Kaputt

by Curzio Malaparte

  "The war is over for us," Kurt Franz said.

  The war was far away from us. We were outside the war, in a remote continent, in abstract time, outside humanity. For over a month I had been roaming through the Lapland forests, through the tundra along the Liza, across the lonely, frozen and bare rock-fields of the Petsamo fjord on the Arctic Sea, through the red pine woods and the white birch woods, along the shores of Lake Inari, over the tunturit of the Ivalo region; for over a month I had been living among a strange people: the young Bavarian and Tirolean Alpenjägers, toothless and bald, with wrinkled yellow faces and the humble, despairing eyes of wild beasts. And I wondered what could have changed them so completely. They were still Germans, they were still the same Germans whom I had met before Belgrade, Kiev, Smolensk and Leningrad, with the same hoarse voices, the same hard brows, the same broad and heavy hands. But there was something wonderful, something pure and innocent about them that I had never before discovered in any German. Perhaps it was that bestial cruelty of theirs, that cruel innocence, like the innocence of children and beasts. They spoke about the war as if it were something past and distant, with an inward contempt, a grudge against violence, hunger, destruction and murder. They seemed to be content with the cruelty of nature, as if the lonely life in those limitless forests, the remoteness of civilization, the boredom of the everlasting winter night, the darkness of long months, ripped from time to time by the fire of the aurora borealis, the torture of everlasting summer daylight, the sun staring by day and by night through the window of the skyline—as if all this had driven them to a cruelty characteristic of mankind. They had acquired the despairing humility of wild beasts, that mysterious feeling for death. They had reindeer eyes, those dark, deep and glistening eyes,- that mysterious animal-look that the eyes of the dead have. A few nights before, I had gone out into the woods. I could not sleep. It was past midnight; the white sky was wonderfully translucent, it looked like a sky made of tissue paper. There was not a sign of a cloud, or so it seemed to me; the sky was so clear and translucent that it looked like a vast, deep space, bare and void. Yet an invisible drizzle was falling from that clear sky and penetrated my bones and awakened a sweet murmur of music among the leaves of the trees, in the thicket and on the light carpet of lichen. I had walked through the forest for over a mile when a hoarse German voice summoned me to stop. An Alpenjäger patrol, their faces covered with masks of mosquito netting, approached me. It was one of the many patrols, specially trained for guerilla warfare in the Arctic forests, which searched the woods and the tunturit of the Ivalo and Inari regions for Russian and Norwegian partisans. We sat down in the lee of some boulders by a fire of twigs, and smoked and talked under the light drizzle that smelt of resin. They told me they had found the tracks of a wolf pack; they had been aware of its presence for some days, long before they discovered the tracks, because of the restlessness of the reindeer herds. Those soldiers were mountaineers from the Tirol and Bavaria. From time to time a branch crackled in the depths of the forest or a bird called. While we talked in low voices—one always speaks in a low voice in those climates where the human voice sounds alien to man, where it sounds false, artificial, unrelated to man and full of despair, where it really is the voice of an inner anguish that finds no way of expressing itself and exhausts itself in itself, in its own sound, in its own echo—we saw amid the trees, about a hundred paces away, some animals that looked like dogs, short-haired, grayish, the color of rusty iron.

  "The wolves," the soldiers said.

  They passed close to us and looked at us with their red glistening eyes. They seemed to have no fear, no suspicion of us. There was something in their confidence that was not only peaceful, but detached—a kind of sad and noble indifference. They ran noiselessly, fleet and light, with their long, nimble, soft gait. There was nothing of the beast in them, but a kind of noble shyness, a kind of proud and most cruel tameness. A soldier raised his gun, but one of his comrades pushed it down. The gesture was a renunciation of that cruelty characteristic of man. It was as if in those inhuman solitudes, even man found no other means of expressing his humanity, except by acknowledging a sad and tame wildness.

  "For some days," Georg Beandasch said, "General von Heunert has been beside himself. He cannot catch a salmon. All the strategy of German generals is powerless against the salmon."

  "The Germans," Kurt Franz said, "are poor fishermen."

  "Fish are not fond of the Germans," said Victor Maurer.

  Lieutenant Georg Beandasch, adjutant to Cavalry General von Heunert, was the first German I had met when I reached Inari. In civilian life Georg Beandasch was a judge in the Berlin courts. He was about thirty, tall, broad-shouldered, with a bony jaw. He stooped a little in walking and looked at people with a crooked glance. "A rather unsuitable glance for a judge," he said. From time to time, with a look of deep contempt on his dark face, he spat on the ground. His face was the color of leather. It was because of the leather color of his skin that we had begun talking that day about Count Conversano's armchairs covered with human skin. The habit of spitting on the ground—Georg Beandasch acknowledged—was rather unbecoming for an adjutant of a German cavalry general, "but I have my reasons for doing it." At times it seemed as if he were spitting on all the German generals. Although he was guarded in his speech, I never felt that he rated Hitler and his generals very highly. Given a choice between General von Heunert and the Lapland salmon, he preferred the salmon. But in the end, like all Germans, judges or whoever they are, he obeyed the generals. That is the tragedy of the salmon in Europe: although the Germans side with the salmon, they obey their generals.

  As soon as I had reached Inari, I had gone through the village looking for a place to sleep. I was dead tired and knocked out by the lack of sleep. I had driven four hundred miles across Lapland to reach Inari, and I longed to stretch out on a bed. But beds were scarce there. There are only four or five hundred wooden houses in the village, all grouped around a country general store, the sekatavara kauppa, the owner of which, a Finn, Mr. Juho Nykänen, welcomed me with a cordial smile. He displayed before my eyes his best goods: celluloid combs, puukkos with handles of reindeer bone, saccharine tablets, dog-skin gloves, cream for mosquito bites.

  "A bed? A bed to sleep in?" asked Juho Nykänen.

  "What else would I want with it?"

  "And you come to me for it? I am not selling beds. Once I had an army cot in my shop, but I sold it three years ago to the manager of the Osaki Pankki in Rovaniemi."

  "Couldn't you direct me to someone," I said, "who might be willing to lend me a bed for a few hours?"

  "Lend you a bed?" Juho Nykänen said. "You mean someone who will give up his turn to you? Uhm, I think it most unlikely.

  The Germans have taken our beds and we take turns in sleeping on the few beds that are left to us. You might try Mrs. Irjaa Palmunen Himanka. She may have a bed free in her hotel, or she may talk some German officer into allowing you to use his bed for a few hours. If so, while waiting for your turn to sleep, you might go fishing. I can provide you with everything that is needed for salmon fishing at a reasonable price."

  "Are there many salmon in the river?"

  "There were a great many before the Germans began building the bridge across the Juutuanjoki. The carpenters make a great deal of noise with saws, hammers and axes, and the noise disturbs the salmon. The Germans are building another bridge at Ivalo and the salmon have left the Ivalojoki. And that's not all! The Germans use hand grenades for fishing. That's slaughter! They not only destroy salmon, but every other kind of fish. Do they imagine that they can deal with salmon as they deal with Jews? We shall never allow it. I told General von Heunert the other day: If the Germans, instead of fighting the Russians, keep on fighting the salmon, we shall defend the salmon."

  "It's simpler to fight salmon than the Russians."

  "You're mistaken," Juho Nykänen said. "The salmon are very plucky, and it isn't easy to beat them. To my mind, the Germans have made a great
blunder in waging war against the salmon. A day will come when the Germans will be afraid even of the salmon. That's how it will end. That's how the last war ended."

  "Meanwhile the salmon are deserting your rivers," I said.

  "Not because they are afraid," Juho Nykänen said with a tinge of resentment in his voice. "The salmon are not afraid of the Germans. They snub them. The Germans are unfair, particularly in the matter of fishing. They have no inkling of what fair play is. They slaughter the salmon with hand grenades. They think fishing is not a sport, but a form of Blitzkrieg. The salmon is the most noble animal in the world. It would rather die than break the laws of honor. Like the gentleman it is, it fights to the last breath and it faces death like a hero, but it will not demean itself to fight an unfair foe. It prefers exile to the dishonor of fighting an unworthy foe. The Germans are furious because they no longer find salmon in our rivers. And, do you know where the salmon are migrating?"

  "To Norway?"

  "What? Do you imagine the Norwegians are better off than the salmon? There are Germans in Norway too. They migrate to beyond Fishermen's Island, toward Archangel and Murmansk."

  "Oh, so they are going to Russia?"

  "Well, yes, they are going to Russia," Juho Nykänen said. His pale, Finnish, high-cheekboned face crooked into a thousand little wrinkles like an earthenware mask in the sun. "They are going to Russia," he said, "and let's hope that they will not come back some day with red ideas."

  "Are you sure that they will come back?"

  "They will, and sooner than the people expect," Juho Nykänen said and, lowering his voice, added, "you may take it from me, sir, the Germans will lose the war."

  "What?" I exclaimed. "Do you mean to say that the Germans will lose the war?"

  "I mean the war against the salmon," said Juho Nykänen. "The people hereabout, the Lapps and Finns, all side with the salmon. The other day some German soldiers were found dead on the bank of the river. Probably, the salmon killed them, don't you think so?"

  "Probably," I said. "I shall welcome with pleasure, my dear Mr. Juho Nykänen, the salmon's victory. Theirs is the cause of humanity and civilization. But meanwhile I would like a bed to sleep in."

  "Are you very tired?"

  "I'm dead tired with weariness and lack of sleep."

  "I advise you to go to the hotel of Mrs. Irjaa Palmunen Himanka," Juho Nykänen said.

  "Is it very far?"

  "Not more than a mile. You'll have to make the best of the accommodations and probably sleep with a German officer."

  "In the same bed?"

  "Germans are fond of sleeping in other people's beds. If you tell him that the bed is not yours, he might make a little room for you."

  "Thank you, Mr. Juho Nykänen, kiitoksia pallion."

  "Haivää päivää."

  "Haivää päivää."

  Mrs. Irjaa Palmunen Himanka gave me a kind welcome. She was a little over thirty years old, with a weary, sad face. She told me at once that she would ask Lieutenant Georg Beandasch, General von Heunert's adjutant, to give up one of his beds to me.

  "In how many beds does this gentleman sleep?" I asked.

  "There are two beds in his room," said Mrs. Irjaa Palmunen Himanka, "I hope that he will agree to give one of them to you. But you know, the Germans..."

  "I don't give a damn about the Germans. I'm sleepy."

  "Neither do I," said Mrs. Irjaa Palmunen Himanka. "But only up to a certain point. The Germans..."

  "You must never ask a favor of a German," I said. "If you ask a favor of a German, you may rest assured of being refused. The entire superiority of the Herrenvolk depends on saying 'No.' With the Germans you must never ask or beg. Leave it to me, Mrs. Irjaa Palmunen Himanka. I've learned my lesson from the salmon."

  The dull eyes of Mrs. Irjaa Palmunen Himanka lighted suddenly, "Oh, what a noble people the Italians are! You are the first Italian I have met in my life, and I did not know that the Italians also defend the salmon against the Germans. And yet you are allied to the Germans! You are a noble people!"

  "The Italians are of the same breed as the salmon," I said. "All the peoples of Europe are salmon."

  "What will happen to us," said Mrs. Irjaa Palmunen Himanka, "if the Germans destroy the salmon in our rivers or force them to migrate? In peacetime we make a living out of sporting fishermen,- people come from England, from Canada and the United States to spend the summer in Lapland. Ah, this war..."

  "Take it from me, Mrs. Irjaa Palmunen Himanka, this war will end like the last one—the salmon will drive the Germans out."

  "Heaven make it so!" exclaimed Mrs. Irjaa Palmunen Himanka.

  We went up to the first floor. The hotel in Inari is like an Alpine refuge; a wooden two-storied building, attached to a small inn where the Lapp herdsmen and fishermen gather on a Sunday after church to talk about reindeer, fire-water and salmon before going back to their huts and tents hidden in the depths of the boundless Arctic forest. Mrs. Irjaa Palmunen Himanka stopped in front of a door and knocked softly.

  "Come in!" shouted a hoarse voice.

  "I'd better go in alone," I said. "Trust me. You will see that all will be well."

  I pushed the door open and went in. In the little room that was wainscoted with birchwood were two beds. On the one near the window Georg Beandasch was stretched out, his face covered with netting. Without bothering to say "Good evening," I threw my knapsack and my raincoat on the other bed. Georg Beandasch rose on his elbow, looked me over from head to foot, just as a judge looks at a criminal, smiled, and began to swear through his teeth with the greatest gentleness and courtesy. He was dead tired, he had been standing the entire day in the midst of an icy current in the Juutuanjoki next to General von Heunert, and he would like to sleep for another couple of hours.

  "Sleep well," I said to him.

  "Two in a single room cannot sleep well," said Georg Beandasch.

  "Three sleep worse," I said dropping on the bed.

  "I wonder what time it is?" asked Georg Beandasch.

  "Ten o'clock."

  "Ten in the morning or ten at night?"

  "Ten at night."

  "Why don't you go and walk in the forest for a couple of hours," Georg Beandasch said. "Give me at least a chance to sleep in peace for another two hours."

  "I'm sleepy too. I will go walking tomorrow morning."

  "Morning or night are the same here. The sun shines during the night in Lapland," Georg Beandasch said.

  "I prefer the day sun."

  "Have you come for those cursed salmon?" Georg Beandasch asked after a brief silence.

  "Salmon? Are there still any salmon in this river?"

  "There's only one, but the cursed fellow cannot be caught."

  "Only one?"

  "Only one," Georg Beandasch said. "But he is a huge beast, full of tricks and courage. General von Heunert has asked for reinforcements from Rovaniemi. He will not leave Inari until he has caught him."

  "Reinforcements?"

  "A general is always a general," said Georg Beandasch. "Even when he goes salmon fishing. We have been standing in the water up to our bellies for ten days. Tonight we were on the point of catching him. I mean to say that tonight he passed nearly between our legs. He came close, but he would not bite. The General is furious. He says that the salmon is making fun of us."

  "Making fun of you?"

  "Making fun of a German general!" Georg Beandasch said. "But tomorrow the reinforcements that the General has asked for from Rovaniemi will arrive at last."

  "A battalion of Alpenjäger?"

  "No, only a captain of the Alpenjäger, Captain Karl Springenschmid, a specialist in fishing mountain trout. Springenschmid comes from Salzburg. Have you read his book Tirol am Atlantischen Ozean? A Tirolean is always a Tirolean, even on the shores of the Arctic Ocean,- if he is a trout specialist, he should at least be able to catch a salmon, don't you think?"

  "A trout isn't a salmon," I said with a smile.

  "Who know
s? Captain Springenschmid says so, but General von Heunert denies it. We shall see who is right."

  "It is not befitting for a German general to ask for reinforcements against a single salmon."

  "A general is always a general," Georg Beandasch said. "Even if he is facing only a single salmon. In any case, Captain Springenschmid will be expected to confine himself to a little good advice. The General wants to catch the fish himself. Good night."

  "Good night."

  Georg Beandasch turned on his back and closed his eyes, but opened them again almost at once, sat up, asked me my name, parentage, date and place of birth, nationality, religion, race, just as if he were questioning a prisoner. Then he drew a bottle of brandy from under his pillow and filled two glasses.

  "Prosit."

  "Prosit."

  He dropped again on his back, closed his eyes and gently went to sleep. The sun was streaming in on his face. A cloud of mosquitoes filled the room. I dropped off to sleep and had been slumbering a few hours when a distant rattle of castanets reached my ear. Beandasch was lost in a deep slumber, his face protected by a mask of mosquito netting, like a gladiator who had dropped dying on the sand of the arena. It was a gentle rattle of castanets, a rustling of grass and swishing of branches. An interminable procession seemed to be passing under my window. A procession of Spanish dancers, a nocturnal procession of Sevillian dancers on their way to the shrine of the Virgin of the Macarena, beating their castanets, their right arms curving softly above their heads, their left hands resting on their hips.