by David Lodge
– That’s Austerlitz. Jesus Christ! Don turned slowly to face him. D’you mean you don’t know about Auschwitz?
– Was it a concentration camp? Like Belsen?
Don nodded.
– An extermination camp. There was a subtle difference.
– I thought it was that at first, but I couldn’t think what you wanted to go there for, said Timothy defensively. That was the trouble with Don’s company – it was something of a strain, like taking an examination all the time.
– I wanted to see if I could stop dreaming about the place if I actually saw it.
– You dream about the concentration camps?
– Regularly. I’m in the camp, you see, and the question is, am I Polish or Jewish? Actually I’m both. My grandparents were from Cracow – it’s not far from Auschwitz. They met in the States – they couldn’t have gotten married in Poland. He was Christian, or ex-Christian, and she was Jewish. The Poles hate the Jews as much as anyone else. The Poles also hate the Germans and the Russians, and the Germans and the Russians hate the Poles and each other. The only thing they have in common is that they all hate the Jews. The Jew is underneath the lot. Know that poem? No? Well, anyway, in the dream, I’m always denying that I’m a Jew. No, no, Herr Kommandant, I’m not a Jew. Aryan, pure Aryan. Put me in a camp by all means – I understand – time of war – measures must be taken – but don’t mix me up with those filthy Jews. Of course, I hate myself like poison, but I want to survive, see? It’s every man for himself. There’s no point my going to the ovens if I can avoid it – it’s not going to save anybody else’s life. Besides, I’m not really Jewish, only my grandmother on my father’s side. Well, they’re not sure, so they let me off. I become a kind of camp character, like the school janitor, you know what I mean? Old guy in dungarees, hanging around in the background. Always got a broom in his hand – something to lean on, and you can always get very busy sweeping, very energetic all of a sudden when they march the women and children away to the disinfection block. Sweep sweep. I don’t see anything. Too busy sweeping. Like to keep the place looking clean and tidy, Herr Kommandant. Is there any chance at all of getting a new broom, Herr Kommandant? These bristles are quite worn out. The officers find they can get a rise out of me by shooting a question in Yiddish every now and again, but they don’t really want to catch me out. I’m too useful to them. I know all the camp gossip. But it scares the shit out of me when they do it.
After a while, Timothy said:
– How does the dream end?
– It doesn’t end. That’s why I want to go to Auschwitz.
It all happened exactly as he had dreamed or imagined it would: the old house, smelling of polish, on the outskirts of Baden, and the garden with sandpits and swings, and the children in their smocks clustered round Kate as she handed out candies, and the nuns smiling fondly, and the little curly-haired girl that came running over the grass after the others had dispersed, and Kate catching her and swinging her high in the air and saying to Timothy, What do you think of this little girl, isn’t she cute? His answer came pat on cue:
– Is she yours, Kate?
She nearly dropped the child.
– What? she said blankly.
He felt his insides caving in with embarrassment, but managed to force a smile.
– Just a joke, he said.
– Oh. She shot him a puzzled glance.
– Where do these children come from, actually? he asked. He put on an earnest expression designed to stress the flippancy of his previous question.
– Some of the older ones lost their parents at the end of the war, in raids. Or they just got lost – there was terrible confusion in Germany, then, with refugees running away from the Russians. Of course, this one wasn’t born until after the war – were you, my pet?
Kate put the child down on the ground and presented a chocolate bar. She proffered her cheek for a kiss, but the child ran off at once to show her prize to a nun. Kate laughed and shrugged at the nun, who mimed her own amusement and disapproval.
– I shouldn’t be surprised if that little girl’s father was a G.I., or a French soldier, said Kate.
– Or a Tommy, said Ruth. Why not a British soldier? Why blame the Frogs and the G.I.s for all the bastards?
Kate had been describing the little girl, in the Oldsmobile going back to Heidelberg. Trees flashed by in the twilight, but it was almost as calm and quiet as a living-room inside the huge car.
– The British soldier is a man of honour, said Timothy from the back seat. He had discovered that defending the clichés of British patriotism was the surest way of amusing his American friends, and amusement seemed to be the only currency in which he could repay them for the dollars and Marks they expended on his behalf. True to his expectations, Ruth croaked with delighted laughter.
– That’s not what my friends in Hamburg tell me, said Dot. They say the Reeperbahn is like the Old Kent Road these days.
– What’s the Reeperbahn? Timothy asked.
– Never you mind, Kate said.
Ruth chuckled.
– Kate wants to protect your innocence, Timothy. But I guess there’s not much you don’t know, eh?
He evaded the question by putting another:
– Don’t the German girls mind . . . going with the Occupation troops?
Mel, hunched over the driving wheel, snorted.
– Most of ’em would give their right arms to hook a G.I.
– It’s not their right arms that the G.I.s want, honey, Ruth tittered.
– Mind you, said Dot, the German girls are more choosy than they used to be.
– Right, said Mel. There was a time when you could have any Fräulein you liked for a Hershey bar.
– Yeah, said Ruth, now it’s two Hershey bars and a Milky Way. Inflation, it’s the same everywhere . . . Anyway, Timothy’s not interested in Fräuleins, are you Timothy?
– No.
– What you want is a date with a nice young all-American high-school girl, right?
– Wrong, he said. I’m quite happy as I am.
– Leave it to me, Timothy, said Ruth. I’ll fix you up.
– Lay off the kid, Ruth, said Mel. He’s got plenty of time for dames. No darn good to you anyway, Timothy, take it from me. And whatever you do, don’t get married.
– Now just a minute! Ruth protested.
– Take Hitler, for example. He was doing fine while he was single. He marries Eva Braun, and what happens? Next day he loses the war.
Ruth, laughing in spite of herself, punched her husband, and the car veered slightly.
– Take it easy willya? he shouted. But he was grinning, pleased with the success of his witticism. He flicked a switch on the dashboard, and headlights stabbed through the gathering dusk.
– Any sign of the boys? Kate asked.
– Huh, they’ll be in Heidelberg by now, he muttered. When Vince has lost a stack at the Casino, he works it off in that car.
But why did God let Hitler live to the very end? Till so many were killed getting to him, or defending him. Or caught between the two, refugees. Or in the camps, ten thousand a day at Auschwitz alone, Don said. If the July plot had succeeded, maybe a million would have lived. More. But someone moved the bomb and Hitler survived. And there had been other attempts, Vince said. But the bombs failed to explode, or Hitler changed his programme at the last minute. And once a V.1 turned round and landed on Hitler’s bunker, but he wasn’t hurt. You couldn’t have blamed him for thinking he was under some sort of divine protection, could you? Vince said. But why should God have protected Hitler?
– That’s your problem, Timothy, said Don. I’m not a Christian, I’m not anything. But if I was a Christian I shouldn’t be wondering what God was doing at the time, I’d be asking what other Christians were doing. Like the Pope, for instance.
– He was neutral. The Pope has to be neutral.
– I’m not talking about the war. I’m talking about the camps. How can you be
neutral about the camps?
– Well, perhaps he didn’t know. Nobody knew till after the war, did they?
– He knew. Plenty of people knew. Perhaps they didn’t believe it. That’s the only excuse I can think of. It’s hard enough to believe now, God knows.
– But what could he do? He was shut up in the Vatican.
– He could have spoken out. He could have gotten himself crucified.
– That’s not fair.
Timothy was hurt, baffled. The Pope couldn’t be to blame. The Pope was a good man. They said he was a saint.
– No, it’s not fair. But only because I say it. I have no right to say it. Leaning on my broom.
Mel dropped them at Fichte Haus at about 9 o’clock.
– See you two next Friday, if not before, said Ruth.
– I haven’t told Timothy yet, said Kate.
– Oh, you’ll love it, Timothy, said Ruth.
– What was all that about? he asked, as the Oldsmobile swept away.
– Next weekend we’re all going on a trip to Garmisch – it’s in the Bavarian Alps.
– Gosh! How far is that?
– Oh, I don’t know, several hundred kilometres. We’ll go by train, in sleepers, on Friday night, arrive back Monday morning. The Army has a Rest Centre there. It’s absolutely out of this world: mountains, lake . . .
– What are we resting from – this weekend?
Kate laughed.
– You say the funniest things, Timothy. It’s for the soldiers, really – a place for them to spend their furloughs. Everything is laid on: swimming, sightseeing, skiing in the winter and water-skiing in the summer. Ever tried that?
– No.
– Vince is very good at it. I can never seem to get started. Let’s see if there’s any mail.
Rudolf’s little office was empty, but the door was unlocked, and Kate helped herself to her mail from the pigeonholes on the wall.
– Card for you from Mum, she said, passing him a picture postcard of Worthing, six views in black and white. He turned it over and scanned the message. Something about a pie.
– By the way, said Kate, leading the way to her room, Rudolf offered to take you out one day this week, on his day off. A bicycle ride in the country, he said. I said you’d like that. You would, wouldn’t you?
– I dunno. What would I do for a bike?
– He said he could borrow one for you. He’s such a nice boy. You’ve talked to him, haven’t you?
– Just a bit. I don’t know what to talk about, really.
– Talk about England. Rudolf’s very fond of England.
– I’d feel embarrassed. Him being a prisoner of war, and that.
– You don’t have to talk about the war. I never talk about the war to Germans. They want to forget about it, like most people. Phew! It’s stuffy in here!
Pulling up the blind and opening the window in her room, Kate threw back over her shoulder:
– Any news from home?
– Nothing much. They send you their love. Want to read it?
– Later. I’ll just make some coffee and sandwiches.
– Can I help?
– Well, that’s very thoughtful of you, Timothy.
He liked going to the communal kitchen, with its sparkling white and stainless steel surfaces, its gadgets, its huge, humming fridge. When you opened the door of the fridge the inside lit up like some dream of a pre-war shop window. Kate let him open a tin of tuna fish with the wall can-opener that had a little magnet attached to it to hold the severed top.
– Can you buy these tin-openers here?
– At the P.X? Sure. Why?
– I thought I might take one back for Mum.
– Good idea. D’you think she’d use it?
He thought for a moment.
– No, he said, and they both laughed.
Kate took a wrapped loaf from the fridge and peeled off several slices.
– Is the kitchen at home just the same?
– How d’you mean?
– Does the cupboard door still catch on the back door handle?
– I s’pose so, yes.
– And does the drawer of the green table still stick?
– Yes.
– You’ve still got that old green table? And the same check oilcloth, I’ll bet.
– It’s sort of white now. The pattern’s rubbed off.
Kath sighed.
– It doesn’t sound as if things have changed much. Does the cold water still run slow when somebody flushes the toilet?
– Yes, but if you give the pipes a bang it comes on again. Trouble is, that brings down the soot in the boiler chimney sometimes.
Kate laughed and shook her head.
As usual, he was still eating when Kate had finished her share of the snack. She lit one of her long Pall Malls, and sat back in her armchair.
– Did you enjoy the weekend, Timothy?
– It was super.
– I hope the orphanage wasn’t a bore for you.
– No, it was interesting.
Kate was silent for a moment. He had a premonition of what was coming. He took a large bite from the last sandwich.
– What did you mean when you said, Is she yours? About the little girl?
– I dunno why I said it, really, he mumbled.
– Oh, come on, Timothy. You must have meant something.
She waited patiently, inexorably for his reply. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
– Well, why haven’t you been home all this time? he said finally.
Kate burst out laughing.
– So that’s it! That’s what you’ve been thinking? That I’m an unmarried mother? Oh dear, you don’t know how funny that is. She shook her head, laughing, though the laughter was a little forced. I’m very likely the last virgin left in Heidelberg.
She flicked her cigarette at the ashtray, though there was no ash to speak of on the end.
– It wasn’t my idea, he said.
– You needn’t tell me that. It was Mum’s, wasn’t it?
– I heard her talking to Dad one day. She didn’t know I was listening.
– And what did Dad say?
– He didn’t believe it, I think. But he was worried. I didn’t really believe it, but when you took me to the orphanage, it sort of put it into my head. And you must admit . . .
– What?
– Well, it seems funny that you haven’t been home for so long.
Kate stubbed out her cigarette and lit another.
– I’ll tell you why I haven’t been home. For two simple reasons: firstly because I can’t stand it, and secondly because I was afraid they’d try and make me stay.
– Make you?
Kate gestured impatiently, leaving a trail of smoke in the air.
– Well, of course they couldn’t make me, against my will. I mean I couldn’t face the arguments, the reproaches, the recriminations. I didn’t want to hurt them by telling them what I really thought.
She didn’t, she explained, want to have to tell them that she hated their poky little house, with rooms so small that you kept bumping into furniture every time you moved, where everyone was trapped in the back living-room for half the year because the rest of the house was cold as a tomb, and as damp.
– D’you know that the last time I was at home a pair of my shoes got mildew on them, just up in my bedroom? I can’t tell you how depressed I felt that Christmas.
She couldn’t wait to get back to Heidelberg, counting the days till her leave was up, and finally inventing an excuse to go back earlier than she had intended. Just to draw back the curtains of her bedroom in the morning was enough to give her a feeling of panic, as if she were drowning. Just to look down at all those mean, shabby little back gardens with their sheds, coalsheds and toolsheds and bicyclesheds, sagging and rotting away in the damp. And to see the women in old jumpers and skirts, with scarves over their curlers, clutching themselves against the cold, gossiping over the fences
about the cost of potatoes, or hanging out sodden washing, with smoke falling from a thousand chimneys, so that if you ran your finger along a window ledge an hour after it had been dusted it came off black. The cold and the damp and the dirt.
– I couldn’t stand it any longer. I realized that I’d never felt really warm or clean, in the winter, till I left home; and coming back to it again was too much.
Trying to keep out of the draughts, hunched over a fire so that your legs burned and your back froze, and every time someone opened and closed the door the fire belched a little cloud of smoke into the room and the Christmas cards fell off the mantelpiece.
– The work that wretched fire makes! And the arguments! And it doesn’t even make you warm. I used to think about this cosy little room and taking a hot shower in a warm bathroom, and wonder how much longer I could stick it at home. I only had one bath the whole time I was there. Once was enough. But how could I explain to Mum and Dad?
How could she explain that it wasn’t anything personal, that she wasn’t getting at them, she knew it was how most people had to live because of the war, and the post-war shortages. But she had got used to a different standard of living, and it was no use pretending that she could readjust.
– One day that leave I went up to the West End to do some shopping – not that there was anything in the shops worth buying, but it was an excuse to get out. I left it late coming back, and got caught in the rush hour. I’d forgotten what it was like.
She thought she was going to faint, crushed into a compartment where a dozen people were standing in the narrow space between the two benches, hanging on to the luggage rack to keep their balance and trying to read newspapers at the same time. The reek of stale cigarette smoke and human bodies. The windows streaming with condensation. And she thought how narrowly she had escaped being one of those pinched, weary travellers, condemned to make this journey twice a day for the rest of their working lives, and she vowed that she would never come back.
– Never?
– You’ve been out here long enough to see why, haven’t you, Timothy? Just think of this past weekend. Could I ever live a life remotely like this in England?
– Well, I know, but . . . never?
– I mean, for good, to settle there again. I don’t mean visits, though I know I keep putting them off. I was secretly relieved when the Korean business stopped me coming home last time. Isn’t that an awful confession? But it’s no use pretending. You’re supposed to miss home and family, aren’t you, but, d’you know, I’ve never missed them, not even when I was evacuated. I used to wonder, when I was a kid, whether I was adopted, because I never felt I really loved my mother and father as you were supposed to.
