Dutch Treatment

by D. E. Fredd

  Times change. Gervitz moved on. Belinski is now in charge of this section of the border and there is no one to copy. Paperwork takes up much of the time. Pleasures are few. Belinski has reached a point where his digestion limits the grand meals he sought so hard to afford. His prostate has blown to the size of a large mushroom and his piles castigate his bowel movements such as they are. Pleasing others was once a pleasure but now personal safety haunts his evenings. Germany is on the move. One only needs to read between the lines in the papers. Like kitchen ants they have secretly been crossing the border through these forests and fields while Poland has been tending its window boxes. Soon something will break, and Belinski will have the distinct honor of being the first Minister of the Frontier to lick German boots. He wonders if their ilk read poetry as Gervitz did. It would be of some compensation.

  As fond of mercy as daybreak

  That Same Forest: In a Hole, Hauptmann

  Hauptmann, the soldier, lies in the forest under a foot of earth. A worm is slowly burrowing its way through his leather boot. Hauptmann is unmoved by the matter. His dedication to life has ended. In a way it’s a relief as dedication for a German is always so much more burdensome than for another. But Hauptmann did his best. It is men like him who, with their unyielding faith in the adjective, always imbue any proper noun they come across with much more dignity than should be the case. Hauptmann was a good German. He was also a man. Many will say that he dismissed the latter and concentrated solely on the former. Either way he is still dead lying in a Polish forest with an energetic worm, now free from the hindering restriction of yarn and leather, gorging itself upon his flesh. Fortunately that good German blood is still warm.

  How Is Steiner Doing?

  Steiner has managed to drag himself from the floor of his small cell to the front steps of his home in Hamburg. He is dreaming of course, but it is one of the few ways his mind can maintain its sanity. He is now surrounded by comfort, including his favorite white wine amply chilled. Suddenly the door bursts open and Frau Bremmer enters, her face emblazoned with passion and her sultry voice filled with lewd suggestions (he taught her how to talk dirty and now she enjoys it). She has just returned from a triumphal tour of concert halls and lovers but at present her beloved husband Steiner is in her heart and soul. There is an embrace, something perfunctory yet essential to seasoned lovers. Then an impassioned kiss initiates a tumble of clothing and the race for pleasure is on.

  Later, when they have spent themselves, Steiner begins his story. He relates the forest and his capture, leaving out his female companion. He recounts Belinski and the terrible beating. As the past is revisited, blows rain down. He weeps and tears stream down his face on to Frau Bremmer’s breasts. She listens. She also weeps. Poor Steiner. She lets loose curses for the Poles in general. She embraces him and, like a small boy, he drifts into sleep in her arms. In the morning she will leave for Stuttgart to begin rehearsing the power of Wagner. She will make love with a French horn player. She cannot help this because sensuality is part of her artistic nature.

  Belinski’s Opinion of Matters as They Now Stand

  Steiner’s death would be a blessing, but Belinski is a bureaucrat. Accountability is the key. People never look at the act, only the papers relating to the act. Records can provide a shield during any inquiry. But instinct tells him to forgo the paper trail. It will be difficult to prove this case as black or white, and grey always has so many more forms in triplicate. So it would be better for Belinski to secretly take Steiner to the woods and do the deed himself. The more he thinks about it he is positive, knowing his limitations, that this is the correct action. Steiner is a limitation. Limitations are generally placed in holes. Belinski knows where one can be dug.

  Steiner Has His Worries Also

  Steiner’s mind is wandering. Things are not in their true perspective. He is a man whose life has been structured on a rococo theme, hence the bare cell, straw mattress add to his deprivation. The time was when he soaked his hands in olive oil before a performance; now they are cracked and swollen. He is only asked to confess to being a German infiltrator, a mild sin if one at all, but an affront to the dignity of any artist, let alone a violinist. The trouble with these Poles is that they have yet to forgive Mozart for overshadowing their Chopin.

  What Will Become of Frau Bremmer When Steiner Is Gone?

  Frau Bremmer is a beautiful instrument. Superb craftsmanship she. A masterpiece of design; something made to be played but only by a master virtuoso. When this is done her soul comes alive. It would be such a pity to waste something this precious on Steiner alone. No, the instrument lives on. It matters little who brings out the tone.

  What Will Happen to Belinski Once Steiner Is Gone?

  Belinski has a country home outside Warsaw. The road is lined with poplars and white birch, behind which and set far back into the fields sit the peasant cottages. The trip there is scenic, peaceful and quite a change from the kowtowing, bureaucratic life that Belinski must adhere to. At his house he will greet his lovely wife and two growing sons. There will be an excellent meal: stuffed meats, wine and fresh bread. Belinski will eat and drink his fill then take time to recapture the exploits of his sons. After that he will spend the evening with his wife reminiscing their many years of hardship. They will go to bed and perhaps in the morning he will confide his thoughts about Steiner to her.

  A Letter Which Steiner Has Found the Time to Write

  My Dearest Wife,

  If those about me have their way, this will be the last time I shall communicate with you in word or spirit. If I were at liberty to explain the circumstance into which I have blundered then I would gladly do so, but, alas, this is not the case, and I therefore must beg your forgiveness for the lack of specifics you will find missing from this note.

  Let it be known that I have tried, though failing on many accounts, to be faithful to you. My downfalls can be attributed to excesses of the flesh. It is a sad fact that throughout my lifetime I have never been able to control my appetites though, as I sense death approaching, I have seen, at long last, my folly in its true perspective. My tragedy, if one as insignificant as I can be said to have one, is that the sins for which I am being punished have gained me nothing.

  In a word I became a victim of my own lust to the extent that I not only surrendered my body to it but allowed it free reign over my mind. Hence it led me blindly (no, I cannot say “blindly” for had I given reason the courtesy it is due, matters would be different—I shall use foolish); it led me foolishly to the well-deserved edge of my destiny where it has now become the task of others to proceed with my eventuality. The true tragedy (and this will be the last time I shall use that word) is that I am cognizant of my downfall, were it the other way, were it that I had no insight into my sins (in this event as well as others in my past) then I would not be due as much pity as you might be able to spare.

  Enough then, I have rambled on, most of it meaningless to you as certain liberties in communication have been stripped from me. Let me say in closing, my sweet, that now, at the end, I realize that it is you I love because I have been given a dying man’s last reward, that of insight into my own soul. My death, though in vain, is deserved; your pity is my shroud.

  Until our spirits meet,

  I remain your devoted lover and husband,

  Steiner

  As Suspected

  Steiner is dead. It happened last night. Swift and without much noise. Belinski, an audience of one, was there to officiate. Steiner was calm, accepting. He asked that his hands remain free and refused a hood as he knelt. There was no moon and the leaves on the path through the woods muffled any undue attention. Steiner spoke at great lengths of music. Mendelssohn in particular. He recalled his performance of the E Minor Violin Concerto, opus 64 at the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam. The applause. The encore. Death.

  The Aftermath, September 1939

  It has begun to rain in Poland. It is a hard rain, one with a rigorous, relentless persis
tence. At times the westerly wind rises and scatters it in flying shards which knife through the nation. It is the type of rain which, with the aid of time, will fill up all the holes Poland has had to dig and will soon cover the land with a thick brown mud. From now on no Pole can safely tread across an open field without fear of dropping to a watery death in the abyss. All is lost.backplanes and drive control development, not that you care. We’ve sold to Lucent and Cisco Systems in the states

  SECURE YOUR OWN OXYGEN MASK THEN ASSIST OTHERS

  I’ve been married for sixteen years. Denise is an educational psychologist for the Burlington, Vermont school district. When we are invited out she’s the center of attraction. People ask her advice about their children. She’s big on programs, especially acronyms that spell out cute words. My son, Joey Stalin, keeps exterminating people. Any suggestions? Get him into PAP (Prevent a Pogrom). They do wonderful work.

  My own profession isn’t very exciting, not that I’m in any way jealous of my wife. I design computer programs for television weather forecasters. The next time you watch the news and weather, note the clicker in the meteorologist’s hand. My action graphics and dynamic colors make the next cold front, tornado or hurricane a feast for the eyes. But who the hell cares. It’s too complicated and boring to explain to anyone at a cocktail party. I usually say I’m self-employed and let it go at that. I’d rather stand on the periphery of Denise’s conversational campfire, basking in the glow of human wackiness as she dispenses guidance to the paternally clueless.

  We are going out. There is a get-together at the Doblers. They live in Shelburne Falls. Link (short for Lincoln) Dobler is a substance abuse specialist. He’s important, someone Denise thinks she needs to network with. He’s into programs that have several numerical steps. I dislike these affairs. I don’t socialize very well. When I hired Ed Sizemore to help me with a project for Channel 8 way over in Bangor, Denise wanted to ask him and his wife to dinner so we could get to know them better. I said that I really didn’t want to know him better. To which she uttered her famous catch phrase, “I sometimes wonder what I ever saw in you.”

  There are twenty or so at the party, mostly couples in the “helping” professions. Denise wades in, air kissing her way through the clinical forest to get to Link Dobler. I eye the catered buffet. It is colorful but non-descript. There is little clue as to what each tidbit is until it’s tasted. Another loner, wearing a bow tie, scuttles over to me. He is Doctor such and such. We debate whether I’m eating a piece of salmon or pimento nestled in cream cheese with a Melba toast base. He’s head of a Montpelier research lab developing drugs like methadone to take the place of crack cocaine so addicts won’t have to steal. He asks what I do. I tell him I’m writing an article for Parade, the Sunday paper magazine supplement, on how to tell Japanese people from Chinese using a five step process. I move on, tossing my salmon (I think) hors d’oeuvre in the trash as I go.

  I spot a woman alone seated next to the dining room entrance. She’s balancing a paper plate on her lap which is mounded with too many salad items plus pate. It is impossible to eat hunkered down as she is. Leaning over to take a sip from her wine glass, the small mountain almost topples. She is rather plain looking and overweight. I grab an extra paper plate and go over to her.

  She is grateful for my help in off loading some of her food. We start to chat. I’ve been thinking about having an affair. I notice her hair is very thin on the top like a man’s and her teeth seem overly large for her mouth. She asks me what I do and I explain it in very complicated, meteorological terms. I toss in some computer jargon as well. When I get done she says she doesn’t watch the weather because it’s depressing. She’s Link’s sister. Their mother died six months ago. She tried living alone in Ohio but couldn’t take it so Link got her an apartment on Everett Ave over in Winooski. There is a support group nearby for adults who’ve lost their aged parents. I’m asked if my parents are still alive. I tell her I’ll have to ask my wife who keeps track of our relatives and all other household related items. I leave her grappling with little cubes of pistachio- coated goat cheese.

  Denise and I have a signal; we pretend to scratch an ear. It means let’s wrap things up and head home. Denise is center-seated on the black leather couch. She is flanked by Dobler and Dr. Bow Tie who has finally found a home. There are five people sitting in a semi-circle using over-sized throw pillows. I meander over and stand behind the group, giving the secret signal to Denise. She ignores me. I squat down behind the arc of disciples, one of whom is Susan Dobler. I’ve been thinking about wife swapping. Susan can’t sit cross-legged like the others because she’s wearing a short skirt, so she is kneeling. She has a broad rear. She probably shouldn’t wear short skirts, but she smells nice. It’s not perfume; just a nice clean, shower soap smell.

  Susan teaches second grade and is self-conscious about the job, given the intellectual environment of the folks her husband associates with. If Link and I did swap wives, he’d get the better of the deal because Denise is much prettier than Susan. She’s also jogs and is more intelligent, but it would be interesting to be in bed with Susan just for a change. She leans forward to pick a stray cocktail napkin from the floor, and I see she is wearing plain white underwear with frayed elastic. I catch Denise’s eye once more and give the signal again a bit too obviously. People are looking at us so she asks me if I’d be a darling and get her another glass of wine, pinot noir.

  I get up, go over to the bar area and pour her a glass of chardonnay. When I return Link is bemoaning why the people who shouldn’t have kids keep having them. He mentions a certain family in Burlington and everyone, including Denise, chime in with an encounter they’ve had with at least one of the miscreants who evidently spread crime and aberrant behavior like Johnny Appleseed. A bald and heavily bearded man who reeks of born-again Christianity counters the argument by proposing the novel idea that the good lord has a reason for everyone and everything. I hand Dense her drink, look at him and wonder out loud if men and women would have kids if sex were devoid of pleasure. “It seems as if the orgasm is a come on to procreation, like offering the dog a treat to get him into the car for a vet visit. Would people do it at all if the only reason were just to have babies?”

  Denise stares at me. Is it because I got her chardonnay which she hates, or that I’m making a complete ass out of myself? “And what’s the deal with sex organs being near all those excretion orifices? What kind of cosmic message does that send?”

  Born again bearded guy stands up and faces me as if I were the playground bully. “Are you insinuating that God is a trickster who designed fleshly pleasures as bait just to keep humans reproducing? Do you know the spiritual joy a married man and woman have when they unite as one?”

  Again, half the people are looking at me, the others at Denise. I step back over the assembled adherents, and wonder if I should drive home or let Denise behind the wheel. If she drives, her anger might make her lose concentration and sideswipe parked cars. If I drive, it will give her plenty of time to enumerate my many faults. I decide I’m screwed either way so it doesn’t matter who drives. Link is starting another round table discussion topic. I interrupt and explain that my orgasm ideas are not new; in fact, they are from Plato’s The Republic. I’ve never actually read Plato. I’ve just gotten into the habit lately of saying that to deflect criticism, knowing no one will ever bother to check on it.

  Denise gets up awkwardly from the deep cushioned couch. There is an intriguing flash of red panties, not that I will ever see more of them this evening. She thanks Link and Susan for the nice time, but she needs to get a certain person home before he has too big of a hangover tomorrow. I want to tell everyone that I’ve been drinking Diet Sprite all evening but quickly realize that, by pretending to be an alcoholic, I can leave early. It’s a fair trade.

  We get out to the car and Denise wants me to drive because she’s had some wine and is so angry. We get in. I note that she’s crying.

  “I don’t ev
er ask you for much, do I?”

  I start the car but it stalls. I restart it but accidentally turn the key again while the engine’s running. There is a high pitched, grating screech. Denise is resting her elbow on the window. Her right hand covers her eyes as if she were blocking out the sun.

  “Just a few visits a month to people who are kind enough to invite us into their homes. And you can’t even act decently for that short amount of time.”

  I adjust the rear view mirror and rev the engine slightly because of the damp air. When Denise gets to the part about what she ever saw in me, that’s when I’ll ease out into the street and head for home.

  D. E. Fredd lives in Townsend, Massachusetts. He has had fiction and poetry published in several journals and reviews including the Boston Literary Magazine, Connecticut Review, The Pedestal, Storyglossia, SNReview, eclectica and Menda City. Poetry has appeared in the Paumanok and Paris Reviews. He received the Theodore Hoepfner Award given by the Southern Humanities Review for the best short fiction of 2005 and was a 2006 Ontario Award Finalist. He won the 2006 Black River Chapbook Competition and received a 2007 Pushcart Special Mention Award.