; Drygalski had never known it existed.
The refugee girl wore Hitler Youth ski pants under a flowered skirt, and a pre-war quilted coat which had probably been her mother’s. She had lost track of her own people at the very beginning of their flight, when she went into a farmhouse to ask for a little milk, and the carts from her village had gone on without waiting for her.
She nodded when Drygalski suggested staying here for the time being. She could make herself useful, he said, cook, wash the dishes, keep the house nice and so on. They were a little community now, he said, and she must always keep the front door closed. And look after his wife, wash her, spoon soup into her now and then.
A flushing toilet and a room to herself, the girl had probably never had it so good. At home she’d have been sharing a bed with her little sister.
Peter climbed into his tree house, with the instrument panel and the steering wheel, and watched the trek. The long line came from far away in the east, and wound on like a huge S into the white landscape, moving towards the hazy sun.
•
The foreign workers were also watching, standing at the roadside. They were pointing out to each other what the vehicles were, and wondered what would become of them – and hey, look at that one!
Of course Drygalski had to intervene. Gloating over German misfortune wasn’t to be tolerated. But these people refused to disperse; they hardly even took their hands out of their pockets.
‘Don’t you have anything to do?’
No, they said, not here. For these foreigners the long line of refugees was a sign of hope. They smiled at each other: soon we’ll be going home. Drygalski had no power over them. Or did he? Maybe he could still get the better of them somehow? Search the Forest Lodge and see what came to light. He telephoned the Labour Office; did the people there know that this riff-raff were standing about in the road, doing nothing?
•
He put in an appearance at the Georgenhof, sometimes he even looked in several times a day to make sure all was as it should be there. Heil Hitler. He had to, in his official capacity, although nothing there had changed. He talked to Auntie, and she agreed with him. Nothing was easy! But they all had to pull together. He told Auntie what a responsibility his was, he didn’t know whether he was on his head or his heels, and he wiped the sweat from his brow, even though he was cold. In a casual manner, he gave Auntie a permit to go away on the trek herself, because she had always been so understanding.
•
He also made a note of the floor space still available in the big house; who could tell how things were going to turn out? The Settlement was full of refugees, every house there had guests, but the Georgenhof – the place was enormous, were things as they ought to be? There must be plenty of room left. That icy drawing room with the crates from Berlin standing there. No one could be expected to put up with it. ‘When is that stuff going to be collected?’
•
Auntie understood everything, and spoke politely to him. She didn’t think that large numbers of people could be accommodated at the Georgenhof. And to prove her goodwill, she told him about the painter who had spoken of the Führer in derogatory terms.
She also mentioned the Forest Lodge to Drygalski. It had once been a hotel, hadn’t it? She was sure plenty of people could be put up there. Only the side wing had been cleared for the foreign workers, and there was nothing to be done about that. But what about the dance floor and all the hotel bedrooms?
Drygalski had thought of that for himself, of course, but the registration office of the National Socialist Motor Corps was in control of the Forest Lodge. So there was nothing to be done about that either; they had stored spare parts in the former hotel, bicycle bells and car horns. It all had to be put somewhere: wheel rims and transmission systems. The pennants and the parts to build spectators’ stands from the last races held in the Mitkau area were stored there too. The banners saying Start and Finish had been kept since the summer of 1939, and after the war there would be racing again. Mitkau had never yet won the Reich championship, but maybe after the war? If not, it would be a real shame.
Drygalski telephoned the regional authority, where they saw his point, but said that at the moment there was no alternative.
•
Where living space was concerned, Drygalski was ruthless; after all, higher things were at stake, and something must be done at once. He had to find shelter for people without a roof over their heads, people who were cold and hungry. This was the time for the national community to prove its worth.
Peter must clear his room; he would sleep up in the private apartment with his mother, that was the simplest solution, and the little room there immediately suggested such a conclusion. Surely it was the most natural thing in the world for mother and son to be housed together?
Yes, the next refugees to turn up would be accommodated in the boy’s room. Were there more bedsteads anywhere? It wouldn’t be possible to occupy the attic; snow came drifting in through the gaps between the roof tiles. Auntie carefully folded up the permit that Drygalski had made out for her and kept it safe.
•
When Drygalski thought of his own home now it warmed his heart. The girl was a quick learner. Who knew, maybe she’d call him Father some day? Or more likely Grandpa? Well, never mind. He would look after this child whose parents had disappeared. Every thing would be easier to bear now, with her to keep the house nice and clean, and get soup into his wife, and if necessary wash her and so on. How had he managed all this time on his own?
It felt special to come home in the evening, stretch out his legs under the table in the warm kitchen, supper on the table. What a pleasant sight to see the young creature, with her plump cheeks, standing by the stove. Drygalski felt like lingering in the kitchen with her for a little longer, but then he had to go out into the cold again and check the carts driving by.
Perhaps he could find something sweet in Mitkau, as a t
reat for the child?
•
Dr Wagner visited every day. He was not to be deprived of his chance to get the boy to practise his vocabulary, and teach him geography, for instance where Heidelberg is, with its famous castle ‘destroyed by the French, remember that, my boy!’ And Lake Constance, that wonderful expanse of water; it was once frozen right over, and a man on horseback rode to the opposite bank entirely unaware that he was riding over ice. Tipped over backwards – and crash! Was he dead?
Or there was that other story, of the miner who suffocated underground, and was dug out decades later, fresh and young as ever with rosy cheeks, and by then his widow was old as the hills.
•
It was a pleasant little party that assembled in the evenings; the Baltic baron and his wife, Dr Wagner, Katharina, that quiet, thoughtful beauty, and Auntie, who was no fool and was well able to contribute to the conversation. They sat by the fire, telling stories, arguing, whispering. It was as if they had known each other for ever and would always stick together.
Sticking together, that was the order of the day. The baron in his check suit looked as if he were wearing a fur muffler in the evenings, for as soon as he appeared the cat would come running, although usually the baron was already carrying him in his arms.
•
On these evenings Auntie put on a special dress, hurried into the kitchen and came back with a jar of morello cherries which they passed around, helping themselves from it amid laughter. His dear city of Königsberg, said the schoolmaster as he remembered sitting in a little restaurant on the River Pregel, eating fried flounders and hearing the foghorns of the big ships in the harbour . . .
The baron fixed his monocle in his eye again and again, thinking of the summer of 1936, the little house in Dünaburg and his young wife jumping into the water from the landing stage. The lake was like liquid silver.
For his part, Wagner recollected a bicycling tour with his mother in the Weser Uplands. She was long dead now.
‘Didn’t you ever think of marrying?’ asked the baron.
‘Well,’ said Dr Wagner, ‘you know how it is. First I kept putting it off, then it was too late.’ And he thought of an expedition with his boys as they ran about wildly, jumping over the bonfire.
•
He also thought of the First War, and the trenches. It had sometimes been quite romantic there. He thought of the young, and their wonderful bodies, wonderful even if disfigured by their scars. He set about rolling up his sleeve to show the marks left by his own wound.
•
At the beginning of the war, Dr Wagner told the party, he had received some marvellous letters from his pupils. They had been written on the heights of the Acropolis, in Denmark, from the Caucasus and Burgundy. The flow had dried up now. He had heard less and less from his boys since Stalingrad. But he had kept them all in a folder, and he read them now and then. He intended to add photos of the boys to their letters, and it would be like a memorial to the dead. And after the war he would publish the whole thing in memory of the young blood that had been shed.
•
Katharina sat to one side on the sofa, with the baroness. In her black pullover and black trousers, you could hardly make her out in the darkness. Now and then the glowing end of her cigarette shone. And the baroness looked surreptitiously at her; maybe she could make a friend here? Help to polish her nails or comb that heavy dark hair? She moved closer to Katharina, but Katharina withdrew. She needed her freedom.
Under the large old pictures of ancestors who were not the Globigs’ ancestors at all, they sat together. And the ancestors looked down at the company with their bright eyes. Were they surprised?
•
Dr Wagner raised his glass and said:
You happy eyes
Whatever you saw
Whatever it was
May it be as of yore.
‘Yes,’ said Auntie. ‘That’s good . . . who wrote it?’
They were all sitting by the hearth, the women, the baron with the parrot and the cat, and Peter, keeping quiet. He was still too young to be allowed to join in the conversation, but he could be there, and he listened to it all. Was he proud, he was asked, to bear such a great name?
•
The baron read aloud from his history of his birthplace, when and by whom the city had been founded and then, getting more interesting, how the Russians had wreaked havoc when they occupied the Baltic states in 1919, stabbed the city councillors and threw their bodies down a well. He smoked a very special pipe as he told this tale, Peter had never seen a pipe like that before. Or a suit patterned with such large checks either.
Wagner the schoolmaster, wearing his third tie, his head propped on his left hand, stroking his goatee beard the wrong way with his bony fingers, listened to the baron’s stories, not exactly spellbound, but with interest. He hadn’t known how efficiently the German Freikorps fighting bands had cleared the place out. There had been no shilly-shallying; they had driven the Reds away.
•
Was the baron going to revise his narrative? asked Dr Wagner; he thought it needed a finishing touch here and there.
‘No,’ said the baron. ‘What I’ve written, I have written.’
•
Dr Wagner still had the poems of his youth in his desk in Mitkau. Why not give the company a taste of one or another of them on an evening such as this? Yes, why not?
The flames on the hearth flickered over the circle, making its members’ eyes shine. The bottle of Barolo brought out by Katharina had something to do with that. They even took the old glasses out of the cupboard for it.
The parrot put his head under his wing, the cat lay on the baron’s lap. It made you think of Boccaccio and Dante. They had sat by the fire telling stories too, hadn’t they?
•
Late at night they lowered their voices to a whisper. The subject of conversation was the Jews.
‘They’ll take their revenge . . .’
‘I don’t think much of those fellows, but . . .’
‘Oh well, forget it . . .’
•
Who’d have thought it could be so cosy at the Georgenhof? They’d think of that later on. A pity, really, that Eberhard wasn’t here. Where was he now? Was he thinking of the Georgenhof? Of Katharina and his son, Peter?
•
Finally Dr Wagner played the first movement of the ‘Moonlight Sonata’ as he had never played it before, followed by another piece of a very different kind, and his audience quite forgot to ask what it was.
Wagner with his crooked back and his third tie under his goatee beard. He had never played that piece to them before. It must come from his last happy times. Summer days in the Harz Mountains. Winter days with his mother. Autumn with the leaves turning colour. The circular walk below the town walls, a fine view of the countryside.
The baron, who usually just cleared his throat while Dr Wagner was playing the piano, asked whether he would play that piece again. But Wagner had already closed the piano lid.
15
A Teacher
The next day, the Baltic couple left. The baron told Auntie how much he admired her for her thoughtfulness and all her busy activity, addressing her by name. ‘Frau Harnisch,’ he said, ‘you are a very industrious woman,’ and he patted her on her bony back. He kissed Katharina’s hand several times, with feeling, and lightly stroked Peter, who was with them, on the cheek. ‘Look after your mother, won’t you?’ And he waved to the ancestors on the wall, whose wide eyes followed everything that was going on.
Then he went into the kitchen and spoke to the two maids at some length. Was he appealing to them? Telling them they must take good care of their dear mistress and always stick together? The conversation probably went something like that. He gave them five marks each, and they thanked him, bobbing a little curtsy.
He even drew slender Sonya close to him for a moment.
‘Lora!’ screeched the parrot. ‘You old sow!’
�
��
Dr Wagner the schoolmaster was already at the front door. And as cart after cart went by down on the road, to the background noise of guns rumbling on the horizon – Goodnight, dear mother, goodnight – the two of them shook hands, man to man. Don’t come to grief at the last moment, keep your chin up and so forth. And here’s an address in Wuppertal, commit it to memory, we can get in touch that way when all this is over.
The baron had certain plans; he knew exactly what he wanted to do, and so did his wife. They hoped to go as far west as possible. Bremen, perhaps, why not? Somewhere in the country there, maybe.
Dr Wagner had no concrete ideas yet. I surge like the sea, restlessly swaying. Lao-Tse said something like that. He would let himself drift, he wouldn’t do anything by force, he would work calmly and with composure towards his own fulfilment. With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the East Prussian countryside at his feet and the snake-like line of refugees boring into it. Mustn’t put one’s hand into the spokes of the wheel of Fortune. Thank God, he had to say, that his mother was dead already. Gone at the right time. Those dear old people had been a luckier generation.
•
The Baltic couple had hardly gone out into the road, rucksacks on their backs, the suitcase beside them and carrying the parrot cage, when a car swerved out of the column and stopped. Did they want a lift? They certainly did! ‘Then in you get!’ said the driver. Although that suitcase, a heavy great thing – it would surely break the axle! – would have to be left behind. ‘Sorry.’ And they had to get a move on, they didn’t have much time, couldn’t wait around in the road.
What was to be done with the heavy suitcase? All those chronicles, and the half-finished manuscript? Should they leave it at the manor house until better times came? Think of all the things that might happen . . . Hadn’t tanks driven by only last night on their way to the front? So the baroness dragged the case back up the bank beside the road and into the house again. Wagner, still standing in the doorway, took it into his own keeping; yes, he’d do what he could, he’d care for the suitcase like the apple of his eye, they could depend on that.
All for Nothing Page 20
