Little Apple

by Leo Perutz

  "I think we'll hold our first meeting around Christmas," Vit¬torin said. "We'll have to fit it in with our leave, so we're all in Vienna at the same time."

  "We'll all be on leave soon, if you ask me," said Emperger.

  "There are rumours to that effect. So long, Vit¬torin. Take care of yourself."

  The train was crowded. Vit¬torin sat huddled beside his bedding-roll in the dimly-lit corridor and tried to sleep, but a hateful voice kept jolting him awake.

  "Sdravstvuyte — welcome," it said in melodious tones, and Vit¬torin sat up with a start, transfixed by a fleeting vision of the strangely chiselled profile, the domed, rather bulbous forehead, the slightly parted lips with their hint of arrogance, the cigarette between the slender, tanned fingers. Had he ever seen Mikhail Mikhailovich Selyukov without a cigarette? Yes, once, when that drunken Cossack struck the Austrian captain from Przemysl with his nagaika and Selyukov came to the prisoners' hut to apologize in person, his full-dress uniform adorned with the Order of Vladimir and the Cross of St George. "The fellow will be dealt with most severely. You know what penalty Russian military law prescribes for a Cossack, a peasant. Believe me, Captain, I couldn't be more sorry." And then, with an inclination of the head, he had shaken hands with his prisoner and brother officer. Oh yes, Mikhail Mikhailovich Selyukov knew his manners. He was no peasant, no Cossack - he could be charming when he chose, and all the worse for that.

  The train stopped. Vit¬torin went to the window and peered out. He had once spent a holiday near here, twelve - no, fourteen years ago. His uncle had still owned the mill in those days. Now he toured the villages selling threshing machines.

  Fourteen years. How quickly time went by, yet tonight seemed endless, absolutely endless. Only a quarter to one. Tomorrow he would be in Vienna. Had they received his telegram? Who would be at the station? His father, his sisters - Franzi too, perhaps. If only he could sleep . . .

  He closed his eyes, but sleep was ousted by a vision from the past, a memory that haunted him relentlessly. He was back in Chernavyensk, standing outside the camp commandant's office. He had a request to make. Selyukov could be gracious as well as sadistic. "Submit your request, Lieutenant," he would say, "I'm listening. Whatever I can do for my prisoners of war" he would continue in French, "I do . . ."

  Vit¬torin's fingers were numb with cold. The starshi, the Russian NCO who was escorting him, brushed the snow off his greatcoat, stamped his feet, adjusted his cap, and knocked.

  Staff Captain Selyukov was seated at his desk. He didn't look up; he continued to leaf through a book, smoking and making notes as he did so. He had an elegant, nonchalant way of holding his cigarette left-handed while writing: he compressed it between the tip of his little finger and his ring finger. The desk was littered with military manuals, miscellaneous printed matter, French novels.

  Grisha, Selyukov's orderly, put his head round the door, saw that his master was busy, and withdrew. The room was filled with a faint, subtle aroma of Chinese tobacco. There was something else in the air as well: a whiff of some exotic scent. Of course, Selyukov occasionally received women visitors. If she was in the room, the woman whose name no one in the camp knew - if she was there, the thin-faced young woman with the apprehensive, darting eyes, she could only be concealed behind the screen. Vit¬torin strained his ears for the sound of her breathing.

  Five minutes went by, and still Selyukov didn't look up. Every now and then, as he wrote, his tongue would emerge from between his teeth, caress his upper lip, and disappear again. Vit¬torin watched this silent proceeding with a peculiar relish for which he could find no explanation. Eight minutes. The white enamel cross on the yellow ribbon was the Cross of St George. Selyukov also had the Order of Vladimir and St George's Sabre, but those he wore on special occasions only.

  He completed his work at last. The NCO, standing at attention with his hands on his trouser seams, said a few words in Russian.

  Mikhail Mikhailovich Selyukov propped his head on his hand and stared straight through Vit¬torin with half-closed eyes.

  "You must submit your request to the non-commissioned officer of the day," he drawled, as though addressing the coat hanging on the wall behind Vit¬torin. "It's not my job to listen to complaints from prisoners of war. You know the rules here. You're breaking camp regulations. This is the third time you've pestered me with requests and complaints."

  Vit¬torin flushed scarlet and stared at the screen.

  "Your conduct is unbecoming to an officer," Selyukov went on. "In France they call it bochisme. To teach you respect for Russian military law, you're confined to quarters for ten days. You may go."

  Vit¬torin, eager to justify himself, stood his ground and put what he had to say into French. Selyukov must be made to see that he was dealing with an educated, cultivated person who was fluent in the language of diplomacy. "It's cruel, sir," he said in that language. "It's quite inhuman to stop our letters for three weeks, just because two lights were still on at eleven. My comrades ..."

  Vit¬torin couldn't get another word out - he was unequal to the situation. Selyukov tapped the ash off his cigarette. Then he nodded to the NCO.

  "Pashol."

  He said it very quietly - so quietly that it sounded as if it meant "One moment" or "Wait a minute", not plain "Out!" Pashol! The NCO turned about, grabbed Vit¬torin by the shoulder, and hustled him out of the office.

  The Tyrolean lance-corporal in the other ranks' camp across the way caught hold of the Russian medical officer who had slapped his face and strangled him with his bare hands - yes, and was executed by firing squad the next day without turning a hair. And I? What of me?

  Very well, Mikhail Mikhailovich Selyukov, so you chose to treat me à la canaille. Pashol! Very well. The French call it bochisme, do they? As you wish, but every dog has his day. We'll discuss it in due course, Mikhail Mikhailovich Selyukov. You think I'll forget? You're mistaken, Captain. There are some things one never forgets. Conduct unbecoming to an officer, did you say? The French call it bochisme? Just you wait, Captain. The day of reckoning will come. I won't forget.

  Pashol . . . Had she heard that, the woman behind the screen? A Frenchwoman, so it was said in camp - a landowner's child bride who travelled four hours by sleigh each time she came to see Selyukov. Pashol . . . Had she understood? Oh yes, of course she had. Perhaps it had amused her — perhaps she'd laughed, perhaps she'd chuckled to herself, silently and inaudibly, in her hiding place behind the screen.

  Vit¬torin bit his lip. Shame and anger brought the blood to his cheeks, and he clamped his forehead against the cold windowpane. He hadn't said a word to his comrades about what had happened in Selyukov's office, but the memory of that ignominous encounter ate its way into his distraught soul like some corrosive poison.

  He wasn't alone. His friends, too, had a score to settle with Selyukov. They were bound by a pledge, an oath solemnly sworn over the open grave of one of their comrades.

  Vit¬torin straightened up. Determination flooded through him.

  We'll get down to business as soon as the war's over and we're all back in Vienna again. The Professor, being the eldest, can preside over our deliberations. Feuerstein will put up the money and I'll be given the job of returning to Russia. It's mine by right, and I won't let anyone dispute it.

  Here I am, Captain, don't you remember me? Lieutenant Vit¬torin of Hut 4, Chernavyensk Camp. That's right, the French call it bochisme. Why so pale, Your Excellency? You weren't expecting me? You thought I'd forget? Oh no, I haven't forgotten. What did you say? Pashol? No, Captain, I'm staying — I want a word with you. Remember the air force lieutenant you deprived of officer status because his papers weren't in order? Think for a moment, take your time. When he refused to work in the other ranks' kitchen you locked him up in a cellar. He was sick - recurrent fever, chronic malaria — but you left him lying on a plank bed in that filthy cellar until. . . You claimed he was malingering. 'The camp medical office has got better things to do than cope with
prisoners' vagaries,' you said. 'He's putting it on, pretending he's ill. There's nothing wrong with him at all.' The day he was buried we swore an oath, the five of us, and now, as you see, the day of reckoning has come. You don't remember? But you do remember me, don't you? Conduct unbecoming to an officer, the French call it. . . There, take that! That's for bochisme, and that's for impounding our mail, and that - stop, what are you looking for? Your revolver? That'll do you no good, Captain. Ah, here's Grisha. Sdravstvuy, Grisha. Tell your orderly, Captain, that I'll shoot him if he so much as lifts a finger. Yes indeed, I've come prepared. You challenge me to a duel? Very well, that sounds reasonable. The choice of weapons is yours. My seconds will . . .

  The conductor, coming down the train with a lantern in his hand, was suddenly confronted by an infantry lieutenant standing in the middle of the corridor, pale as death, with one clenched fist extended. He walked on, shaking his head, turned to look back when he reached the communicating door, shrugged, and disappeared into the next carriage. Vit¬torin retired to his corner feeling faintly annoyed and sheepish.

  One-thirty ... I really must try to get some sleep. What on earth can that fool of a conductor have thought? I'm dog-tired. Why did he stare at me like that? Damned impertinence! Grisha - that was the name of Selyukov's orderly: Grigory Osipovich Kedrin or Kadrin from Staromyena in the Government of Kharkov - he dictated his letters to the Professor often enough. I'll write it down just in case . . .

  He pulled out his notebook and wrote the following under Selyukov's name:

  "Grisha, Selyukov's orderly. Grigory Osipovich Kedrin (Kadrin?) from the village of Staromyena, Glavyask Railway Station, Government of Kharkov."

  LIMBO

  From the carriage window he caught sight of his sisters, Lola and Vally, in the waiting throng. So they had both come. Vally had developed into a pretty girl. A child no longer, she was a slender nineteen-year-old with lustrous eyes and airy, graceful movements. Three years was a long time. And there was his father, too, still erect and every inch the retired army officer, but a little older-looking for all that.

  Vit¬torin stepped down on to the platform. He was relieved of his bedding-roll by a young man with angular, unfamiliar features, a minuscule moustache and brown kid gloves: his brother Oskar. Three years ago Oskar had still been wearing blue sailor suits. The friendly but formal way in which he shook his elder brother's hand conveyed an emphatic and unmistakable request to be treated like a fully-fledged adult.

  Innumerable questions: how had he stood up to the journey, was Moscow cold at this time of year, had he seen anything of the Revolution, was he glad to be back in Vienna again? "Let's take a look at you, Georg. Hm, not bad, a bit thin in the face, though." - "Franzi Kroneis has been dropping in every day to ask for news, and yesterday she'd only just left when your telegram arrived." - "What are we standing here for? Avanti, avanti! Let's go." Was he hungry, was he tired, did he still feel his leg wound sometimes? "That man Lenin must be a fantastic person," said Oskar, offering his brother a home-rolled cigarette. "I find him tremendously impressive."

  They slowly neared the barrier, and there stood Franzi Kroneis, beaming, excited, and flushed after her brisk walk to the station.

  "You haven't changed a scrap," she said. "Not a scrap."

  Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she took his arm. Quite a change from the old days. Three years ago they had kept their understanding a secret from everyone else.

  Georg Vit¬torin had often pictured the moment of arrival, which had once seemed so unattainably remote, during his endless peregrinations through Siberia and Transbaikalia. It was associated with a vision of himself nonchalantly lolling back in an open cab as he rode home through bustling streets on a fine, warm day in late summer. This mental picture had been particularly vivid at the station in Manchuria, when they were trudging along the shell-torn platform and over the makeshift wooden bridge. Now that the coveted moment had come at last, they took a tram.

  Franzi said au revoir at the tram stop. She had taken half an hour off from the office to welcome him at the station, but now she had to get back. She drew him aside. Would he care to collect her from the office that evening? 17 Seilerstrasse. "That's right, the same old place. No, I don't suppose you'll be going out again today - you must be tired. Till tomorrow, then. You can always phone me. Sleep well, and don't dream too much about - what are the girls in Russia called? Sonya? Natasha? Marfa?"

  "Anyuta, Sofya, Yelena," said Vit¬torin.

  "You knew as many as that? All right, see you at seven tomorrow. Did you think of me a little sometimes?"

  Nobody spoke much in the tram. Lola, hoping to please her brother, remarked that Franzi was a charming girl — so affectionate, too. Oskar insisted on buying his own ticket. Herr Vit¬torin produced a stubby meerschaum pipe from his pocket. The war would soon be over, he said - it couldn't last much longer. The decisive battle would probably take place in the West, in Champagne. Morale there was as high as it was elsewhere. A lieutenant just back from the Piave front had told him that morale was good there too. He filled his pipe with tobacco to which he had added woodruff and marinated pumpkin leaves to make it go further.

  "It's not a bad smoke," he said. "According to a newspaper article by some medical expert - I've forgotten his name - this mixture has a very stimulating effect on the lungs. Mind you, the chief accountant in our office still smokes his Trabuco. Where does he get the money? Hm, 'nough said!"

  Vit¬torin's father suggested a game of chess after supper, but his sisters jibbed. No chess tonight, they said - they could play another time. Georg must tell them about himself.

  "All right," said Lola, "begin at the beginning, the day they took you prisoner on the Dunajec. That much I do know, because you wrote us about it, but not the details. How did you feel when the Cossacks dumped you in that cart? When did they first dress your wound? Ella's brother was wounded too, in the lung, but he's still in the hospital. Which reminds me: I saw the chief clerk from your office a couple of weeks ago, quite by chance, in the street - you know, the one with freckles. He was arm in arm with a very tall red-head - not his wife. He'd have asked after you if he'd been on his own, I'm sure."

  "You must go and look him up," said Herr Vit¬torin. "It's only proper - he may be offended if you don't put in an appearance. He's bound to hear you're back in Vienna. Word soon gets around."

  "If you feel like going to the theatre next week," said Oskar, "I can get you some complimentary tickets. I mix with a lot of theatrical types these days."

  Georg Vit¬torin experienced a kind of malaise, almost as if he were sickening for some fell disease. His secret preyed on his mind. It was clear from every word his father and his sisters uttered how glad they were that he would soon be readapting himself to his old, uneventful, well-ordered way of life. Should he shatter their illusions on his very first day home? Who could he confide in? His father? Yes, perhaps. Father had been an army officer in his youth, a lieutenant in the regulars. His sword and the faded group photograph that showed him surrounded by his brother officers still hung on the wall below Mother's portrait. Should he get up and take him aside? "May I have a word, Father? I've something to tell you." No. For the past seventeen years Father had been a civil servant in the audit office of the Finance Ministry. Off to work at nine every morning, lunch at three-thirty sharp, then the newspaper, then the daily constitutional, the "big one" out to Dornbach on Sundays, the "little one" through town on weekdays, and finally, when evening came, a hand of cards or a glass of beer across the street - such had been Father's world and way of life for seventeen long years. No, he couldn't tell Father.

  The doorbell rang. Lola looked up from her embroidery and Hstened intently. Vally hurried out, came back, stuck her head round the door and pulled a face.

  "Lucky old Lola!" she whispered. "Ugh, it's Herr Ebenseder."

  "Ah, Herr Ebenseder!" exclaimed Vit¬torin's father. "So he's honouring us with his presence again, is he? Com
e in, come in, Herr Ebenseder!"

  Oskar rose, buttoning his jacket, and turned to Georg. He was awfully sorry - he would so much have liked to stay awhile, but unfortunately he had to rush - he'd arranged to meet some friends.

  "A colleague from the office," Herr Vit¬torin explained. "The only one who's really on my side. The others are an ambitious, scheming bunch. Ebenseder's a most intelligent fellow - you'll like him. He's a keen collector, incidentally - buys anything connected with the theatre. He can afford it, too -he owns four houses. Ebenseder collects actors' portraits, play scripts, set designs, old playbills, views of the Ring Theatre and the Karntnertor Theatre, even cloakroom tickets . . . Ah, good evening, Herr Ebenseder! Permit me to introduce my long-lost son Georg, just back from Siberia. Georg, meet Herr Ebenseder."

  "Delighted to make the acquaintance of another member of this esteemed family. I've heard a lot about you. So you only got back today, eh? Delighted, truly delighted."

  Herr Ebenseder, a short, stout gentleman with a goatee beard, a big bald patch and pudgy fingers, went over to Lola and ceremoniously, reverently, kissed her hand.

  "My respects, Fräulein Lola. Your humble servant. Diligent as ever, I see. What nimble little fingers you have! Never idle for a moment, eh? It's a pleasure to watch you."

  Herr Vit¬torin fetched a bottle of wine and poured his guest a glass of Gumpoldskirchner. Herr Ebenseder, as etiquette prescribed, staged a show of reluctance.

  "Why go to such trouble on my account, Herr Vit¬torin? It really isn't necessary in these hard times. I never say no to a cup of tea - everyone brings their own sugar nowadays - but a genuine Gumpoldskirchner! Ah well, if you insist. Your very good health! A 'seventeen, isn't it? I could tell at once. What a year! Quite superb!"