'Tis a Memoir

by Frank McCourt

  There are ovens with the doors open and I know what went in there. I saw the pictures in magazines and books and pictures are pictures but these are the ovens and I could touch them if I wanted to. I don't know if I want to touch them but if I went away and never came back to this place with the laundry I'd say to myself, You could have touched the ovens at Dachau and you didn't and what will you say to your children and grandchildren? I could say nothing but what good would that do me when I'm alone and saying to myself, Why didn't you touch the ovens at Dachau?

  So I step past the tablets and touch the ovens and wonder if it's proper to say a Catholic prayer in the presence of the Jewish dead. If I were killed by the English would I mind if the likes of Rappaport touched my tombstone and prayed in Hebrew? No, I wouldn't mind after priests telling us that all prayers that are unselfish and not for ourselves reach God's ears.

  Still, I can't say the usual three Hail Marys since Jesus is mentioned and He wasn't any way helpful to the Jews in recent times. I don't know if it's proper to say the Our Father touching the door of an oven but it seems harmless enough and it's what I say hoping the Jewish dead will understand my ignorance.

  Weber is calling to me from the door of the mess hall, McCourt, McCourt, they're closing down here. You want lunch you get your ass in here.

  I take my tray with the bowl of Hungarian goulash and bread to the table by the window where Buck and Weber are sitting but when I look out there are the ovens and I'm not much in the mood for Hungarian goulash anymore and this is the first time in my life I ever pushed food away. If they could see me in Limerick now pushing away the food they'd say I was gone mad entirely but how can you sit there eating Hungarian goulash with open ovens staring at you and thoughts of the people burned there especially the babies. Whenever newspapers show pictures of mothers and babies dying together they show how the baby is laid on the mother's bosom in the coffin and they're together for eternity and there's comfort in that. But they never showed that in the pictures of Dachau or the other camps. The pictures would show babies thrown over to the side like dogs and you could see if they were buried at all it was far from their mothers' bosoms and into eternity alone and I know sitting here that if anyone ever offers me Hungarian goulash in civilian life I'll think of the ovens in Dachau and say, No, thanks.

  I ask Buck if there are mass graves under the tablets and he says there's no need for mass graves when you burn everyone and that's what they did at Dachau, the sons-of-bitches.

  Weber says, Hey, Buck, I didn't know you were Jewish.

  No, asshole. Do you have to be Jewish to be human?

  Buck says Rappaport must be hungry and we should bring him a sandwich but Weber says that's the most ridiculous thing he ever heard of. The lunch was goulash and how you gonna make a sandwich outa that? Buck says you can make a sandwich out of anything and if Weber wasn't so stupid he could see that. Weber gives him the finger and says, Your mother, and Buck has to be stopped from attacking him by the duty sergeant who tells us all get out, the place is closed unless we'd like to stick around and do a little mopping.

  Buck gets into the cab of the truck and Weber and I take a nap in the back till the laundry is ready and we load up. Rappaport is sitting by the gate reading the Stars and Stripes. I want to talk to him about the ovens and the bad things in this place but he's still white and cold-looking.

  We're halfway to Lenggries when Buck pulls off the main road and follows a narrow path to some kind of encampment, a place of shacks, lean-tos, old tents where small children are running barefoot in cold spring weather and grown people are sitting on the ground around fires. Buck jumps from the cab and tells us bring our coffee and cigarettes and Rappaport wants to know what for.

  To get laid, kid, to get laid. They're not giving it away.

  Weber says, Come on, come on, they're only DPs.

  The refugees come running, men and women, but all I can look at is the girls. They smile and pull at the coffee cans and cigarette cartons and Buck yells, Hold on, don't let them take your stuff. Weber disappears into a shack with an old woman about thirty-five and I look around for Rappaport. He's still in the truck, looking over the side, pale. Buck signals to one of the girls and tells me, Okay, this is your honey, Mac. Give her the cigarettes and keep the coffee and watch your wallet.

  The girl has on a ragged dress with pink flowers and there's so little flesh on her it's hard to tell how old she is. She takes me by the hand into a hut and it's easy for her to be naked because there's nothing under the dress. She lies on a pile of rags on the floor and I'm so desperate to be at her I pull my pants down around my legs where they can't go any farther because of the boots. Her body is cold but she's hot inside and I'm so excited I'm finished in a minute. She rolls away and goes to a corner to squat on a bucket and that makes me think of the days in Limerick when we had a bucket in the corner. She gets off the bucket, pulls her dress on, and holds out her hand.

  Cigarettes?

  I don't know what I'm supposed to give her. Should I give her the whole carton for that one minute of excitement or should I give her a pack of twenty?

  She says it again, Cigarettes, and when I look at the bucket in the corner I give her the whole carton.

  But she's not satisfied. Coffee?

  I tell her, No, no. No coffee, but she comes at me, opening my fly and I'm so excited we're down on the rags again and she smiles for the first time over the riches of cigarettes and coffee and when I see her teeth I know why she doesn't smile much.

  Buck gets back into the truck cab without a word to Rappaport and I say nothing because I think I'm ashamed of what I did. I try to tell myself I'm not ashamed, that I paid for what I got, even gave the girl my coffee. I don't know why I should be ashamed in the presence of Rappaport. I think it's because he had respect for the refugees and refused to take advantage of them but if that's so why wouldn't he show his respect and sorrow by giving them his cigarettes and coffee?

  Weber doesn't care about Rappaport. He goes on about what a great piece of ass that was and how little he paid for it. He gave the woman only five packs and has the rest of his coffee and he can get laid in Lenggries for a week.

  Rappaport tells him he's a moron and they trade insults till Rappaport jumps on him and they're all over the laundry with bloody noses till Buck stops the truck and tells them cut it out and all I worry about is the blood that might be on the laundry of Company C.

  16

  The day after the Dachau laundry detail my neck swells up and the doctor tells me pack a bag, he's sending me back to Munich, that I've got the mumps. He wants to know if I was near children because that's where the mumps come from, children, and when a man gets them it could be the end of his line.

  Know what I mean, soldier?

  No, sir.

  It means you might never have kids yourself.

  I'm sent in a jeep with a driver, Corporal John Calhoun, who tells me the mumps is God's punishment for fornicating with German women and I should take this as a sign. He stops the jeep and when he tells me kneel with him by the side of the road to beg God's forgiveness before it's too late I have to obey because of his two stripes. There's froth at the corners of his mouth and I know from growing up in Limerick that's a sure sign of lunacy and if I don't drop to my knees with John Calhoun he might turn violent in the name of God. He raises his arms to the sky and praises God for sending me the gift of the mumps just in time to mend my ways and save my soul and he would like God to keep sending me further gentle reminders of my sinful ways, chicken pox, toothache, measles, severe headaches and pneumonia if necessary. He knows it was no accident he was chosen to drive me to Munich with my mumps. He knows the Korean War was started so that he could be drafted and sent to Germany to save my soul and the souls of all the other fornicators. He thanks God for the privilege and promises to watch over the soul of Private McCourt in the mumps ward of the Munich military hospital as long as the Lord desires. He tells the Lord he is happy to be saved, that he'
s joyous, oh, joyous, indeed, and he sings a song about gathering by the river and pounds the steering wheel and drives so fast I wonder if I'll be dead in a ditch before I'm ever cured of the mumps.

  He leads me down the hospital hall, sings his hymns, tells the world I am saved, that the Lord hath sent a sign, yeah verily, the mumps, that I am ready to repent. Praise God. He tells the admissions medic, a sergeant, that I am to be given a Bible and time for prayer and the sergeant tells him get the hell outa heah. Corporal Calhoun blesses him for that, blesses him from the bottom of his heart, promises to pray for the sergeant who is clearly on the side of the devil, tells the sergeant he's lost but if he'll right now drop to his knees and accept the Lord Jesus he'll know the peace that passeth all understanding and he foams so much at the mouth his chin is snow.

  The sergeant comes from behind his desk and pushes Calhoun down the hall to the front door with Calhoun telling him, Repent, Sergeant, repent. Let us pause, brother, and pray for this Irishman touched by the Lord, touched with the mumps. Oh, let us gather by the river.

  He is still pleading and praying when the sergeant propels him into the Munich night.

  A German orderly tells me his name is Hans and takes me to a six-bed ward where I'm issued hospital pajamas and two cold bulging ice packs. When he tells me, Zis iss for your neck and zis iss for your bollez, four men in the beds chant, Zis iss for your neck and zis iss for your bollez. He smiles and places one ice pack on my neck, the other in my groin. The men lob ice packs at him for more ice and tell him, Hans, you're so good at catching you could play baseball.

  One man in a corner bed whimpers and doesn't throw his ice pack. Hans goes to his bed. Dimino, would you like ice?

  No, I don't want ice. What's the use?

  Oh, Dimino.

  Oh, Dimino, my ass. Goddam Krauts. Look what you did to me. Gave me the goddam mumps. I'll never have kids.

  Oh, you will haf kids, Dimino.

  How would you know? My wife will think I'm a fairy.

  Oh, Dimino, you're not a fairy, and Hans turns to the other men, Is Dimino a fairy?

  Yeah, yeah, he's a fairy, you're a fairy, Dimino, and he turns to the wall, sobbing.

  Hans touches his shoulder. They don't mean it, Dimino.

  And the men chant, We mean it, we mean it. You're a fairy, Dimino. We got swollen balls and you got swollen balls but you're a crybaby fairy.

  And they chant till Hans pats Dimino's shoulder again, hands him ice packs and tells him, Here, Dimino, keep your bollez cool and you will have many chiltren.

  Will I, Hans? Will I?

  Oh, you will, Dimino.

  Thanks, Hans. You're an okay Kraut.

  Thanks, Dimino.

  Hans, you a fairy?

  Yes, Dimino.

  That why you like putting ice packs on our balls?

  No, Dimino. Iss my job.

  I don't mind if you're a fairy, Hans.

  Thanks you, Dimino.

  You're welcome, Hans.

  Another orderly pushes a book cart into the ward and I have a feast of reading. Now I can finish the book I started coming from Ireland on the ship, Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment. I'd rather read F. Scott Fitzgerald or P. G. Wodehouse but Dostoyevsky is hanging over me with his story of Raskolnikov and the old woman. It makes me feel guilty all over again after the way I stole money from Mrs. Finucane in Limerick when she was dead in the chair and I wonder if I should ask for an army chaplain and confess my awful crime.

  No. I might be able to confess in the darkness of an ordinary church confession box but I could never do it here in daylight all swollen with the mumps with a screen around the bed and the priest looking at me. I could never tell him how Mrs. Finucane was planning to leave her money for priests to say Masses for her soul and how I stole some of that money. I could never tell him about the sins I committed with the girl in the refugee camp. Even while I think of her I get so excited I have to interfere with myself under the blankets and there I am with one sin on top of another. If I ever confessed to a priest now I'd be excommunicated altogether so my only hope is that I'll be hit by a truck or something falling from a great height and that will give me a second to say a perfect Act of Contrition before I die and no priest will be necessary.

  Sometimes I think I'd be the best Catholic in the world if they'd only do away with priests and let me talk to God there in the bed.

  17

  After the hospital two good things happen. I'm promoted to corporal because of my powerful typing when I turn in supply reports and the reward is a two-week furlough to Ireland if I want it. My mother wrote to me weeks ago to say how lucky she was to get one of the new corporation houses up in Janesboro and how lovely it is to have a few pounds for new furniture. She'll have a bathroom with a tub, a sink, a toilet and hot and cold water. She'll have a kitchen with a gas range and a sink and a sitting room with a fireplace where she can sit and warm her shins and read the paper or a nice romance. She'll have a garden in the front for little flowers and plants and a garden in the back for all kinds of vegetables and she won't know herself with all the luxury.

  All the way on the train to Frankfurt I'm dreaming of the new house and the comfort it's bringing my mother and my brothers, Michael and Alphie. You'd think that after all the miserable days in Limerick I wouldn't even want to go back to Ireland but when the plane approaches the coast and the shadows of clouds are moving across the fields and it's all green and mysterious I can't stop myself from crying. People look at me and it's a good thing they don't ask me why I'm crying. I wouldn't be able to tell them. I wouldn't be able to describe the feeling that came around my heart about Ireland because there are no words for it and because I never knew I'd feel this way. It's strange to think there are no words for the way I feel unless they're in Shakespeare or Samuel Johnson or Dostoyevsky and I didn't notice them.

  My mother is at the railway station to meet me, smiling with her new white teeth, togged out in a bright new frock and shiny black shoes. My brother Alphie is with her. He's going on twelve and wearing a gray suit that must have been his confirmation suit last year. You can see he's proud of me, especially my corporal's stripes, so proud he wants to carry my duffel bag. He tries but it's too heavy and I can't let him drag it along the ground because of the cuckoo clock and the Dresden china I brought my mother.

  I feel proud myself knowing that people are looking at me in my American army uniform. It isn't every day you see an American corporal getting off the train at the Limerick railway and I can't wait to walk the streets knowing the girls are going to be whispering, Who's that? Isn't he gorgeous? They'll probably think I fought the Chinese hand to hand in Korea, that I'm back for a rest from the serious wound which I'm too brave to show.

  When we leave the station and walk to the street I know we're not going the right way. We should be going toward Janesboro and the new house, instead we're walking by the People's Park the way we did when we first came from America and I want to know why we're going to Grandma's house in Little Barrington Street. My mother says that, well, the electricity and the gas aren't in the new house yet.

  Why not?

  Well, I didn't bother.

  Why didn't you bother?

  Wisha, I don't know.

  That puts me in a rage. You'd think she'd be glad to be out of that slum in Little Barrington Street and up there in her new house planting flowers and making tea in her new kitchen that looks out on the garden. You'd think she'd be longing for the new beds with the clean sheets and no fleas and a bathroom. But no. She has to hang on to the slum and I don't know why. She says 'tis hard moving out and leaving her brother, my Uncle Pat, that he's not well in himself and barely hobbling. He still sells papers all around Limerick but, God help him, he's a bit helpless and didn't he let us stay in that house when we were in a bad way. I tell her I don't care, I'm not going back to that house in the lane. I'll stay here in the National Hotel till she gets the electricity and gas up in Janesboro. I hoist my duffel bag to my
shoulder and when I walk away she whimpers after me, Oh, Frank, Frank, one night, one last night in my mother's house, sure it wouldn't kill you, one night.

  I stop and turn and bark at her, I don't want one night in your mother's house. What the hell is the use of sending you the allotment if you want to live like a pig?

  She cries and reaches her arms to me and Alphie's eyes are wide, but I don't care. I sign in at the National Hotel and throw my duffel bag on the bed and wonder what kind of a stupid mother I have who'll stay in a slum a minute more than she has to. I sit on the bed in my American army uniform and my new corporal's stripes and wonder if I should stay here in a fit of rage or walk the streets so that the world can admire me. I look out the window at Tait's clock, the Dominican church, the Lyric Cinema beyond where small boys are waiting at the entrance to the gods where I used to go for tuppence. The boys are raggedy and rowdy and if I sit at this window long enough I can imagine I'm looking back at my own days in Limerick. It's only ten years since I was twelve and falling in love with Hedy Lamarr up there on the screen with Charles Boyer, the two of them in Algiers and Charles saying, Come wiz me to ze Casbah. I went around saying that for weeks till my mother begged me to stop. She loved Charles Boyer herself and she'd prefer to hear it from him. She loved James Mason, too. All the women in the lane loved James Mason, he was so handsome and dangerous. They all agreed it was the dangerous part they loved. Sure a man without danger is hardly a man at all. Melda Lyons would tell all the women in Kathleen O'Connell's shop how she was mad for James Mason and they'd laugh when she said, Bejesus, if I met him I'd have him naked as an egg in a minute. That would make my mother laugh harder than anyone in Kathleen O'Connell's shop and I wonder if she's over there now telling Melda and the women how her son Frank got off the train and wouldn't come home for a night and I wonder if the women will go home and say Frankie McCourt is back in his American uniform and he's too high and mighty now for his poor mother below there in the lane though we should have known for he always had the odd manner like his father.