Schlump

by Hans Herbert Grimm

  Katherine got up, wishing to dance with her Max, but he just shrugged, laughed out loud, and knocked back one schnapps after another. So she danced with the inspector. Handsome Max didn’t appear to notice. But then, in a flash, he leapt up, pushed his way through the couples, and stood beside the two of them. Raising his fist, he punched the inspector square in the face, a blow of such fury that the man collapsed on to the floor like a sack. The women screamed, a few of the men tried to drag the inspector under the table, but handsome Max went for them . . . Chairs crashed to the ground, tables and beer glasses flew in the air, and Max bellowed like a bull, grabbing the leg of a chair and brandishing it around his head. A terrible rumpus followed, the petroleum lamp was swinging from side to side, then a woman’s voice screamed as shrill as a whip: ‘Patrol!’

  The lamp smashed into smithereens and there was a frightful commotion in the dark. Schlump tossed away his instrument and dashed out through the kitchen into the yard. Outside it was pitch black and he had no idea where he was stepping. A small hand grabbed his shoulder, yanked him back with great force, up some narrow steps, through a dark corridor, more steps, across a floor, up a ladder, up to the loft where it smelled of the hay being stored there for the goats. Then Schlump felt a soft body, a pair of lips; it was raven-haired Margret. The two of them sank into the hay and forgot everything else.

  It was already broad daylight when Schlump returned to the hospital. He felt like a mother fox who’d drunk her fill of blood in the chicken shed and returned intoxicated to her den. The corporal tore a strip off him and threatened him with every last punishment that existed in the German army. Schlump wasn’t listening. He let them confiscate his smart uniform, which still had wisps of hay sticking to it. His thoughts were in quite another place.

  •

  The corporal had reported the incident and Schlump was sentenced to three days’ confinement to barracks, which he would serve as soon as he’d been discharged from hospital. He was also relocated to another room, from which he couldn’t escape at night, and was forbidden all leave, which was the worst sanction of all as it spelled the end of his fried rabbit and wine. You couldn’t get full on a permanent diet of soup and jam with bread. Poor Schlump turned paler and paler, and lost a pound each day. And if the little shopkeeper’s daughter hadn’t slipped him something from time to time, he might have perished. It was like that for a number of them in the hospital; only the peasants, butchers and bakers had it better, because their supplies came from home.

  Schlump had found a comrade of the same age, a recruit by the name of Friedrich August Mehle, who was also punished with permanent hunger. The two of them always sat together and tried to console each other. Schlump had to talk endlessly about life in the field, about Loffrande and the war, and Mehle couldn’t wait for the day when he was better. He had stomach and intestinal catarrh from all the swedes the companies of recruits were fed on. He wished he’d been able to volunteer to go to France or Russia or Italy or Romania, maybe even to Thessaloniki or Palestine or Baghdad. He wanted to experience adventure and see different peoples. His mother was dead; all he had was an elderly father who was busy with his own affairs.

  By now Schlump was able to move his arm a fair way to the side, but not backwards and only slightly forwards. But space had to be made in the hospital. A death-sentence committee of assertive military doctors turned up and declared them all fit. Schlump was discharged from the hospital and sent to the convalescent company. He ought to have been serving his confinement, but the cells were overcrowded so he had to wait a week for his turn.

  The convalescent company, a sorry collection of individuals, was billeted in an old pub out of town. Schlump found himself a bed in the room where the peasant girls used to wash the dishes. He looked around. An old friend from his company in the field came and shook his hand, and made him acquainted with his new surroundings. Next to him was a man who was prone to the occasional fit of rage, upon which anyone in the vicinity had to scarper if they wanted to avoid being bludgeoned to death. For this reason all stools, benches and crutches had been removed from his reach. Further back, sitting up in bed, was a man who’d lost his marbles. From time to time he’d cry out, ‘Mama, Mama!’ and demand his milk bottle. He needed to be fed and changed like a little baby. But they couldn’t always find men to perform these tasks and he was soon to be taken away. They were just waiting for a place to become free in the lunatic asylum, which was bursting at the seams too. In the bunk below him sat a man whose chin had been shot away. He looked like a vulture and was quite a chilling sight. In the corner lay a man all on his own. He’d suffered a shot to the stomach, and no one dared get close to him because he emitted the most revolting stench. He wasn’t able to control his bowels. On the benches by the walls sat all manner of cripples, a horrific gallery of deformities in field-grey uniforms.

  Schlump had fetched his rations, but ate with little gusto; he wasn’t used to his new surroundings. Beside him sat a man who tapped his feet continually and hurriedly on the parquet floor while dribbling and shaking his head. At night Schlump dreamed of hell, terrible monsters and other horrific things.

  Every man who was able was put to work. One day they had to harvest chestnuts (autumn had come round again, but Schlump hadn’t even noticed), the next shift muck for the major’s garden, and the day after that feed the garrison’s pigs. As soon as he got some free time, Schlump hurried along to the pub with the tower to see his Margret again. But the door was locked, the windows covered; it looked as if the whole place had become extinct. A distraught Schlump made enquiries with the neighbours. ‘They’ve all been locked up,’ they said, ‘and Margret sent to stay with relatives in Berlin.’ Schlump trudged sadly away; he would never see Margret again.

  His friend Friedrich August Mehle, who’d been discharged from the hospital at the same time, had meanwhile enjoyed a small slice of luck. Outside the barracks was an enormous potato clamp containing the potatoes for the troops. It had to be guarded at night, because the poor recruits would sacrifice the sleep they so badly needed to steal some of these vegetables. Friedrich August Mehle had the misfortune to be assigned to the potato guard. He performed his duty admirably, ensuring that the wretched fellows could go about their pilfering in peace. And whenever a sergeant came home late from visiting his girl, Mehle would warn his friends like the good comrade he was. In return they gave him a portion of their booty. On one occasion, however, when with great difficulty and caution they’d cooked the potatoes in their mess tins and were about to tuck in – after midnight, by the light of a tiny candle and with the windows blacked out – they were surprised by a nasty little corporal (all the other NCOs knew what was going on but turned a blind eye), who reported their offence. He was promoted, while the poor soldiers were punished, and Friedrich August Mehle was court-martialled for dereliction of duty. But his judges were sympathetic and he was only sentenced to six days’ solitary confinement.

  It transpired that Schlump was to serve his sentence at the same time. Thus the two friends, bread rations under their arms and military caps on their heads, strolled through town with their own guard of honour: a corporal and four men in helmets and with fixed bayonets.

  •

  Schlump had three days and three nights to ponder his life and the world in general. Once more he pictured himself as a young boy running away from his father to ascend the mountain behind which the sun set, and where the entrance to heaven must be. Then he saw himself in Loffrande, showing blonde Estelle the stars. Then he thought about his dream where he really had arrived in heaven . . . Out of the blue he thought of the letter the nurse had placed on his bed, the letter from Johanna, who had declared her love for him. He saw her standing before him on the occasion they’d met in the Reichsadler, when war broke out. He saw her dancing in the hall below, casting the odd smile up at him in the gallery. His reply to her had been so brusque. How could he have forgotten her altogether?

  Schlump resolved to find her as
soon as his confinement was over.

  The three days passed more quickly than he’d anticipated, and he was allowed to report back to the convalescent company, the home guard. The following day he had some free time, so he went past Johanna’s house; he knew her address – strange that he hadn’t forgotten that. But he didn’t see her. And because he didn’t dare go in and ask after her, there was no other option but to leave again. He refused to give up, however; he walked past her house again and again. And on one occasion he struck lucky. She was just coming out of the baker’s, a basket on her arm and a few bread coupons in her hand. He went up to her and all of a sudden his heart started pounding heavily. Looking up, she recognised him straight away, and her entire face turned a bright shade of red. At a loss as to what to do, he gave her his hand, and the two of them just stood there, awfully embarrassed but happy to have found each other. To him she seemed to be the kindest and most beautiful girl he’d ever met, and he was desperate to kiss her – on her hair, her dress or her beautiful hands. But he stayed put and didn’t move. Eventually she asked, ‘Are you better now, Herr Schlump?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can move my arm again. At least I can move it to the side; forwards and backwards is still a problem.’ He showed her everything he could and couldn’t do with his arm. He was glad to have something he could talk to her about at length. But then he finished and she fell silent again.

  Neither of them knew how long they stood there like that, but finally she offered him her hand and said, while averting her eyes, ‘I hope you stay well.’ Then she left.

  Schlump watched her with a mixture of joy and sadness; his gaze worshipped her slender figure, which vanished behind a door. He turned around and returned to the barracks.

  Once back, he heard the loud words, crude talk, commands, and bad jokes. Taking a deep breath, he shook himself and was soon back in the swing of things.

  Once a week, and sometimes twice, the men were sent to the sick bay. The doctor, a stout fellow who reeked of pomade, treated all the convalescents like shirkers, even though he’d never been a soldier himself and had no idea what it was like to be ill or wounded amongst the shell holes. He declared them all fit for active service unless they’d lost a leg or came to see him with their head beneath their arm. When Schlump paid his first visit to the doctor, the latter grabbed his injured arm and wrenched it up with such force that Schlump collapsed on to the floor in pain. Before a livid Schlump had got to his feet to throttle the bastard, the doctor was already behind his desk declaring him fit for non-combat duty in the rear echelon.

  Schlump remembered what he’d promised his mother, and decided to get away to the garrison as soon as possible. For he hoped that there he might be safer from the trenches than at home. If he hung around until the next inspection, he’d be declared fit for active duty, they’d give him a rifle and new boots, and send him to that hell-hole for the third time. This would go on and on until he finally copped it, after which the only place left was a mass grave.

  He kept his eyes open and listened carefully to every announcement. It paid off. One day the sergeant read out: ‘Anyone with a good command of French should report immediately to the battalion office.’ Schlump wasn’t going to wait to be asked a second time; he scampered off and put his name forward. The battalion clerk informed him that he should get himself ready; he would be leaving in three days’ time for rear echelon headquarters in Maubeuge.

  On a Monday evening around nine o’clock, a train pulled up which was transporting troops to France. It stopped especially for Schlump, who’d been given a railway pass on which was written: Transport No. 1004. One man, no luggage, no horses. This was followed by a mass of small print detailing regulations, orders and rules of conduct for the journey. Schlump was to report at every military headquarters along the line, starting with Engelsdorf near Leipzig. There he’d be told of his next supply point and headquarters. And so on.

  His mother was glad to see him go. For she’d watched with horror as he got paler and thinner by the day, and was terrified that he’d die of hunger like her husband.

  Schlump was squeezed into a carriage brimming with soldiers, rifles and kitbags. He barely managed to find space for himself and his own kit. He trod on recruits’ feet and they cursed foully. He’d given away his helmet, cartridge belt and other superfluous items, for he was sure he wouldn’t be needing those sorts of things any more. Travelling through the night in great discomfort, he decided to get off at the first available opportunity and make the journey under his own steam.

  The first stop was Engelsdorf, at three o’clock in the morning. A trumpeter gave the mess call. They were given soup and a piece of bread. Schlump fetched his rations and afterwards reported to the military headquarters. Then he took his kitbag, crawled under the train, crossed to the other side of the station and wandered out into the night. In his opinion Leipzig main train station couldn’t be far away, and surely there he’d be able to find a more comfortable way of travelling to France than with the troop transport. Stomping through the frosty grass, he headed for a light he saw shining in the distance.

  It was a signalman’s hut. Inside he could hear the merry voices of track workers, both men and women. They won’t give me away, he told himself. I can spend the night here. He went inside, where there were two rooms. In one the workers were having fun with the girls; in the other, three soldiers were sitting around a stove. He joined the soldiers. They eyed him suspiciously without saying anything. But then, as if their inspection had finished, one of them said, ‘Come on, comrade, there’s enough space here,’ and moved up.

  •

  They put on more wood and the flames danced on their faces, painting flickering figures on the wall. The infantryman who’d come back from the trenches in Italy looked like a right rogue. His eyebrows shot straight up towards the corner from where his black hair flowed on to his forehead. He fiddled with his belt, took out his canteen, and passed it around. It contained strong rum, which warmed the body and stirred the spirit. ‘What about you, comrade?’ the broad-shouldered artilleryman beside Schlump asked the infantryman. ‘I bet there’s a different billet on your railway pass, too.’ The infantryman didn’t answer immediately. Making himself comfortable, he said slowly, ‘We’ve got time, all of us here. I can tell you the whole story, right from the beginning. Are you ready?’ First he fortified himself with another swig, and then began.

  ‘I’m an artiste by profession. And it’s not an easy life. It’s really hard work; you need persistence, and you must live respectably. Before the war we would move from one town to another, and just before it broke out we arrived in Schilda. You know, where the people are supposed to be simpletons. We soon put up our tent, evening came, and people came flooding in. Back then I had a really original routine. Made up as a negro, and half-naked, I took a chair up on to the tightrope, placed it right in the middle, and sat on it, but on the armrest, mind, with my feet braced against the seat. And up there I played my guitar and sang negro songs, you know, the mellow ones that people like. And all the while I noticed that beneath me was a pair of eyes staring at me as if they wanted to gobble me up. When the show was over, I stood at the entrance, as a negro, of course, scrutinising everyone as they filed out. Up comes this young, sturdy, powerful woman, unmarried, red cheeks, and her eyes – my goodness – what a woman! She stops next to me and secretly slips me a note. I go into the light and read it: “Come tonight, I’m alone.” And below the message she’s written her street and house number. Well, comrades, you can well imagine that I obeyed like a good child.

  ‘The wonderful night was over, we’re taking down our tent and getting ready to put it up in the neighbouring town, and then bang! War’s declared, and I’m to report on the first day of mobilisation!

  ‘We go to France. I was unable to forget that beautiful Anni. Christmas comes and the war’s not over as they said it would be. The first replacements arrive. One of them joins my group, and he’s from Schilda! I ask him
at once whether he knows Anni, Anni Birnhaupt, as she wrote. “Indeed I do,” he says. “She’s my wife.” I was thunderstruck. Then I looked at the fellow: bandy legs, good-natured, but not so bright, a true simpleton, I thought. How on earth did Anni go for a man like that? I asked myself. Something’s up here. So I decided to make friends with the simpleton, which wasn’t too hard, and soon he’d told me the whole story of his love affair. He’d only met Anni three months after war had broken out, and because she was so nice to him they had a war wedding right away so she’d receive support. Both her parents were dead, you see, and she no longer had any work. After a fortnight she whispered to him that their union had been blessed. He was terribly proud.

  ‘But now comes the good bit. Another fortnight passed, then one day she came home all agitated and in shock and half dead. “Franz,” she cried. “Franz!” Then she sat on a chair and started sobbing and howling. Poor Franz was terrified. He stood before her with his kind bandy legs, at a complete loss as to what to do. He asked her questions, he grabbed her apron, but she shook him off. “Leave me alone,” she cried, howling all the more. Finally it came out between the sobs and tears. She’d popped round the corner to the cigar shop, because he was waiting for his beer, and was frightened out of her skin when she saw the negro standing in the shop, a fat cigar between his white teeth. “Franz, what if it was a mistake to go to that shop? What if it means we get a negro baby now? I’ll drown myself.” Good-natured Franz said he wouldn’t care; after all, it wasn’t her fault. But he was going to tell the cigar seller to take that negro model out of his shop window, to prevent the women from getting a fright.