Schlump

by Hans Herbert Grimm

  Schlump requested soldiers, comrades of his, from the barracks to supervise the women. They were good fellows, nice boys who carried out their duties impeccably. One day a soldier arrived wearing his hat on his head as straight as a candle. A trainee civil servant, he was twenty years old and a very proper fellow. He knew well that only the smartest were selected for such tasks, so he was full of pride as he reported for duty to Schlump, whom he looked up and down with slight disdain, for Schlump’s hat was at an angle and the seat of his trousers was still baggy. The women assembled outside the headquarters, and Schlump gave the recruit succinct instructions. He was to divide the women into groups of four, preferably in columns, take them from shop to shop in Mons-en-P., and then duly deliver them back home. The recruit left the office with his head held high.

  When they saw him coming, the peasant women set off and some were already a considerable distance ahead. But our recruit ran after these women, grabbed them by the arm, and pulled them back. The peasant women were in shock; they looked at each other, at a loss as to what to say. The first four did stop, but the fifth put up resistance and rushed back to the others. ‘Mais il est fou, ce Prussien! Il est maboule, hein?’ They clucked excitedly and angrily, brandishing their thick umbrellas. But the recruit refused to back down. He went purple in the face, he huffed and puffed and issued orders, and finally he had them all together, more or less. He marched beside them as platoon leader. On the way he met his captain. ‘Platoon, march!’ he commanded, thrusting up his legs in the goose-step. The captain was struck dumb with astonishment; he stood there on the street, unable to stop staring at the recruit as he marched on his way. Schlump had been standing behind a curtain with Monsieur Doby, the two of them killing themselves with laughter.

  The Amazons reached the market square in Mons-en-P. without any mishaps – then all of a sudden they vanished out of sight. One ran this way, another that way, and the recruit was just able to grab the last one by the skirt. She put up a fight, however; absolutely livid, she bashed his hand with her umbrella and ran away cackling. The poor young lad stood there distraught. Alone in the middle of the market square, he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t dare go back to his company, for he couldn’t report that he’d carried out the command, and he didn’t fancy returning to Loffrande either. So for a while he stayed where he was. Then he turned around slowly and slunk pensively into the mess. He was fearing the worst; he was terrified he might be court-martialled. He sat in the mess for ages, his elbows on the table, wearing an anxious expression.

  But at five o’clock in the afternoon he saw a few familiar skirts crossing the market square to wait outside the mess. A few minutes later, they had all assembled again and they went home serenely, though not in formation this time.

  Schlump gave his comrade a few hard-boiled eggs to make up for the scare he’d had. He praised the recruit and affirmed that it wasn’t such a simple business after all.

  •

  The week came to an end and there was a mountain of reports to compile. One for each individual question. For our wonderful German army was organised down to the minutest detail, and legions of Schlump’s superiors were performing administrative duties behind the lines. One wanted to know every week how much hay was available; another the quantity of grain, potatoes and seed; a third how many shovels, spades and sacks; a fourth how much land had been ploughed and harrowed and sown that week, how much had been done already and how much was still to do; and a fifth enquired about population numbers and the quantity of Russian prisoners-of-war at work in his district. Under the last heading Schlump was able to write ‘nil’ every week. He worked hard and made a duplicate of every report, which he filed away in a special folder. For questions were often referred back to him, and it was awkward if you couldn’t remember what you’d put in your report the first time.

  Then Monsieur Bartholomé came in, who was the best seed sower in the village. He took the key to the seed store, and every day he’d leave the door open behind him. And every day Schlump would curse like a peasant and shout after him, ‘Clos chl’huis, nom di Diou!’ Bartholomé would turn around, smile, and say in good French, ‘Pardon, monsieur, je n’y pensais pas.’ Then he’d set off with the key, rattling the huge chunk of wood it was attached to.

  Scarcely had he left than the door opened again. This time it was a wild little devil with black hair and the darkest eyes: Marie. She skipped over to Schlump, took him by both hands, and dragged him behind his desk into a corner where they couldn’t be seen. There she threw her arms around him and kissed him so forcefully that he couldn’t breathe. But Schlump knew what to do. He grabbed her even more tightly and kissed her more passionately. She thrashed around in his arms like a cat, trying to escape his grasp. Lifting her up, he carried her to his tiny chamber, in which was nothing save for his bed and an old cupboard. He could feel her small, firm breasts and pressed her closer. She kicked with her legs and a fierce struggle ensued, that beautiful, age-old battle in which submission is just as sweet as victory.

  Schlump was on the verge of claiming his victory, and Marie was close to submitting with wanton pleasure, when the telephone rang. Well, Schlump was still a recruit. Obeying like a good soldier, he went over to the telephone, picked up the receiver, and listened. ‘Enemy planes approaching from the north-west. Pass on the message!’ It was a warning that came almost every day, and often at night. But it was not pointless, for on one occasion the English flyers had dropped their filthy bombs on the women and girls of Loffrande, killing one and seriously injuring several more. There was no factory siren in the village and Schlump could not warn the inhabitants because by the time he’d had a chance to get out to the fields or make it to the women in the barns, everything would already be over.

  Angrily he hung up the receiver and stormed back to his nest. But the bird had flown and Schlump realised he’d been a blockhead.

  Marie didn’t come back, and whenever Schlump met her she barely glanced at him, letting him know how much she despised him. Now there was no mistaking what an utter fool he’d been.

  Years later, when the war ended, Schlump was chatting to an old reservist about life. The latter said to him, ‘Look, young man, there’s only one thing I regret, and that’s all those times when I could have had a good time with a pretty girl but missed my chance.’ Schlump immediately thought of Loffrande.

  •

  Whenever the peasants wanted to go to the city or another village, to visit a friend or a sister, or buy linen or a new hat, they had to obtain a yellow pass. Schlump had set aside Fridays for this task; they would arrive with their groschen to fetch their yellow laissez-passers. And when the peasants took the pen to write their signature, they’d draw three crooked crosses that looked like broken tombstones. Schlump was shocked by this, and he told them that back in Germany not only the peasants but the cattle too could read and write.

  The girls used to come in the afternoon, often a dozen or more. Amongst them was blonde Céline with her sparkling eyes and nose like a tiny mouse. She had fine, soft skin that shimmered gently in the sunlight, and she was constantly sniffing with her fine slender nostrils. Then there was bronzed Suzanne with her large brown eyes and brown locks that danced down over her forehead, concealing the most wicked thoughts. She had a body like a gazelle and long, slim, predatory fingers. Then pale Jeanne with the black hair. She stood upright, had a soft, gentle step, and she’d put her head on one side and push forward her thighs, which curved beneath her soft hips. There were other beautiful girls whose eyes shone with mischief. Tall Marianne, with her luscious red cheeks, high, wholesome breasts and lovely teeth. And beside her, little Anna. She had eyes that were a perfect sea blue, two tiny breasts, and soft skin with a bluish shimmer. She hardly ever said a word, but she always gazed, and she was often breathing deeply. Then her eyes would glow like diamonds in the moonlight. On Sunday they all wanted to go to church to see Monsieur Cabot, the handsome, sincere pastor.

  It was evening b
y the time he was finished with them. For the girls were high-spirited and made life difficult for poor Schlump. Crowding around him, they all spoke at the same time, talking so quickly and saying such crazy things that he couldn’t understand them. Then they laughed and nudged each other, and all twinkled their eyes at Schlump. They dictated nonsense when he was writing and picked up the wrong passes. At last they were gone, and Schlump could hear them trotting off.

  Then he swiftly tidied his desk, because he was hungry, and headed over to the bar. He’d just closed the door behind him and was standing in the dark groping for the other handle when two strong, soft arms grabbed and pulled him, and two warm lips kissed him and then disappeared, and two small, slender arms took him, and two soft, cool lips kissed him and disappeared – and then they were gone. Schlump could just about make out the rustling of a couple of skirts. But he knew who it was: tall Marianne, and little fifteen-year-old Anna.

  •

  Madame Doby never laughed at her husband’s jokes. She was worried sick. She had two unmarried daughters at home, two strong sons in the fields, and it was wartime. You never knew what was around the corner. What if the Germans retreated and dug their trenches right through the village? What if the boys were marched away to compulsory labour service or a prisoner-of-war camp? She suffered, and her husband’s jokes were pure torture. She was good to Schlump, well aware that he could have made her life even more difficult if he’d been a wicked man. She also knew that he had a mother who fretted like she did. She asked him to send her regards from Madame Doby; the women were united in their suffering. Schlump had no idea how clearly his mother realised what was in store for him. But when he saw the anxious face of Madame Doby, he grasped something of the anguish that war could inflict on those who didn’t bear arms themselves but who knew the lives of their loved ones were in danger.

  For the time being, however, life was good. Once a week he’d wander over to his company in Mons-en-P. and get some tinned meat from the kitchen in lieu of the rations due to him. This he’d give to Madame Doby, who’d take a bundle of haricot beans from the supplies hanging beneath the eaves and make a purée, which she’d add to the meat once it was cooked. They all ate together at a table, and from one dish. Estelle would serve and always gave Schlump the best bits. Once he was alone with her and five-year-old Hélène. Flore, the big sister, and the others were busy at work. The three of them ran around chasing each other. Schlump caught Estelle; grabbing her firm arms, he pressed her against the wall and gave her a kiss. Taking his head in her hands, she pulled him towards her and whispered in his ear, ‘Je vous aime’ – ‘I love you.’ In shock, Schlump let go. He was taken aback and blushed. For in his eyes she was worth more than all the others put together. But she had watched his reaction and knew at once that he didn’t love her back. She left the room and didn’t show her face again for a while. A few days later she moved in with her marraine, her godmother, where she helped tend the cows and separate the milk. Only when Schlump had to leave Loffrande did she return and help him roll up his coat and pack his kitbag.

  The peasants were unhappy as well. For unlike the Dobys they didn’t have an estaminet. And many of their fields lay fallow; only the ones close to the road were farmed. There were no longer enough horses in the village, and the number of cattle was dwindling, too. Buying and selling had ground to a halt, and there was nothing to buy even if you’d had any money. In fact, private property had ceased to exist; there were no rich and poor any more. Everyone had to work, provided they were strong and healthy enough. The fields were cultivated by all, no matter who they belonged to.

  On Mondays, Gaston, the black-eyed foreman, went to the town hall in Mons to fetch money. And Friday was pay day. They all gathered outside the door to Schlump’s headquarters: the peasants with lots of land and those with smallholdings, the women, the girls. They made such a racket by his window that Schlump had great difficulty counting out the money. To keep the girls quiet, he summoned Carolouis and gave him an old carbine without a lock, which the cavalrymen had thrown out and which Schlump had found in the arsenal behind his bed. With his bandy legs, Carolouis paraded haughtily up and down the assembly of girls, the carbine over his shoulder. He rolled his eyes and wore a stern expression. But the mischievous girls were not in the least afraid. They crowded around him, then scattered with an ear-piercing scream. And little Bertha stuck out her leg, tripping him up. As he stumbled, he brandished his carbine wildly in the air before falling flat on his face. When he got up again, the gun had vanished. This upright soul from the Palatinate was seething with rage. He waved his fists around and cursed so indecently that the moon hid behind the clouds. The girls took fright; they fell totally silent and stood obediently by the door to the headquarters like chickens outside a henhouse. After a while Carolouis stopped swearing; when he saw them all waiting there so dutifully, his anger took flight, and the moon re-emerged from behind the clouds. Carolouis was smiling again, and the girls breathed a sigh of relief.

  Schlump could now count out the money in peace. First the men, then the women, and finally the girls. Then he went into the bar, where he smoked cigarettes and played cards with some young lads. He’d have forgotten it was wartime if the cannon fire didn’t regularly make the windows rattle so loudly that they all jumped.

  •

  It was morning. Schlump was sitting at his desk, writing a letter to his mother. Suddenly the door opened and a field gendarme entered with his brass breastplate and clicked his heels. He went over to the desk, opened a notebook and had Schlump sign. Then he tore out a sheet of paper and placed it on the desk.

  ‘Is there a Madeleine Thouart living in this district?’

  ‘Yes,’ Schlump replied. ‘In Martinval, in the very first house you come to.’

  ‘Yesterday she was stopped on the road to Thumeries without a pass.’ The field gendarme saluted and went out, his spurs jangling.

  Schlump examined the piece of paper more closely and scratched his head. He knew he had to punish the woman to maintain discipline. He knew, too, that he could fine or imprison her. But she was poor, and he didn’t know where to lock her up, for there were no cells in the village, nor anything similar. Schlump was in a considerable dilemma and he thought long and hard about this problematic case.

  Then he had an idea. He remembered a nice little house that had been abandoned by its owners. Its windows were set so high that you couldn’t jump out of them. He went to take a closer look. One room was in good condition. The stove seemed to be in working order and the windows shut properly. He had the house cleaned and put in order. He locked the back door and kept the key to the front door in his pocket. He had wood and some coal delivered, as well as a table, a chair and a bed. Then he called for Madeleine. She appeared shortly afterwards and stood anxiously at the door. She had reddish hair and honest blue eyes.

  ‘Madeleine,’ Schlump said, ‘I hear you were caught by a field gendarme.’

  ‘Yes, monsieur,’ she said. ‘I wanted to get a new skirt for my little sister Lolotte. That’s all, monsieur, please believe me. The old one is so tatty, and my sister’s such a wild girl.’

  ‘I do believe you,’ Schlump said with concern in his voice, ‘but I have to punish you all the same. For if I were to let you off then I’d have the entire village running away as it pleases them and I’d be the laughing stock of the district!’

  ‘What do you plan to do with me, then?’

  ‘I have to lock you up for a day, Madeleine.’

  ‘Mon Dieu, but where? We don’t have a prison here.’

  ‘There’s no reason to be afraid, Madeleine. I’ll see to it that you don’t freeze and it won’t be that bad.’

  She fell silent, then all of a sudden gave him a look of proud defiance. ‘You do whatever you like, monsieur,’ she said, before going out.

  Schlump instructed her to come to headquarters at five o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. She was to bring bed linen and food for a day. Monsieur Doby laugh
ed and asked whether Schlump was intending to go and check on her every two hours. But Schlump wasn’t in a mood for his jokes as he found the matter a trifle embarrassing.

  Madeleine arrived punctually with a basket on her arm and a package in her hand. She was extremely patronising towards Schlump and barely deigned to look at him. Schlump took the huge key and headed out with her, Monsieur Doby giggling behind them. He’d asked Madame Doby to put a pot of coffee on the stove to make life in the prison a little more bearable. Madeleine set her basket on the table and inspected her quarters. She sat down and took a needle and thread from the basket.

  ‘Madame Doby will bring you a warm meal at noon tomorrow,’ Schlump said, ‘and I’ll come to fetch you at six in the evening.’

  Madeleine didn’t reply. But all of a sudden she stood up, looked at the bed and then stared at Schlump. She shifted her gaze back to the bed, then looked at Schlump once more before blushing; she was deeply embarrassed. Schlump didn’t understand. They continued to stare at each other for a while, both of them too embarrassed to know what to do or say next.