by John Wray
—He’ll know where you are. He knows already.
—Why do you say that? she said, looking away.
Voxlauer closed his eyes. —Because he’s SS, Else. That’s why.
She said nothing.
—You didn’t tell me he was SS.
—You knew he was an illegal. She got up slowly from the bank. —Does it matter?
—It does matter. Yes. It matters.
—Well, Oskar: now you know. She stepped behind him and disappeared into the bushes, taking her net up as she passed. Voxlauer sat without moving for a long time, staring down at the water.
An hour later Else came back and set her net down by his shoulder. —Look here, Oskar. Reaching in with her tweezers she pulled out a dark blue set of wings veined and speckled with vermilion and purple. The under pair of wings glittered lazuli as she turned them. —There’s room in Resi’s box for one more, don’t you think?
Resi came through the door first, hanging back in its lit frame. The evening sun behind her glowed in her dark mass of hair and erased any trace of childishness from her features. —Why are you here? she said, looking at Voxlauer. —I didn’t ask you.
—No, you didn’t, said Voxlauer, rising from the table. —Would you like me to go?
—Theresa, Else said, coming up the steps behind her. —Oskar’s my good friend. He can come in very handy.
Resi looked at him again. He grinned stupidly at her, showing his missing teeth.
—How did that happen? said Resi, taking a half step backward.
—Robbers beat him, said Else, shooting a glance at Voxlauer.
—Friends of cousin Kurti’s, said Voxlauer, still leering.
Resi laughed loudly, a shrill, malicious-sounding, boyish laugh. —I bet he could knock out all your teeth if he wanted.
—Most likely he could, said Voxlauer. He sighed. —Sometimes they fall out by themselves.
—You can stay, said Resi abruptly, crossing the room. Voxlauer bowed to her and sat down.
After dinner they sat Resi at the table and blindfolded her with a dish towel and told her to count to twenty. The evening light shone on her through the open door and Voxlauer could see her smiling to herself as they brought the boxes up from the bedroom. With her eyes covered by the cloth she looked less like Else, thinner-faced and darker. Again Voxlauer had the impression she was older than she was. —Happy twenty-eighth! said Else, slipping off the blindfold.
—I’m not twenty-eight, said Resi, smiling up at them suspiciously.
—Sure you are.
—I’m seven.
—Ah. Well. We’d best take these presents to a more mature young lady, then, said Voxlauer, picking up a box. Resi let out a shriek and clutched at his leg.
—Fräulein! Please! said Voxlauer, staring down at her aggrievedly. —A bit more decorum. You’ll shatter my glass eye.
—Look to your presents now, Resi, Else said. —Ignore this man altogether.
—Tell him to give that back, said Resi, pointing at the box.
—Voilà! said Voxlauer, laying the box down on the table. —I was only keeping it safe for the mademoiselle.
—What is it? said Resi, looking past him at Else.
—Don’t play the diva, mouse. Open your blessed boxes.
—For mademoiselle’s convenience, said Voxlauer, extending a pair of scissors.
Resi took the scissors and snipped without ado through the twine. —Is this a ribbon? she asked, holding it up to her face.
—Close enough, Resi. Else leaned over the table and pulled the twine away from the box and held it open. Resi stood on her stool and pulled out a long black silk dress Voxlauer recognized after a moment as from the trousseau under the parlor window. She held the dress up to the light and studied it intently. —Are we going to a funeral? she asked, glancing uncertainly at Voxlauer.
—Funeral season begins next month, mademoiselle. A little patience.
—No one’s going to any funerals, said Else, narrowing her eyes at him. —Next box, please, Resi. I swear I’ve never seen such a girl for dawdling.
—Don’t rush me, Mama. Resi had taken up a smaller package now and was trying to slide the twine off all in one piece. Her small-boned face was set in an expression of fixed attention, her mouth twisting slightly as she worked. —Smells like a book, she announced, tearing the paper in a spiral. She looked at the cover a moment and grinned. —Bugs and flowers.
—So you won’t always be pestering me, said Else. —Last one, now. She motioned excitedly to Voxlauer.
Voxlauer brought the box up onto the table, tapping significantly against its sides with his fingers. —It’s wood, said Resi, eyes widening. —I’ll do it, she said, pushing Else away. —I’m doing it, Mama.
—Help me please, she said a moment later, her small voice wavering. Else took the box by its corners and pulled the paper downward. Bright wings phosphoresced in the light from the window, darkening and shifting color as the box revolved. —Ach! Thank you, Mama! Resi said, taking Else’s hand in that strange formal way of hers.
—You’ll have to name them all, of course, said Else. —From the book. And say thank you to Oskar. He made the box.
After dinner the two of them sat late into the evening labeling specimens from Else’s lexicon. Voxlauer said good night and walked slowly down the slope and up again through the little town. The air was still and warm and smelled of pine dust as always and the gables of the cliffs glowed a heavy violet behind it. The chittering of crickets accompanied him as far as the last fields, surging and ebbing and surging again, then faded gradually through the pines. Now and then a branch would snap close by the road and something would tumble away from him into the brush. For a long while he was unaware of his own breathing and when he did notice it again it seemed wonderfully untroubled to him. He walked purposefully and steadily and counted as many as seven steps between breaths. Everything on all sides was benevolent and mild. As the road straightened and leveled he closed his eyes and walked blindly forward, feeling his way upward through the dark.
The air above the ponds was filled with fluttering bodies, oblivious to his presence in their sightless dips and circlings, curving over the water in nervous, erratic arcs, tracing ancient, encrypted patterns across its surface. For a long time Voxlauer listened to their soft, parchment-like wingbeats, sitting on the bank and searching the surface of the pond for their reflections. At times they came close enough to him that he felt or imagined the pass of their fineboned leathery wings against his face and his hair. When it grew too dark even to guess at them anymore he stood up clumsily from the bank and crossed the pilings.
A figure came up the road the next morning as Voxlauer sat on the stoop leafing through the Selections from Goethe he’d taken from the old house. Long before he could make out the features below the wicker hat brim he recognized the loose storklike gait and the deliberate, august advancement of the cane. He called out a hello as Piedernig drew even with the pilings.
—I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure yet of a house call, Professor. Would you do us the honor?
Piedernig bowed deeply. —With your permission, young Herr. With your kind and generous permission.
—Headed to the heath? said Voxlauer, leading him up to the cottage steps.
—I’ll not deny it, said Piedernig. —What’s more, I was hoping you might yourself be able to spare an hour.
—I might just. Voxlauer set the book down on the woodpile and pushed the door to the cottage closed. —I’d invite you in, Professor, but it isn’t much to look at.
—I believe it implicitly, said Piedernig. He took Voxlauer’s arm again and they crossed back to the road. They walked in silence for a number of minutes, Voxlauer adjusting his steps to Piedernig’s more stately, level stride.
—I’d thought of stopping in at the farm for a few drams of Kirschbrannt on the way, if you’ve no objection, Piedernig said, smacking his lips.
—Ah. In that case, said Voxlauer, slowing
.
—Eh? said Piedernig. The light of comprehension flickered across his face an instant or two later and he began to laugh. —No, no, Herr Voxlauer! he said, taking Voxlauer by the shoulders and coaxing him forward. —I’m no sadist. I’d forgotten your situation for a moment, that’s all it was.
—You’re still amicable with them, are you? Voxlauer said sullenly.
—With their schnapps, Oskar. With their schnapps I am amicable.
Voxlauer smiled. —I’m beginning to understand better about these walks of yours.
Piedernig raised a finger. —Mens sana in corpore sano, Herr Voxlauer, as you well know. In this case, he said, drawing his robes about him—something like last rites.
—How’s that? said Voxlauer. —Are you infirm?
—Threatened with infirmity, you might say. We leave tomorrow for Monte Veritas. He spat resoundingly into the dirt. —Let the Black Shirts have this greasy country.
—Except for my little half acre, said Voxlauer.
—Ply them with enough trout and maybe they’ll let you stay on, Herr Gamekeeper. In an advisory capacity.
—That would be fine, said Voxlauer. He paused a moment. —What should I advise them on?
—Any blessed thing you can think of. The eastern question, possibly. Absentee beekeeping.
—Are you trying to sabotage me, Professor?
They were just then passing the cabinets and they stopped a moment to watch a thin file of bees spiraling upward from the nearest of them. —Ever get any honey out of them, by the by? Piedernig said.
—About a mouthful, said Voxlauer. —Tasted terrible. He made a face. —Papery. Dusty.
Piedernig looked at him compassionately. —That’s the shit of bees you ate, Oskar.
—The shit?
Piedernig nodded. —In plain country language.
Voxlauer was quiet a moment. —I thought honey was the shit of bees.
Piedernig clucked and shook his head. —No, not honey, Oskar. Not honey, he said, smiling from ear to ear.
They had come out of the spruce plantation and were passing the first of the two fenced-in pastures. A few head of oxen raised their heads idly to look at them. —This is close enough for me, said Voxlauer. He led Piederning off the road and into the trees.
—Where in God’s name are you taking me? huffed Piedernig. —I’m wanting my constitutional, lest you forget.
—Quietly, Professor, said Voxlauer. They climbed through a stand of saplings onto a weed-choked logging trail that skirted the edge of Ryslavy’s woods and rose finally through thick full-grown trees to the clay road up to the heath. When they came onto open ground a half an hour later the noon sun was full above them, close and hot and white, and the country on all sides hung skirted in haze. Piedernig sat down promptly on a patch of sandy ground with his legs crossed beneath him and shut his eyes.
Voxlauer walked a few paces to where the view of town was clearest and shaded his face with a forearm. He stood a few minutes looking intently down the cross-cut slope at Niessen, half listening to Piedernig’s mumblings and half to the sound of motor traffic on the toll road across the plain. —I can see your old school from here, Professor.
Piedernig exhaled melodiously and opened his eyes. —May it crumble into dust. He rose and brushed the sand from his robes. —I suppose you’ve been to town recently?
—Not too recently.
—I’ve yet to see it under the new management.
—The overall effect is very festive, said Voxlauer, still looking out across the valley. —Flags, posters, torches, all manner of public diversions. The charlatan in you will be deeply smitten.
Piedernig took a breath and held it, speaking the next few phrases wheezingly, like a man with the wind knocked out of him. —We’re bound to lose some more of the faithful en route, of course. It can’t be helped. Still: it’s high time we left this backwater to its fate. Italy, Oskar! It’s Italy for the likes of us.
—I’ve had enough Italy to last a while yet, said Voxlauer. —I don’t believe things are so very different down there.
—Nonsense! said Piedernig good-naturedly. They stood quietly awhile, looking across the shadeless plain. After a time Piedernig let out his breath.
—Have I ever asked you why in hell you ever came back here?
—More than once.
—But you’ve never answered.
—I’ve always been a patriot, Walter. I thought you knew.
—Ha! said Piedernig.
—What route will you be taking, Professor? The toll road or the carriage road? The straight route or the scenic?
Piedernig made a fatalistic gesture. —We’ll go slowly, I’ll tell you that much. We’re grossly overburdened. Top-heavy, as the saying goes, and bottom-broke. He sighed. —I’d hoped to drop the children off at some sort of public charity but the women wouldn’t stand for it. I tried to explain to them, God knows! that children are a renewable commodity.
Voxlauer laughed. —I’m sorry, Walter. I don’t believe you.
—That’s your privilege, said Piedernig, arranging his robes again. —You wouldn’t consider minding them awhile, would you? You might build a kennel for them somewhere. Or a camp of some sort, the way we did for the Serbs in the Great War. Would you consider it? They don’t require much looking-after.
—I’m looking forward to a little peace and quiet, thanks all the same. Still, I’ll miss you and your collection of basket cases. Else, too.
Piedernig coughed. —Else isn’t coming, Oskar, worse luck for her.
—No. Of course not, said Voxlauer. —I meant that she’d miss you, as well. He frowned.
—Yes, said Piedernig, scratching the dirt distractedly with his cane. —You’ve met the father, then?
Voxlauer raised his eyebrows. —Whose father? Else’s?
—No no, Oskar, said Piedernig. He paused. —The father of the girl.
—Ah, said Voxlauer. —No. No I haven’t. He’s not been heard from as yet.
—He hasn’t?
—No.
—I see.
—The cousin has.
—The cousin. Yes, I’d heard, said Piedernig, clearing his throat. —You’ve met this cousin, then?
—I’ve not yet had that pleasure either.
Piedernig said nothing. Across the plain the sun caught the windows of the onion-headed steeple of a church. —What church is that, straight across? Voxlauer said, squinting.
—I’m not sure. Ah—St. Marein, I think.
—Looks far away.
—Not far enough, said Piedernig. He looked at Voxlauer and grinned. —Italy, Oskar! he said, brandishing his cane like a hussar’s saber. —Italy for vagabonds and fools!
—Rehearsing for Passport Control, are you?
—Passport Control? said Piedernig, stopping in mid-swing.
That afternoon Else came to the door as he was halfway up the steps and led him around the house to the garden gate. —The rhubarb is almost due, she said. —Look at that first row, and the one behind it. We’ll have compote soon, and rhubarb tortes. All manner of cakes and delicacies. She beamed at him. —Where have you been?
—With Walter. He’s leaving tomorrow. You know that, I suppose.
—Yes. He came by this morning. She bent over and pulled a clump of grass from among the cabbage heads along the fence. —Seemed in very high spirits.
—Some kind of spirits, said Voxlauer, smiling. —He wanted to go to the Holzer farm for schnapps. Asked if we’d mind minding the children for a year or two. I told him we weren’t running any kind of game-preserve and he said that was perfectly obvious.
Else laughed. —He’d never manage without those brats of his. Not for a second. They’re the only ones left with any sap in them, aside from Herta.
Voxlauer was quiet a moment. —Maybe we should go up tomorrow, to see them off. What do you think?
—You’ve grown fond of the old gasbag, haven’t you? Don’t pretend any different.
Voxlauer s
hrugged. —He’s honest, Fräulein. I admire that in a fraud.
Going up the next morning they found them already on the road, the children first in an absurd procession driving a column of mud-caked goats ahead of them, the adults close behind, shuffling heel to heel like convicts, Piedernig and Herta last of all on a looseaxled cart pulled by mules. Voxlauer and Else stepped back from the road and waited for the dust to settle. Piedernig smiled down at them with weary dignity, wiping mock sweat from his brow with the hem of his moth-eaten riding coat. —Blessings, pilgrims! he said, both hands raised in benediction. Herta nodded to them stoically.
—Morning, all, said Else. —Morning to the collective! she called down the convoy. A chorus of mumbled greetings rose up in answer. —You’re the pilgrims, Walter, she said brightly. —Oskar and I are as sedentary as they come.
—Off to stake your claim, Professor? said Voxlauer.
—Naturally, said Piedernig. —I’ve read my Cooper, child. A golden future awaits us in the west.
—Why head south, in that case?
—It’s the spirit of the thing, Oskar, Else whispered.
—Quite right, Fräulein, quite right! Piedernig said, looking hard at Voxlauer. —The direction of course is immaterial, Herr Gamekeeper.
—I beg pardon, said Voxlauer. —Keep an eye out for the redskins.
—Wrong again, Oskar! The redskins will befriend us and teach us their ways.
—There’s a different sort of tribe in power now, Professor, from what I’ve heard.
—Nonsense, Oskar! said Piedernig happily. —Fairy stories!
Else stepped forward and curtsied. —We brought you some very nice strawberries as a token of good riddance.
—No fishes, children? said Piedernig, looking sorrowful.
—You’ll have to provide your own loaves and fishes from now on, Professor, said Voxlauer. —There’s no getting around it for a man of your position.
—Walter thinks he has that all arranged, said Herta. She smiled down at Else.
—Good-bye, Fräulein, Piedernig said brightly. Of their own accord the two mules and the column of raggedly attired bodies began to move. —Mind those aborigines! said Voxlauer, reaching up a hand.
