Kaputt

by Curzio Malaparte

  "And what did he say?" Prince von Bismarck asked with an ironic smile.

  "That it was still impossible to tell what country would win the war, but that it was clear what countries had already lost it."

  "And what countries have already lost the war?" Prince von Bismarck asked.

  "Poland and Italy."

  "It's not very exciting to know who will lose it," Anne Marie said. "I would like to know who will win it."

  "Don't be indiscreet," said Anfuso. "That is a state secret. Isn't it true?" he asked turning to von Bismarck.

  "Naturally," said Prince von Bismarck.

  "Occasionally, Galeazzo is unbelievably imprudent," Filippo Anfuso said. "If the walls of his study in the Chigi Palace and if Isabelle's table could talk, Mussolini and Hitler would hear some funny things."

  "He ought to be more careful," Georgette said. "Isabelle's table is a talking table."

  "That old chestnut again," von Bismarck said.

  In the beginning of 1941, when Hitler at a meeting with Mussolini at the Brenner Pass had placed Himmler's report on Galeazzo in his hands, the news aroused first amazement in the Roman world, then fear and finally open and malicious pleasure. But at Isabelle's table people laughed about that report as if it were a bad joke by a faithless or indiscreet valet. "Hitler is a bungler!" Isabelle said. The report was aimed not as much at Count Ciano as at Princess Colonna, whom Himmler called "The Fifth Column." Day by day, and word for word, all the conversations that took place around that table were reported with scrupulous accuracy—not only the actual words of Galeazzo, Edda and Isabelle and the remarks of guests whose social rank or political and government positions made them important, not only the opinions about war of Ciano and of the foreign diplomats who visited the Colonna Palace, and Hitler's and Mussolini's mistakes of war policy, but even social gossip, women's backbiting and innocent words of minor figures such as Marcello del Drago or Mario Pansa were recorded. Edda's jokes about this or that, about Hitler, von Ribbentrop and von Mackensen; stories of her frequent trips to Budapest, Berlin and Vienna; Ciano's indiscretions about Mussolini, Franco, Horty, Pavelic, Pétain and Antonescu,- Isabelle's cutting remarks about Mussolini's vulgar affairs and her bitter forecasts about the end of the war, along with Sandra Apaletti's amiable Florentine gossip and the scandalous little stories about young German and Italian actresses of the Roman movie colony and the love affairs of Goebbels and Pavolini—everything was recorded in that minute and detailed report, a large part of which was devoted to the amorous life of Galeazzo, his fickleness, the jealousy of his favorites and the corruption of his little court. What had saved Count Ciano from Mussolini's wrath was the tribute Himmler's report paid to Edda. If that report had not mentioned anything derogatory to Edda, her affairs, the liaisons dangereuses of her women friends, the scandals at Cortina d'Ampezzo and Capri, Galeazzo's fate would have been sealed. The charges against his daughter had forced Mussolini to defend his son-in-law. But Himmler's report had been successful in stirring suspicions in Ciano's and Isabelle's courts. Who had provided Himmler with the information for that report? The servants in the Colonna Palace? Isabelle's butler? Some of Ciano's or Isabelle's intimate friends? The names of this one and that were mentioned, and one young woman whose pride had been hurt by the recent success of a rival was suspected. Every "widow" was carefully questioned, scrutinized and investigated. "At any rate it cannot be you or I," Isabelle had said to Count Ciano. "Certainly, not I," Galeazzo had replied. "Oh, my dear!" Isabelle had answered, raising her eyes to the ceiling, with its frescoes by Poussin. The only result of Himmler's report had been Count Ciano's temporary removal from Rome. Galeazzo left for Bari where he was assigned to a bomber squadron of the Palese Air Field, and for some time in the halls of the Colonna Palace and even in the Chigi Palace, he was not mentioned except in lowered tones or with affected indifference. But in her heart Isabelle, though deeply hurt by that "Certainly, not I," remained loyal to Galeazzo—a woman of her age simply could not be mistaken.

  Turning toward Filippo Anfuso, Anne Marie graciously said, "I'll bet there wasn't a single word about you in Himmler's report."

  "There was an entire page about my wife," Anfuso replied with a laugh. "That is more than enough."

  "An entire page about Maria? Ah, poor Maria, what an honor!" Georgette said without a shade of malice.

  "And what about me? Was there a whole page about me?" asked Anne Marie.

  "Your question is the same kind of a question that General von Schobert once asked me. We were in the Ukraine during the first months of the Russian campaign and General von Schobert had asked me to supper at headquarters. There were about ten officers at the table. After we had been eating a while von Schobert asked me what I thought about the position of the German Army in Russia. 'It seems to me,' I answered remembering an Italian proverb, 'that the German Army in Russia is not like a chicken in the stoppa—flax chaff—but like a chicken in the steppe.'"

  "Good heavens!" Anne Marie exclaimed.

  "Very amusing," von Bismarck said with a smile.

  "Are you certain," Filippo Anfuso said, "that General von Schobert understood what you meant?"

  "I was hoping he would understand. General von Schobert had been in Italy and spoke a little Italian. But when Lieutenant Schiller, the interpreter, a Tirolese from Meran who had become a German national, translated my reply and tried to explain the meaning of the Italian proverb, General von Schobert asked me in a reproaching, severe and surprised voice, why were chickens raised on flax chaff in Italy. 'We never raise them on flax chaff!' I replied. 'It's just a popular saying that shows the difficulties with which a poor chicken struggles when he becomes entangled scratching in a pile of flax chaff.'

  " 'At home in Bavaria,' General von Schobert said, 'the chickens are raised on sawdust or on straw.'

  '"In Italy they are raised on sawdust or on straw also!' I replied.

  '"Then why did you mention flax chaff?' asked General von Schobert with a frown.

  " 'It is merely a popular saying,' I replied. 'A simple manner of speech!'

  " 'Hm, very odd!' General von Schobert said.

  " 'At home in Bavaria,' General von Schobert said, 'the chickens are raised on sand; it's a cheap and practical way.'

  '"In certain parts of Italy, where the soil is sandy,' I said, 'chickens also are raised on sand.'

  "I was beginning to sweat, and I softly begged the interpreter to help me—in God's name!—out of the mess. Schiller smiled and looked out of the corner of an eye as if to say, 'A nice mess you have got yourself in, and now you expect me to get you out!'

  " 'If that is so,' General von Schobert said, 'I cannot see what the flax chaff has to do with it. Granted that it is only a saying, but proverbs and sayings always have some connection with reality. This means, that no matter what you say to the contrary, there are parts of Italy where chickens are raised on flax chaff—an impractical and cruel way.' He stared at me with a stern expression that was tinged with suspicion and contempt.

  "I wanted to answer, 'Yes, sir! I was afraid to admit it, but the truth is that in Italy chickens are raised on flax chaff. Not only in certain parts of Italy, but everywhere—in Piedmont, Lombardy, Tuscany, Umbria, Calabria, Sicily—everywhere, in all of Italy— and not only chickens, but children too are raised on flax chaff; have you ever noticed that all Italians have been raised on chaff? Watch them! Watch them carefully, and you'll see that all Italians have been raised on chaff!' Perhaps he would have understood me. Perhaps he would have believed me, without ever realizing how true my words were. But I sweated and I kept on repeating, No, it was not true, nowhere in Italy were chickens raised on flax chaff, it was merely a proverb, a popular saying, ein Volkssprichwort. At that moment Major Hanberger, who for some time had been looking intently into my eyes with his glassy gray stare, said to me in a cold voice, 'Then explain to me what the steppe has to do with it. Never mind the flax chaff, you have completely cleared up the matter of flax chaff. But th
e steppe? What has the steppe to do with it? Was hat die Steppe mit den Küken zu tun!'

  "I turned to the interpreter for help, beseeching him with my eyes to drag me, in the name of God, out of this new and more serious danger, but to my horror I noticed that Schiller was also beginning to sweat, that his brow was moist and his face quite pale. Then I became frightened. I looked around me. I noticed that everyone was glaring sternly at me. I felt lost, and I began repeating once, twice, three times, that it was only a proverb, a popular saying, a mere play on words.

  " 'Good!' said Major Hanberger. 'But I still cannot understand what the steppe has to do with the chickens.' Then I began to be irritated and replied in impatient tones that the German Army in Russia was like a chicken in the steppe, neither more nor less than a chicken in the steppe.

  " 'Good!' Major Hanberger said. 'But I cannot understand why the chickens of the steppe are so unusual. There are many hens in every Ukraine village, consequently there are many chickens, and they are not in any way unusual. They are like any other chickens.'

  " 'No,' I replied. 'They are not like any other chickens.'

  "'They are not like any other chickens?' asked Major Hanberger, staring at me with an amazed expression.

  "'In Germany,' General von Schobert said, 'chicken farming has reached a much higher scientific level than it has in Soviet Russia. Therefore, most likely the chickens of the steppe are far inferior in quality to the German chickens.'

  "Colonel Stark drew on a scrap of paper a model chicken house that had been devised in East Prussia,- Major Hanberger quoted statistics; thus, little by little, the conversation turned into a learned discussion of scientific chicken farming, to which the other officers contributed their share. I was silent and wiped away the perspiration that dripped from my brow. From time to time General von Schobert, Colonel Stark, and Major Hanberger broke off what they were saying to stare at me, and repeated that they were still unable to grasp what German soldiers and chickens had in common, while the other officers looked at me with deep sympathy. At last General von Schobert rose and said, 'Schluss!' Then we all rose from the table, went out and scattered through the streets of the village in search of our beds.

  "The moon shone round and yellow in the greenish sky, and the interpreter, Lieutenant Schiller, in wishing me good night, said, 'I trust that you have learned not to try your wit on Germans.'

  "I answered, 'Ach, so!' and completely baffled went to bed. I was unable to sleep,- millions of crickets chirped in the clear night, and I imagined I heard millions of chickens chirping on the limitless steppe. At last when the cocks were beginning to crow I fell asleep."

  "How adorable!" Anne Marie exclaimed clapping her hands. Everybody laughed, but Prince von Bismarck watched me with a strange expression: "You are very clever," he said, "at telling those funny stories. But I do not care for your chickens."

  "I adore them!" said Anne Marie.

  "I may as well confess the truth to you,"I said turning to Otto von Bismarck. "In Italy the chickens are raised on strings. But this is a truth that cannot be told. We must remember that we are at war!"

  Just then Marcello del Drago approached the von Bismarcks' table. "The war?" he asked. "Are you still talking about the war? Couldn't you talk about something else? The war has gone out of fashion."

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, it's a little out of date," said Georgette. "It is not being worn this year."

  "Galeazzo wishes me to inquire," Marcello said turning to Anfuso, "whether he could see you for a moment today at the Ministry?"

  "Why not?" Anfuso answered in an ironic and slightly hostile tone. "That's what I am paid for."

  "About five, if it suits you?"

  "Six would be better," Anfuso replied.

  "Right, at six then," said Marcello del Drago and, pointing with his chin at a young woman who was sitting at a table not far from the von Bismarcks', he inquired who she was.

  "Don't you know Brigitte?" asked Anne Marie. "She is a great friend of mine. Pretty, isn't she?"

  "Enchanting," said Marcello del Drago and, on the way back to Galeazzo's table, he turned twice to look at Brigitte.

  Meanwhile many people were beginning to leave and moved across the grass toward the links. We remained seated at our table, and a little later we saw Mario Pansa escorting Galeazzo to Brigitte's table. Anne Marie remarked that Galeazzo was growing fat.

  "During the last war," Anfuso said, "everybody lost flesh; during this one everybody is growing fat. The world has truly gone awry. Who can make head or tail of it?"

  Von Bismarck replied—and I cannot say whether there was irony in his words—that plumpness was a mark of moral health. "Europe," he said, "is certain of victory." I said that the people were thin and that all one had to do was to go through Europe to realize how thin the people were. "And yet," I added, "the people are certain of victory."

  "What people?" von Bismarck asked.

  "Every people," I replied. "The German people, too, of course."

  "Did you say: of course?" said von Bismarck in an ironic voice.

  "The workers are thinner than anywhere else," I said. "That includes German workers, of course, and yet, among all the workers, they are most certain of victory."

  "Do you think so?" von Bismarck asked with amazement.

  Count Ciano stood before Brigitte laughing and talking in his usual loud voice, and turning his head this way and that. Brigitte, seated with her elbows on the table, and her face raised between both hands, looked at him with her fine eyes filled with innocent mischief. Then she rose and went into the garden accompanied by Galeazzo; they strolled around the pool and talked listlessly. Count Ciano had a gallant air, and looked around with his proud, cordial scowl. Everyone watched them and winked at one another with a knowing air.

  "That's that," Anne Marie said.

  "Brigitte is really a charming woman," said von Bismarck.

  "Galeazzo is irresistible to women," Georgette said.

  "There's not a woman here who has not had an affair with Galeazzo," Anfuso said.

  "I know several," Anne Marie said, "who were able to withstand him."

  "Quite so, but they are not here," Anfuso said angrily.

  "What do you know about it?" Anne Marie said in an easy, slightly provoking manner.

  Just then Brigitte came in and walked over to Anne Marie. She was gay and she laughed her rather fat laugh.

  "Take care, Brigitte," Anfuso said. "Count Ciano wins all the wars."

  "Oh I know," Brigitte answered, "I have already been warned. I usually lose all my wars, but now I am tired of war and Galeazzo does not interest me."

  "Really?" Anne Marie said with incredulity.

  We went out into the garden together, and walking in the autumn sun that smelled of honey and withered flowers, made for the first tee. The golfers appeared and disappeared in the folds of the rolling ground, like swimmers in the hollows between the waves. We saw the clubs rise aloft and glitter in the sun; the golfers lifted their arms skyward, the joined hands poised for a second in an attitude of prayer and then the clubs swung describing a wide circle through the green, rosy air, disappeared and rose up glittering again. It looked like a ballet on a vast stage with the wind playing a sweet melody in the grass. The voices rebounded on the meadows, green, yellow, red and blue voices that acquired in the distance a resilient soft and faint sonority. A group of young women sat joking and laughing on the grass. They kept their faces toward Galeazzo who was strolling near by with Blasco d'Ayeta and passed that young mischievous inviting detachment on parade; it was a bouquet of the finest faces and finest names in Rome,- along with them, but even gayer, with rosier complexions, more vivid eyes, redder lips and easier and more open manners, were some of the youngest and most lovely women from Florence, Venice and Lombardy. Some were dressed in red, and some in blue, some in dull green or old gold or ivory-pink, still others wore gray or a material the color of bare skin. One wore her hair short and curled, priding herself on her yo
uthful brow and pure lips; another wore her hair plaited in the back, another brushed up her hair from her temples, and they all laughed and offered their warm faces to the sun and to the fresh air—Marita looked like Alcibiades, Paola like Fornarina, Lavinia like Amorrorisca, Bianca like Diana, Patricia like Selvaggia, Manuela like Fiammetta, Giorgina like Beatrice, Enrica like Laura. There was something of the courtesan that was also innocent about those foreheads, eyes and lips. A corrupt glory shone in those white, rosy faces and in those moist glances that the shadow of the eyelids clothed with a sensuous reticence.

  Long shivers of wind ran through the warm air, a glorious sun gilded the trunks of the pines, the ruins of the tombs along the Appian Way and the stones and splinters of ancient marble scattered among the brambles at the edge of the meadow. Sitting around the pool, the young Anglomaniacs from the Chigi Palace spoke English in loud voices and some stray words that reached us had the smell of a Capstan and Craven Mixture. Along the fairway, faintly gilded by the weary flame of autumn, strolled old Roman princesses whose maiden names had been Smith, Brown and Samuel—solemn dowagers leaning with long, tapering fingers on silver-handled canes, old beauties of the D'Annunzio generation, slow of gait, their eyes ringed with black. A girl with her hair flying ran yelling after a fair young man in golf knickers. It was a lively scene, but it was already a little weary, slightly out of focus and rumpled at the edges like an old color print.

  After a while Galeazzo saw me, left Blasco d'Ayeta, came over and put his hand on my shoulder. I had not spoken to him for over a year and did not know what to say.

  "How long have you been back?" he asked me with a touch of reproach in his voice. "Why didn't you come to see me?" He spoke confidingly, with a kind of abandon that was unusual in him.

  I explained that I had been very ill in Finland, that I still felt very weak. "I am very tired," I added.

  "Tired? Perhaps you mean disgusted?" he said.

  "Yes, disgusted with everything," I replied.

  He looked at me and after a moment said, "You'll see that things will be better soon."