Kaputt

by Curzio Malaparte

  "The date on which the parliamentary regime will reach a crisis in England can already be reckoned with absolute accuracy. I could make an appointment with you in Downing Street today," replied Mosley.

  "Right! What day and what time?" asked Nicolson.

  "Ah, that's my secret," replied Mosley laughing.

  "If the revolution means an appointment, you'll be late in coming into power," said Nicolson.

  "So much the better,- I shall come into power when it is least expected," replied Mosley.

  While we were talking and with relish inhaling the ancient and faraway bouquet of an Armagnac, the Larue dining room was gradually changing, until it became a large room strangely resembling the room where I was lying on the ripped mattress. Harold Nicolson was gazing at me smiling; he was sitting beneath the brass lamp, his elbow on the table near his black Lock hat. After a time, with a glance he called my attention to a corner of the room and, raising my eyes, I beheld Sir Oswald Mosley sitting cross-legged on the floor. I could not understand how Nicolson and Mosley happened to be in Jassy in my bedroom, and I noticed with deep wonder that Mosley had the small rosy face of a child, small hands, very short arms, and extremely long legs—so long, that he was compelled to cross them Turkish fashion to get them into the room.

  "I ask myself why you stay in Jassy," said Harold Nicolson to me, "instead of going to fight."

  "La dracu," I replied. "La diacu the war, la dracu everybody."

  Mosley beat his hands on the floor raising a cloud of goose feathers. His face was plastered with feathers sticking to his sweaty skin, and he laughed, beating his hands on the floor.

  Nicolson glanced sternly at Sir Oswald Mosley, "You ought to feel ashamed of these childish tricks of yours. You are no longer a child, Sir Oswald."

  "Oh, sorry, sir," said Sir Oswald Mosley lowering his eyes.

  "Why don't you go and fight?" went on Nicolson turning to me. "It is every gentleman's duty to fight against these barbarians," and saying this he burst out laughing.

  "La dracu," I replied, "la dracu you too, Childe Harold!"

  "Every gentleman's duty," continued Harold Nicolson, "is to go and fight Stalin's armies. Down with the U.S.S.R. Ha! Ha! Ha!" and he burst into a loud laugh, as he threw himself back in his chair.

  "Down with the U.S.S.R.!" shouted Sir Oswald Mosley beating his hands on the floor.

  Nicolson turned to Mosley. "Don't talk nonsense, Sir Oswald," he said sternly.

  Just then the door opened and a tall, massive officer appeared on the threshold followed by three soldiers whose red eyes and faces glistening with sweat I could barely make out in the twilight. The moon peeped over the windowsill; a light breeze blew through the open window. The officer stepped forward, paused at the foot of the bed and with his flashlight fixed a beam of light on my face; I saw that he clutched a pistol in his fist.

  "Military police," said the officer. "Have you your pass?"

  I burst into laughter and turned to Nicolson. I was just about to say, la dracu, when I noticed Nicolson vanishing in a white cloud of goose feathers. A milk-white sky filled the room, and against that misty sky I saw the vague shapes of Nicolson and Mosley floating lazily very slowly upward toward the ceiling like swimmers after a dive rising to the surface from the bottom of the sea amid a spray of air bubbles.

  I sat up in bed and became aware that I was awake.

  "Have a drink?" I asked the officer.

  I filled two glasses with zuica and we lifted our glasses saying "Narok—Your health."

  The cold zuica finally brought me to, and imparted a dry and gay tone to my voice. After rummaging through the pockets of my coat hanging at the head of my bed, I passed the document to the officer saying, "Here's the pass. I bet it is forged."

  The officer smiled. "It would not surprise me," he said. "Jassy is full of Russian paratroopers." Then he added, "You should not sleep alone in this forsaken house. Only yesterday we found on Usine Road a fellow in bed with his throat cut."

  "I'm much obliged for your advice," I answered, "but with this forged document I should be able to sleep safely, don't you think?"

  "Of course," said the officer.

  My pass was signed by Mihai Antonescu, Vice-President of the Council.

  "Do you mind seeing if this one is forged too?" I asked, offering another pass signed by Colonel Lupu, Military Commander of Jassy.

  "Thanks," said the officer, "your papers are in order."

  "Have a drink?"

  "I don't mind if I do. There's not a drop of zuica left in all Jassy."

  "Narok."

  "Narok."

  The officer, followed by his soldiers went away, and I fell sound asleep again, stretched on my back and clutching the handle of my revolver in a sweating hand.

  The sun was already high when I awoke. Birds twittered on the acacia branches and on the stone crosses in the old abandoned churchyard. I dressed and went out to look for something to eat. The streets were cluttered with long columns of German lorries and Panzers,- artillery trucks were blocked in front of the Jockey Club building, squads of Romanian soldiers with their large helmets trailing down the napes of their necks, their sand-colored uniforms clotted with mud, moved along treading heavily on the asphalt roads. Groups of idlers lounged at the entrance of the wineshop near the Cafetaria Fundatia; and around the doors of the Coafor Jonescu and of the Ceasocornicaria Goldstein. Mixed with the strong smell of brenza, the salty Braila cheese, there hung heavily in the air the odor of ciorba de pui, a greasy chicken soup mixed with vinegar. I started off along the Strada Bratianu toward the St. Spiridion Hospital and entered the shop of Kane, the broad and flatheaded Jewish grocer whose ears looked like the handles on an earthenware pot.

  "Good morning, Domnule Capitan," said Kane.

  He was pleased to see me; he thought I was still at the front along the Prut river with the Romanian troops.

  "La dracu the Prut," I said to him.

  A faint feeling of sickness made me dizzy. I sat down on a bag of sugar and thrusting my fingers between my collar and shirt loosened my tie. A heavy, mixed odor of spices, dried fish, paint, kerosene and soap was stagnating in the shop.

  "This silly razboiou," said Kane—"This silly war."

  The people of Jassy were restless; everyone expected something bad to happen. "One feels in the air that something bad will happen," said Kane. He spoke in a low tone, casting suspicious glances toward the door. Gangs of Romanian soldiers, columns of German lorries and Panzers were moving by. "What do they think they can do with all these weapons, all these guns and armored cars?" Kane seemed to be saying. But he kept silent, moving heavily and slowly about the shop.

  "Domnule Kane," I said, "I'm down to bedrock."

  "I'll always have something nice for you," said Kane.

  From a hiding place he fished out three bottles of zuica, two one-pound loaves of bread, a little brenza, a few boxes of sardines, two pots of jam, a little sugar and a little bag of tea.

  "It's Russian tea," said Kane, "real Russian chai. It's the last bag. I can't give you any more when you have finished this." He gazed at me shaking his head. "If you need something else in the next few days come back to me; there is always something nice for you in my shop."

  He looked sad. He said, "Come back to me" as if he knew that we should never see each other again. There really was something vaguely threatening in the air, and the people were worried. Now and then somebody looked into the shop and said, "Good day, Domnule Kane," and Kane shook his head in denial, looked at me and sighed. This silly razboiou—This silly war. I stuck the parcels of food into my pockets, tucked the bag of tea under my arm, broke off a bit of bread and began chewing it.

  "La revedere, Domnule Kane—I'll be seeing you."

  "La revedere, Domnule Capitan," said Kane.

  We shook hands and smiled. Kane's was the shy, uncertain smile of an uneasy animal. As I was leaving a carriage stopped before the shop. Kane rushed to the door and bowing down to the grou
nd he said, "Good day, Domna Principessa."

  It was one of those old-fashioned lordly carriages, black and solemn—a sort of open landau with its hood lowered and fastened down by broad leather straps—that are still to be seen in the Romanian countryside. The seats were upholstered in gray material; the spokes of the wheels were painted red. A pair of splendid white Moldavian horses with long manes, their quarters glistening with sweat, were harnessed to the carriage. Sitting on high, wide cushions was a thin lady, no longer young, with the skin of her face withered under a thick coating of white powder. She sat stiffly upright, dressed in pale blue and held in her right hand a red silk parasol with a lace flounce. The brim of her broad Florentine straw hat cast a slight shadow on her lined forehead. There was a proud look in her filmed eyes, but their arrogance had something vague and distant because of her near-sightedness. Her face was motionless, her gaze turned upward, toward a blue silk sky on which white clouds lightly floated, resembling the shadows of clouds mirrored in a lake. She was Princess Sturdza, bearer of a great Moldavian name. Next to her sat Prince Sturdza, proud and remote,- he was still a young man, tall, lean, rosy, dressed in white, his brow shaded by the brim of a gray felt hat. He wore a stiff high collar, a gray tie, gray cotton gloves and black buttoned boots.

  "Good day, Domna Principessa," said Kane bowing down to the ground. I saw the blood rushing to the back of his neck and pulsating in his temples. The Princess did not return the greeting, did not turn her neck that was encircled by a tight lace collar held up by short pieces of whalebone,- instead she ordered in a dry and imperious voice, "Hand my tea to Grigori." Grigori, the coachman, was perched on his seat, wrapped in a heavy, faded green silk robe that reached down to the heels of his red leather boots. On his head he wore a little Tartar skull cap of yellow satin embroidered in red and green. He was fat, flabby and pale; he was a member of the Orthodox sect of the Skoptsi—the emasculated—whose holy city is Jassy. The Skoptsi marry young, and as soon as they have begotten a son, they have themselves castrated. Kane bowed to the eunuch Grigori, mumbled a few words; then darted into the shop, and a few moments later came out again, again bowed to the ground, and in a trembling voice said: "Domna Principessa, forgive me, I have nothing left, not a single tea leaf, Domna Principessa—"

  "Hurry up now, my tea," said Princess Sturdza in a hard voice.

  "Excuse me, Domna Principessa—"

  The Princess turned her head slowly, stared at him without batting an eyelid, and said in a tired voice, "What are these stories? ... Grigori!"

  The eunuch turned and lifted his whip, the long Moldavian whip with a red tassle and a carved handle painted red, blue and green. He dangled it wickedly above Kane's shoulders and brushed his neck with it.

  "Excuse me, Domna Principessa..." said Kane lowering his head.

  "Grigori!" said the Princess in a faint voice.

  Then, as the eunuch raised his whip, lifting and stretching his arms as if he were holding a flagpole in his fist, and rose to his feet to strike a better blow, Kane turned toward me, stretched out his hand, touched with trembling fingers the bag of tea that I was clutching under my arm, and sweating, pale, imploring, said to me in a low voice, "Excuse me, Domnule Capitan—" He grasped the bag that I smilingly held out to him, and he handed it to Grigori with a bow. The eunuch diverted the violent blow to the back of the horses that started, reared and were off; with a sharp tinkling of bells, the carriage disappeared in a cloud of dust. A dab of foam from the bit of one of the horses had fallen onto my shoulder.

  "La dracu, Domna Principessa, la dracu!" I shouted. But the carriage was already far away, it was already taking the turn at the end of the road, toward the Jockey Club and the Fundatia.

  "Thank you, Domnule Capitan," said Kane in a soft voice, lowering his eyes with shame.

  "It's all right, Domnule Kane, but to the devil with Princess Sturdza, la dracu all these Moldavian nobles."

  My friend Kane lifted his eyes, his face crimson with large drops of sweat on his forehead.

  "It doesn't matter," I said, "it doesn't matter. La revedere, Domnule Kane."

  "La revedere, Domnule Capitan," answered Kane, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

  Walking back toward the churchyard, I passed in front of the druggist on the corner of the Strada Lapusneanu and Strada Bratianu. I entered and went up to the counter.

  "Good day, Domniscoara Mica."

  "Good day, Domnule Capitan."

  Mica smiled as she rested her elbows on the marble counter. Mica was a nice-looking girl, dark, buxom, with a forehead weighed down by a mass of curly black hair, a pointed chin, a large fleshy mouth, and a face covered with a light down that shone with bluish reflections. I had tried to date her before leaving Jassy for the Prut lines. Good Lord, I thought, it's two months since I have had a woman. I had not touched a woman in Bucharest. It was too hot. Good Lord, I scarcely know any longer what women are like.

  "Cum merge a sanatate—How are you—Domniscoara Mica?"

  "Bine, foarte bine—Well, very well—Domnule Capitan."

  A fine girl, but as hairy as a goat; she had large, black, glistening eyes and a thin nose in a plump dark face. There must have been some gypsy blood in her veins. She told me that she would like to go for a walk that evening after curfew.

  "After curfew, Domniscoara Mica?"

  "Da, da—Yes, yes, Domnule Capitan."

  Good heavens, what an idea! How was I to take a girl out after curfew, when police and military patrols shouted stai, stail from afar, and shot before there was time to reply? Besides, what an idea to wander around the ruins of houses wrecked by bombs and charred by fire. A house was still burning from the day before in Unirii Square, in front of Prince Gutsa Voda's statue. The Soviet bombers were hammering hard. For three hours the day before they had been flying over Jassy, calmly moving back and forth not more than nine hundred feet above the city. Some planes had grazed the roofs. A Russian bomber on its return trip, on its way to Skuleni, had fallen headlong into a field just outside the city beyond Capou.

  The crew was made up of six women. I went to look at them. Some Romanian soldiers were rummaging inside the pilots' cabin,- they handled those poor girls with their grubby fingers, dirty with cioiba, mamaliga and brenza. "Let her alone, you bastard!" I had started shouting to a soldier who was running his fingers through the hair of one of the two pilots, a sturdy blonde with a freckled face. Her eyes were wide open, her mouth half-shut; one of her hands hung by her side, her head rested on the shoulder of her companion in an attitude of modesty and renunciation. They were two brave girls who had carried out their duty and were entitled to respect. Two honest factory girls, weren't they, Domna Principessa Sturdza? They wore gray overalls and leather jackets. The soldiers were slowly stripping them, unbuttoning the leather jackets, raising their limp arms, pulling the jackets over their heads. To keep up the head of one of the girls a soldier had caught her under the chin and was clutching her throat as if he had meant to choke her; his broad thumb with a black cracked nail pressed against the half-shut mouth and the thick, bloodless lips. "Bite his finger, you fool!" I shouted as if the girl could hear me. The soldiers looked at me and laughed. Another girl was wedged in between the bomb cradle and a heavy machine gun,- in that position it was impossible to remove the jacket from her. A soldier undid her leather helmet, grasped her by the hair and jerked her out, rolling her onto the ground near the remains of the plane.

  "Domnule Capitan, will you take me for a walk tonight, after curfew? " asked Mica resting her chin on her two open palms.

  "Why not, Domniscoara Mica? It's nice to be out at night, after curfew. Haven't you ever been in the park at night? There is never anyone."

  "Won't they shoot at us, Domnule Capitan'."

  "Let's hope so, let's hope that they shoot at us, Domniscoara Mica."

  Mica laughed, leaned across the counter, put her fat hairy face close to mine and bit my lips.

  "Come for me at seven, Domnule Capitan
. Ill wait for you out there, in front of the druggist."

  "Right, Mica, at seven. La revedere, Domniscoara Mica."

  I walked up Strada Lapusneanu, crossed the churchyard, and pushed open the door of my house. I ate a little brenza, then I threw myself on the bed. It was hot; the flies hummed incessantly. A bare high-pitched buzz seemed to drop from the sky, a heavy sweet buzz, not unlike the thick scent of carnations, was lazily spreading from the sky dripping with sweat. By heaven, how sleepy I was! The zuica was simmering inside me. About five in the afternoon I awoke, went out into the cemetery and sat down on a tombstone buried in the grass. In olden times it had been a churchyard, this garden of mine, an ancient Orthodox cemetery, the oldest in Jassy. Where once a little church stood, in the center of the churchyard was the entrance to a public adapost, a shelter into which one descended by a steep little wooden staircase. The mouth of the adapost looked like the entrance to an underground mausoleum. Inside the shelter, there was a smell of rotten earth, a thick smell of tombs. On the roof of the adapost, which the heaped-up earth lent the shape of a sepulchral mound, rose a pyramid of tombstones placed crossways one on top of the other. From the spot where I was sitting I could read the posthumous praise of Domnule Grigorio Soinescu, of Domna Sofia Zanfirescu, of Domna Maria Pojaescu—carved in the tombstones. It was hot, my lips were parched with thirst, and as I breathed in the dead smell of the earth, I gazed fixedly at the rusty iron railings around a few tombs which had remained unscathed in the shadow of the acacias. I felt dizzy, nausea gripped my stomach. La dracu Mica, la dracu Mica and all her goat's hair. The flies buzzed wickedly, a damp wind rose from the banks of the Prut.

  Now and then from the lower end of town, down toward Usine, Socola and Pacurari, from the railway works of Nicolina, from the buildings scattered along the banks of the Bahlui, from the Tzicau and Tatarasi suburbs, that were once the Tartar quarter, rang out the sharp sound of a rifle shot. Romanian soldiers and policemen are nervous, they shout stail stail and they fire at people without giving them a chance to raise their arms. And this was still daylight, the curfew had not yet sounded. The wind was swelling the foliage of the trees; the sun charged the air with an odor of honey. Mica was expecting me at seven—in front of the druggist's. And in half an hour I was to go and call for Mica to take her for a walk.