by Adam Thorpe
Bendel was using the equipment straps from his uniform to hang the painting off his shoulder. A peasant with all his worldly goods.
‘You have no idea,’ said Bendel, like someone at an award-giving ceremony, ‘how happy I am to be in possession again of at least one of my works. The only work, I might add, that shows me at my easel.’
There was a little, puzzled silence.
‘What are you on about, dear?’ said Frau Schenkel.
‘As soon as it’s a little quieter out there,’ Bendel went on, ‘I’ll take my leave. I can’t risk a shell dropping on me now, can I?’
‘I believe he thinks he was van Gogh in a previous life,’ said Werner, with his head in his hands.
‘So it’s true,’ said Herr Hoffer, to prevent Bendel from getting annoyed with Werner.
‘What is true?’
‘The title of the painting. Poor Gustav Glatz came to no definite conclusion. He said it might be a peasant in the field, not the artist. Then he was beaten up by the SA and could never come to any definite conclusion about anything.’
He grunted as if he had made a joke.
‘Well, you can tell him from me that I painted myself, from a distance.’
‘As if you were two people. Like Schumann.’
‘In a total lifespan,’ said Bendel, ‘we’re hundreds of thousands of people. Not just people, of course. Animals and birds. Worms.’
‘What a horrible thought,’ said Frau Schenkel. ‘One’s quite enough.’
There was another, slightly embarrassed silence.
‘Odd that one always seems to be someone famous in a past life,’ said Werner, after clearing his throat. ‘If one isn’t against the idea from the start. King Heinrich the Fowler. Vincent van Gogh. Never some anonymous little clerk, let alone a worm, as you say.’
‘So?’ said Bendel. ‘Why’s that odd? Some people are too great to be contained in one life, Herr Oberst.’
‘You, for instance.’
Bendel smiled ambiguously. He looked odd in civilian clothes, like an actor playing a peasant; the tatty blue cardigan was too small.
The man is a complete nutcase, thought Herr Hoffer. Perhaps he always was. He has to be treated like fine porcelain.
‘Or a certain little trench-corporal with the head of a deranged barber,’ Bendel added.
‘Who?’ asked Frau Schenkel.
There was a deathly silence. Herr Hoffer might have believed in a visitation, if he’d been slightly that way inclined, for the air seemed to cool and darken.
‘He has been travelling for a very long time through very many dark lives,’ Bendel continued, ‘and is now virtually hollowed out, with a very thin cellular body, and has no need of that body to operate. He will be operating without a body, like a dark angel. I feel the feeble barber’s body is dead –’
Hilde Winkel gave a little gasp.
‘But even now,’ said Bendel, ‘as the Americans pour towards us, the dark angel is slipping into their blood.’
A long silence followed in which there were not even any rumblings of shells. The candle flame quivered, flattened, and then burned thinner and taller. The walls shook without any discernible concussion to be heard, and powder descended in puffs. Hilde started coughing.
They all looked up, as if there was a clue there.
Werner stirred in the shadows.
‘The Führer is cunning and lies even more than the others, that’s all,’ he said. ‘Don’t make him into Lucifer, for God’s sake.’
‘He doesn’t lie,’ retorted Frau Schenkel. ‘That’s one thing he doesn’t do.’
Werner snorted.
‘Anyway,’ said Frau Schenkel, ‘you’ll be grateful to him when the Asiatic hordes arrive. Then our boys will hurl themselves back into the fight and save Europe with their last ounce of strength.’
‘Frau Schenkel,’ said Herr Hoffer, feeling hopeless, ‘you sound like the wireless.’
‘I know what I sound like and what I don’t sound like,’ she snapped, turning towards him and glaring. ‘My dear husband would be alive today, driving his train, if they’d had the right socks! And my only son, too! My dearest Siggi!’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ sighed Herr Hoffer.
‘The trouble is,’ said Bendel, ‘Jews’ hair is too thin.’
‘I’m not talking about Jews, if you don’t mind,’ said Frau Schenkel. She had got into one of her moods. It replaced grief.
‘You’re talking about socks.’
‘Yes, not Jews.’
‘They’re the same thing,’ said Bendel. ‘Jews and socks.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
He looked at them in turn, with an almost shy smile.
‘Socks for certain personnel. Such as train drivers. Only.’
‘Only what?’ snapped Frau Schenkel.
‘Made from the hairs of Jews.’
‘What rubbish. My dear husband wouldn’t have been seen dead wearing that. It’s disgusting. They’d be all greasy.’
Bendel laughed. Herr Hoffer laughed, too, though he didn’t really appreciate this joke about the socks. It wasn’t the right moment for silly jokes.
‘No waste, you see,’ said Bendel. ‘The ashes come back to enrich the German fields, and the hair to keep our boys’ toesies warm. Certain personnel only.’
There was another silence. Herr Hoffer felt wrong-footed.
Werner said, in a deep, trembling voice, ‘What have you seen, Herr Sturmführer Bendel?’
Nobody dared to say anything more, because Bendel’s eyes were like windowpanes looking onto death.
‘I’m not crazy,’ he murmured, eventually. ‘That’s the whole problem. If I were crazy, it would be easier.’
He cocked an ear, like a dog.
‘I think it’s quiet out there,’ he said, gripping the wrapped-up painting. ‘I think I’ll take my chance.’
There was a sudden crash as of many pots and pans falling off a heavenly shelf. Powder puffed again from the roof.
‘Perhaps not just yet,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a lull soon. There always is.’
There was an awkward moment, eased only by a continual stammer of machine-guns that was different from the backfiring lorries. Herr Hoffer felt terrible. It was a little like waiting for a bore to leave a party. Only this bore was more than a bore. He was taking the museum’s jewel. He had been in Poland.
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ said Bendel.
‘About what?’
‘About me being Vincent.’
‘My dear fellow,’ murmured Herr Hoffer, ‘if you believe it, that’s all that matters.’
‘Give me a pencil.’
‘I haven’t got one.’
‘Then find one,’ said Bendel, suddenly agitated. ‘And some paper.’
‘Werner?’
‘What?’
‘You’ve got your notebook and pencil in your jacket,’ said Herr Hoffer.
Werner stayed absolutely still, staring at Herr Hoffer with what looked like sheer hatred. Herr Hoffer couldn’t understand it. Surely Werner appreciated the situation! The man was liable to shoot them all in a few seconds. He was deranged. Nothing was more important than staying alive.
‘Give them to me, please,’ said Bendel.
‘I would like it back, afterwards,’ said Werner. ‘It’s my private journal.’
Private journal? That was surely a lie, thought Herr Hoffer. He had found it in the attics.
‘Of course,’ said Bendel.
Very slowly, Werner reached into his pocket and held up the red notebook. Bendel snatched it from him and took the pencil out of the binding’s spirals.
‘Look,’ he said.
He flicked through the scrawled-on pages until he found a blank page. He rested the notebook on the gun’s stock and licked the end of the pencil.
‘Olive trees,’ he said, staring straight out.
He breathed in slowly several times, like an Indian yogi. His eyes widened and seem
ed to be looking inward. His hand with the pencil in it, resting on the page, twitched and started moving. He wasn’t looking at what he was doing, but staring straight out in front of him. Herr Hoffer thought, through his fear: the man has a personality disorder and ought to be in an asylum, with plenty of air, light and sun. The eyes were like a coke addict’s, but Herr Hoffer didn’t think there was much cocaine about, these days. There weren’t many asylums, either, offering air, light and sun. The pencil moved over the page as if fired by electrical pulses. Herr Hoffer considered jumping him. But the twitching, spasmodic hand held him in thrall. It was genuinely as if Bendel was two people – his right hand belonging to another.
Herr Hoffer glanced at Werner, who was also fixated. His hand was hidden in his jacket.
Bendel gave a sudden little shudder, which made Werner jump.
‘There,’ said Bendel
He showed them the page, smiling.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I always drew olive trees like that. They spiral. Olive trees do spiral. I mean, it’s the way they grow. You just look at the branches. The wood’s corkscrewed. And maybe it’s the wind. The mistral. I loved the mistral. Sharp and cold and clean, straight off the Alps. I loved it, just as I loved the fierce midday sun. I had my straw hat, of course. Otherwise I’d have burnt to a crisp.’
The drawing showed some trees on a hill. It might have been an indifferent amateur’s drawing of a well-known beauty spot. The only impressive thing was that Bendel had drawn it without looking.
‘I see,’ said Herr Hoffer. ‘That’s remarkable.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bendel, as if he’d just performed a turn. His voice had sounded different, almost girlish, up in the nose. Now it was back to Bendel’s.
He flicked back to the scrawled-on pages.
‘So,’ he said, ‘these are the private thoughts of the Chief Librarian.’
‘Chief Archivist and Keeper of Books,’ corrected Werner. ‘Now give it back, please –’
‘I never thought you had it in you, Herr Oberst. Very philosophical. I am at the bottom of a deep lake, without a head. My headless body floats among weed, attached to the surface by a rope. One day someone will come and pull on the rope. There is always something to live for, if you choose to. I say, I do agree with that –’
‘Give it back,’ said Werner, holding out his hand.
‘Hang on,’ said Bendel, turning the pages, ‘this is much too interesting. Listen to this, everybody. I am not at all certain I am alive. What is being alive? Occasionally I see birds. Birds, eh? I definitely think you are alive, Herr Oberst. On good days.’
He burst out laughing again. Herr Hoffer felt a bubble of mirth rising in him, too. It really was extraordinary, the idea of Werner writing such stuff up in the attics.
‘Harken to this, class. This is a peach. One day I will wait for you and you will join me, running into my arms. “Ah, for your moist wings, O West, how sorely do I envy you!” If only I knew the whole of Goethe!’
‘Give it to me, Bendel.’
‘The Chief Librarian in love? Well, I never! Did you know that, Herr Hoffer? That’s quite a revelation, isn’t it?’
Herr Hoffer nodded. He couldn’t help smiling at the thought. Werner was looking very uncomfortable. Bendel turned a page, enjoying himself immensely. It did Herr Hoffer good, seeing Werner so uncomfortable. Ingrid! In the end, everyone could be laughable – even Werner Oberst.
‘By the way,’ Bendel smiled, ‘I’m frankly surprised you don’t know the whole of Goethe, Herr Oberst. Every good German – oh, listen to this. This is most romantic. If only you would return,’ he read, in an actorish, mocking voice, his gun bouncing on his chest. ‘I am waiting and waiting –’
He looked suddenly surprised. He had spotted something extraordinary at the door and Herr Hoffer whipped his head round to look. There was a terrible noise that bounced off every wall.
For a moment nothing more happened. Herr Hoffer’s ears rang over a pounding that turned out to be his heart. Bendel looked as if he was about to tell them something, his eyes moving about uncertainly, quizzically. They alighted on Herr Hoffer, who pulled a face as if to say: ‘No idea, I’m afraid.’
There were two dark spots on Bendel’s cardigan, just below the neckline. The red notebook slid from his hands and fell on the floor and his hands clutched at the spots. He looked at them, bewildered.
Werner shot again as they all ducked, but he missed – Bendel was already going down onto his knees. Then he toppled over onto Hilde’s legs.
‘My God,’ said Werner, still clutching his pistol in both hands. ‘It worked.’
Herr Hoffer was crouched behind Paul Burck’s birch forest, trembling from head to foot. The spots were holes, he realised. Hilde had pushed Bendel off her, shuddering, and his head had rocked on his neck as if the neck was of rubber. He looked very peaceful, if a little taken aback, his eyes open a fraction. He was clearly only dead for now, thought Herr Hoffer, he’ll be alive again soon. He had collapsed, like the German Reich, but he would be on his feet again soon. Herr Hoffer kept hold of the Paul Burck like the wheel of a car. His mouth was full of acid and his throat burned and his trousers were still wet. He could not let go of the painting.
SS-Sturmführer Bendel was permanently dead, in fact; he sported a red toothbrush moustache that was starting to unravel over his cheek. His mouth was open slightly, as if he was about to say, ‘Ouch’. The blood ran over his cheekbone and ear and trickled onto the flowery cloth containing the collection’s jewel, making a circle the size of a billiard ball.
Werner pocketed the red notebook and, with the help of Frau Schenkel, dragged the body off to the far end of the vaults, the steel boot-plates bumping on the stones. Herr Hoffer watched as the body left a trail of blood on the stones. He could not move a muscle. Hilde Winkel continued to shudder with her face in her hands, making little whimpering noises.
There was a black bullet-hole in the bloodstained cloth wrapped around The Artist near Auvers-sur-Oise. Herr Hoffer managed to lean forward from behind the birch forest and drag the parcel towards him. Frau Schenkel had done it up very tightly and neatly, and his fingers were numb. He couldn’t let go of the birch forest with his other hand, for a reason he would not investigate now. It was up to Werner, on his return, to check for damage.
Werner did so, unwrapping the painting without a word. The blood did not matter, though it had soaked through and turned the sky violet. But the other damage was unfortunate.
There would be no more arguments about the artist or the peasant, the peasant or the artist. The bullet had replaced that little contentious figure with a black hole.
‘Vicarious substance,’ was all Werner said, with a grim smile.
It was as if he didn’t care.
He wrapped the painting up in its original brown paper and Frau Schenkel placed her finger for the knot. Her nail was very sharp. They took the parcel back around the corner. Herr Hoffer could hear the grating sound of the slab: it made him think of Christ’s tomb and his own death – the unbefitting place of darkness, the possible light of another realm. He felt that he was already mostly invisible, in fact, like a cartoon character rubbing itself out. He was not really frightened of death so much as what he hadn’t yet tasted of the world. He had always wanted to go to Egypt, for instance. Maybe Bendel had always wanted to go somewhere, too. Greenland, perhaps. The snowy mountains of Persia. Herr Hoffer felt pathetic, but he was frozen stiff and mostly invisible. He could not quite believe that Werner was such a good shot. But, of course, Werner was the Chief Archivist and Keeper of Books. He was a hero and a soldier and he was passionately in love and wished he knew the whole of Goethe. Did anyone know the whole of Goethe? That was a lot to know. It was like a country, with obscure corners that were almost untrodden. After all this was over they would call on the greatest Dutch experts to restore The Artist near Auvers-sur-Oise. The question being: would they stitch on a blank patch or attempt to resurrect the figure? He, for one, coul
d remember the way the brushstrokes went, the colours. And then there were one or two photographs, if of poor quality. He was sure they could do it. It would all be under his personal direction. There would be explanatory articles in the journals, of course – even in the popular magazines, with step-by-step illustrations. Everything could be mended, in the end. Such was human ingenuity.
Werner and Frau Schenkel came back and took their places again. Hilde blew her nose and hiccupped. Werner put his head in his hands, his fingers pressing his forehead.
‘Well,’ said Frau Schenkel, ‘that was a fine to-do.’
Herr Hoffer couldn’t say a thing. He tried, but his throat gurgled. He had considered congratulating Werner but he didn’t really feel like congratulating him. He felt mean and small-minded and pathetic. His stiff white canvas, face up by Hilde’s legs, was spotted with blood. Ah, he thought: a cherry-branch in snow. My Chinese masterwork! He almost wanted to laugh. To laugh and laugh until his head dropped off!
