Lisa, undoubtedly far less clear about all this in her mind than Kurt, ultimately found his persistence uncomfortable: why can’t he accept that I don’t want to be loved like that? He could be in clover if he’d only stay within the limits I set! She was annoyed. And when a girlfriend asked what sort of relationship she had with that Kurt Gerber, people were saying he was a nice young man, and where looks were concerned could well be in the running, Lisa would reply with more irritation that she really felt: yes, very true, but after all, she couldn’t do as everyone wanted! She had really said that out of embarrassment; it sounded as if she genuinely disliked him, and really she didn’t, on the contrary—but that was what she had said. And she liked the phrase, it put down roots and grew, becoming a firmly established intention which was not going to change. Sometimes she felt quite sorry she had come to that conclusion, sometimes, when she was with Kurt and he said nothing, and she looked at him—then her attitude softened, she felt that the young man beside her was different, you couldn’t just shake him off like anyone else, and then she suddenly stroked his hair or kissed him gently on the cheek. Yes, that might sometimes happen, not very often, but it didn’t change anything. Lisa Berwald had made up her mind not to give herself to a young man called Kurt Gerber.
Puffing listlessly, the train is making its way through the twilit snowy landscape. Sometimes it stops with a screech, lets out a loud and particularly bad-tempered gasp, limps a little farther and then comes to a halt; the masses of snow in front of the engine are too large, and must be shovelled off the line. Only when that has been done does it move shakily away again. No point in this, creak the wheels, no point in this. It has to stop again.
A ski-resort train. The local council of the village that at this time of year proudly calls itself a “winter spa”, a “skiing paradise” and so forth runs these trains several times a day on its own (very lucrative) account. They often take the more ambitious skiers several miles away to the finest pistes. They spare them the trouble of the upward climb, in fact; only the upward journey, because almost every downward course takes the skiers well below the village, and at the end of the trip they have to climb up again, unless they come to a halt earlier. With the trains on hand, however, you can ski all the way down; the “boozed-up old tub”, as it is known, of the train is down at the bottom and will take tired skiers back from the plain up to the place where the village clings to a slope halfway up the mountain range.
This is the last train, and because it has been snowing all day it finds progress difficult in the evening, as twilight falls by almost visible stages over these regions with their clear air—a gauze curtain, and then another, another—until you see nothing any more. Now three have come down, and as it is still snowing, earth and sky are the same milky grey colour.
The powder snow was too tempting, and most of the holidaymakers have stayed on their skis until the last train arrives. So it is full to bursting, passengers are so crowded in the carriages that some even have to stand on the outside boards, which is not very comfortable. They try to keep their limbs warm by moving all the time and shake themselves now and then, sending the snow flying off them in dusty clouds. Then they look longingly at the insides of the carriages, but there are still no empty seats, everyone who could get inside is glad of it. Across the roofs of the compartments, from luggage net to luggage net, countless skis are stacked as if they were dead hares, their ski bindings dangling like entrails. Water drips persistently from many of them—they belong to the beginners, damn them, who have forgotten yet again to scrape encrusted snow out of the grooves; sometimes it’s almost raining, and then those who have to stand get their chance to congratulate those sitting inside, who are getting a shower in the comfort of their armchairs. But then they have to stamp their feet again where they stand, to keep off the cold.
Good old Willi Wagenschmid is a splendid fellow. There isn’t a torn binding that he can’t repair at once, no young plantation of trees through which he can’t guide you, no inn where he can’t get the best possible deal however much the innkeeper may curse his persistence. And God knows what useless Sunday skiers would be occupying those two rows of seats now if Willi Wagenschmid hadn’t found the only open window in the whole train. While hand-to-hand fighting was going on at the doors, he climbed through that window, staked a claim to all eight seats, and defended them against all comers until the others arrived.
It turns out that Paul Weismann has a whole bottle of cognac with him. He hadn’t been going to bring it out on the way up to the resort, but now Gretl Blitz and Hilde Fischer have secretly opened his rucksack and are holding the bottle up in triumph. It’s to be emptied, they say, to the good health of Willi Wagenschmid, their rescuer.
There is enthusiastic assent to this proposal, and Boby Urban even suggests that Paul himself shouldn’t get any of it, to punish the grasping bastard for his meanness. But then Lisa intervenes. Lisa—she is looking radiant, and her pleasure in knowing it infects the others—won’t have any disagreements, even as a joke, she wants unclouded good humour; and because she puts all her charming kindness into her efforts to achieve it (not that they are recognized as efforts) she always succeeds in creating that happy, light-hearted, weightless, relaxing and relaxed atmosphere of merriment that has no beginning and no end, is simply there. She goes from one to another of her companions like a fairy-tale princess, embracing each in turn and whispering in every ear, “Did you ever imagine anything in the world could be as nice as this?” It’s a merriment that is only really true and genuine when you catch yourself feeling it, when you stare abstractedly at the ground and think, “Why, oh why can’t it always be like this?”
Kurt thinks so too when it is his turn to drink, and he takes a large gulp from the bottle, closes his eyes and lets the cognac spread pleasant warmth all through him, feeling very, very happy. He would like to fall down in front of Lisa in consuming love and gratitude, because it was she who invited him to join the party, and because she is so good to him here, almost too good, what has he done to deserve it? Now Lisa is smiling at him. “Do you like it?” she asks, and Kurt says, “Yes!” He says it quietly, bashfully, like a child reproved for being naughty: “There, now do you see that you were wrong?”
In fact all of them are very friendly; some have even taken him to their hearts. He is particularly flattered by the affability of Paul Weismann, the painter, and Boby Urban, the composer. But even Otto Engelhart, of whom Kurt has been slightly afraid, turns out a nice fellow. Not the smooth society sort, but you can rely on him not to spoil anyone’s fun; it’s only in minor matters that he is curiously obstinate. He has been very affable to Kurt, with a hearty handshake when they met: “Ah, so here you are!” Apparently Lisa has told him something about Kurt, who only wishes he knew what! The others also make out that they have heard a lot about him already, and Kurt takes a childlike pleasure in the ease with which they are soon acting as if he had always belonged to their group.
So now they are sitting in that boozed-up old tub of a train, seeming even more in accord than before under the influence of the cognac (and that is saying something, since they always get on well together; there’s never any quarrelling among the young people, who all seem to know and understand one another very well).
Willi Wagenschmid and Boby Urban are smoking short-stemmed pipes with their legs stretched out; they look a gruff couple in their blue Norwegian ski suits, green wind jackets and huge boots, and because the train is rolling and listing like a ship in a storm at sea, they strike up a few sea songs, amusing the whole compartment.
It is getting darker all the time outside, the gauzy curtain between the window and the air grows denser, the telegraph poles behind the train race past like shadows in a hurry. But you can still see the separate wires.
Boby Urban stands up and looks for the electric light switch on the wall. The occupants of the carriage, crammed close together as they are, move aside without much goodwill. At last he has made his way through,
presses the switch, presses it again—hello? What does this mean?
One of the bystanders speaks up: he could have told him at once. However, the passengers in standing room only feel quiet satisfaction when the nobs from the comfortable seats have to push their way through and then turn back, disappointed.
“I suppose the power’s off,” says Boby, not very imaginatively.
He supposes right. It’s been tried several times, he is told. Absolutely hopeless.
Boby goes back to his own seat and delivers his report. Would Willi like to try his luck?…
Willi would not. He’s tired out, almost asleep.
Soon protests are heard from other parts of the carriage. Put the light on! Where’s the switch? What, not working? Rotten luck.
And still two hours’ train journey before they arrive at their destination, and no sign of any guard aboard! (He would have tried in vain to push his way through the overcrowded train anyway.)
By now the whole carriage knows about this mishap, and the passengers are accepting it as best they can. Someone opens a window and leans out. There are no lights anywhere along the train. The sparks from the engine up in front are visible as little red-gold points.
And suddenly it is as if an abrupt realization has come over all the passengers, sitting and standing alike: they’re in a train in the middle of the dark night, full of people. Men and women alike.
The conversation is quieter now. Those who are couples move closer to each other. It will soon be pitch dark. And they all know what is bound to happen. They fold their hands in their laps and put their heads together. They wait. Like a flock of lambs silently but willingly letting themselves be driven to their watering place.
Some have already fallen silent, others are still talking in whispers. Here and there a match furtively flares up, is held carefully in the hollow of a hand and soon goes out again. No one wants to disturb anyone else. They are considerate.
The compartment is full of a quiet humming sound. Sometimes a brief laugh rises like a fish jumping up from the dark surface of a lake, and dives down again into the desultory chatter; its regularity is curiously exciting.
Night has fallen.
Kurt strains his eyes, trying to exchange glances with Lisa. She is sitting diagonally opposite him, and he does not regret that arrangement. He wonders what he would do sitting beside Lisa. Probably nothing. The feeling that he ought to be doing something would make him uncomfortable. Anything he did would probably be wrong.
And yet…
Hilde Fischer and Paul Weismann are sitting on his left, closely entwined, moving only now and then. Paul would probably rather be getting some sleep, but Hilde is so much in love with him that she will miss no chance.
Boby Urban and Gretl Blitz are different, not to mention Lisa and Otto Engelhart. Boby is asleep on Kurt’s right, his head propped in his hands. Opposite, Gretl Blitz and Willi Wagenschmid are asleep too, leaning against each other. Then there is Lisa, the only one still fully awake. And Otto Engelhart is dozing in the corner by the window with his arms folded.
Deep night reigns.
It worries few of them that it has fallen on them as they sit in a train. Night is night. The question is not: should we kiss now? It is: why should we not kiss now? The answer was given long ago. We are young. Who knows how often those of us who want to be with each other will get another chance to meet in the dark? Who knows whether you, my neighbour in the next room, will be going away again tomorrow? Whether you, found on the piste with a broken ski, don’t have someone waiting who will take you away from me, or whether you and you are simply compliant out of boredom, or you and you will stay away from me for a long time, for ever? Who knows?
No one knows, and no one is watching. It is cold and dark, and we are young.
Deep, deep night.
Kurt moves his foot, which comes up against something.
A wooden strut? A heating pipe?
Then—a warm shock passes through him—then there is a response to its pressure. At first he dares not believe it. Then he presses more firmly, and the response is firmer too.
After a few minutes he has Lisa’s leg firmly clasped between his, and through the layers of thermal padding and flannel Kurt feels the sinews of her strong thigh sometimes twitching briefly, as if the leg had a heart beating in it.
Happiness surges through him. And, because a stroke of luck seldom comes on its own, the train shudders to a halt—so abruptly that they all wake with a start, and Kurt thinks disaster is imminent.
Meanwhile, once calm is restored, Paul Weismann sleepily expresses a wish to lie down for a bit; he probably had too much cognac, he says, and now he has a headache.
Then someone will have to stand up, says Boby in some concern, and he stretches in his seat with obvious comfort. Otto Engelhart has snuggled down under his windcheater again, and Willi Wagenschmid, who made sure they all had seats, can hardly be asked to move. So Kurt gets to his feet and says, with pretended reluctance: well, he supposes it’s up to him, as the youngest, to pay for the sins of certain habitual drunks.
They all go along with his suggestion. And while, in the beam of a flashlight, Kurt despairingly watches a new seating arrangement being made, Lisa suddenly stands up and says, in a tone that will brook no contradiction, “I tell you what, children, you can make yourselves even more comfortable. I’m not at all tired, and I don’t mind standing until we get back—it can’t be long now.” So saying, she steps out between the two rows of seats and takes Kurt’s arm. “Anyway, it would be rude to make poor Kurt stand on his own.”
No one notices how firmly she presses his arm, and no one is surprised to find that once again it is Lisa who is fully in charge of a situation.
“Well done, girl of my heart,” mutters Boby, using Paul’s head, now in his lap, as a cushion. “Don’t forget to pay me a little fee when you take over this brothel on wheels!” And as he cuts any response short by grunting with satisfaction he stretches out in comfort, and obviously takes no further interest in the universe.
So now the opposite row of seats is occupied by Otto Engelhart, the two girls and Willi Wagenschmid, who switches off his flashlight now that everything is settled. It is pitch dark again, the train moves off once more, puffing, and soon all six are asleep.
Some of the passengers who were standing before are hunched on the floor now. So there is some room in the corner by the connecting door between carriages. Enough room for two people to be able to move slightly in it. Over there. Very cautiously. And keeping their voices down.
“Are you all right, Lisa?”
“Oh yes.” She feels for his cheek, strokes it a couple of times.
“Aren’t you cold?”
“A bit.”
“I’ll warm you up, Lisa.” He is close to her, his voice shakes, he breathes the words out.
Her arm lies lightly around his neck. And suddenly she puts her other arm round him too and holds him close, very, very close, and her firm body rears up to his, and now he has found her mouth and his teeth are digging into it, he grinds them, he sucks her lips, they are intertwined in a hot, untiring searching and finding and searching, as their tongues caress like two beasts of prey in an amorous game…
Whispered, meaningless words, hotly stammered out in incredibly blessed ecstasy. What happiness to be able to disregard the pitiful inability of words to express their feelings, what happiness to be able to give themselves up to uninhibited enjoyment again and again, what tearful, smiling, explosive happiness!
He strokes her profuse, waving hair, firmly, urgently, as if it might fly away from him. Her soft hand caresses the parting of his own hair, much more calmly.
“Lisa—why—why can’t it always be like this?”
“It can!”
“Then why—Lisa—why wasn’t it like this before?”
“Don’t talk, not now.”
What an excess of happiness—alone with each other! Both with our own burden of happiness. It gives
to us, it takes nothing away. The ultimate torment of unfulfilment: will you be my companion for life? Until we reach the same end—and I don’t know myself where that will be.
“Listen—when you stood up, just now—was that on purpose?”
“Silly you!”
No train is thudding along, no engine is puffing towards us. Fiery swarms of glow-worms fly past our intoxicated eyes. They fly away behind us, into the dark.
How unearthly, how strange that we can see them at the same time, one and all together.
You shouldn’t have done it, Lisa, you shouldn’t have kissed my hand. Do you want me to burst into tears?
I haven’t really wept in front of you yet. I was far too sparing with my tears. Forgive me!
No, not like that… I want to kiss your eyes, your forehead, your hair. Like this.
Perhaps you’ll weep again in my arms. That would be good…
The time races past, a captivating, carefree time.
Willi Wagenschmid keeps finding new routes on the tourist map, many a slope suddenly opens out ahead of the downhill skiers in virginal expectation; the tracks of the narrow skis cut through its smooth and dazzling skin like weals, so that afterwards you feel almost sorry to have destroyed its untouched beauty. Before, of course, all you feel is joy swelling in your breast, as if you had discovered a new part of the world and were now, rejoicing, taking possession of it. And when only the ends of the skis, turned upwards, emerge from the snow, gliding ahead of the skier’s body as if at the pressing of a magical button, and fine, white clouds of snow rise like dust around his feet, the strong pressure submits to the will of that body, and when you hear nothing but a quiet crunching, and you feel nothing but the clear, free air and see nothing but the glittering sky, then—yes, what then? Then the powers of the brain fail in the face of this unparalleled experience.
Young Gerber Page 13
