Group Portrait With Lady

by Heinrich Böll

  “Possibly you underestimate the sociological insights of a group such as building and real-estate owners, but I can tell you this much: it has been known for a long while now that it is precisely these large old-fashioned apartments, which are relatively cheap, have certain amenities and so on, in which the cells are formed that are declaring war on our achievement-oriented society. The high wages of the foreign worker in this country are only justifiable, in terms of the national economy, when part of them is skimmed off in rent and thus, in one way or another, remains in the country. The three Turks together earn approximately two thousand and some marks—it is simply unwarrantable that they should only pay roughly a hundred marks in rent out of this, including use of kitchen and bath. That is 5 percent, compared to the 20 to 40 percent a normal working person has to pay. Of the barely two thousand three hundred marks earned jointly by the Helzen couple, they pay roughly a hundred and forty marks, furnished. With the Portuguese the situation is similar.

  “This is quite simply a case of the competitive situation being falsified in such a way that, were it to spread, it would actually, like some infectious disease, undermine, erode, disintegrate, one of the basic principles of our achievement-oriented society, of the free democratic constitutional state. This represents a violation of the principal of equal opportunity, do you understand? Side by side with this economic antiprocess—and this is central to the issue—there is a moral antiprocess. It so happens that conditions like those in Aunt Leni’s apartment foster communal, not to say communistic, illusions which, not as illusions but as idylls, are disastrous, and they also foster, well, not exactly promiscuity—but promiscuitivism, which slowly but surely destroys modesty and morality and makes a mockery of individualism. I could advance still further, probably half a dozen, aspects that make sense. In a nutshell: this is not an action directed personally against Aunt Leni, there is no hatred involved, no revenge, on the contrary, understanding and, to tell the truth, a certain nostalgia for that endearing anarchism, yes, I admit it, a touch of envy—but the deciding factor is this: these types of apartment—and our association has reached this conclusion after a precise analysis of the situation—are the breeding grounds for a—let us say the word without emotion—communalism that fosters utopian idylls and paradisiacal notions. I appreciate your patience, and should you ever run into any housing problems we are—without obligation on your part, merely on the basis of an understanding tolerance—we are at your disposal.”

  10

  In Schirtenstein’s apartment the same sort of things were going on as may have gone on in October 1917 in some of the lesser rooms of the Smolny Institute in St. Petersburg. In the various rooms various committees were meeting. Mrs. Hölthohne, Lotte Hoyser, and Dr. Scholsdorff constituted what they called the Finance Committee, whose job it was to examine the extent of Leni’s financial plight, records of seized articles, notices of eviction, etc. With the cooperation of the Helzens, Mehmet the Turk, and Pinto the Portuguese, it had been possible to get hold of letters, etc., that Leni had wickedly hidden, unopened, in the drawer of her bedside table and later, when that was full, in the lower section of her bedside table. Pelzer was attached to this triumvirate as a kind of general chief of staff.

  Schirtenstein’s function, together with Hans Helzen, Grundtsch, and Bogakov (who had been brought along by Lotte in a taxi), was to deal with “social action.” M.v.D. had taken on the catering, which meant preparing sandwiches, potato salad, hard-boiled eggs, and tea. Like so many samovar-laymen she was under the impression that tea is actually made in a samovar, but Bogakov familiarized her with the functions of a samovar, a giant apparatus that had been delivered to Schirtenstein’s apartment, so he told them, by an unknown donor, with a typed note saying: “For the many thousands of times you have played ‘Lili Marleen.’ From someone you know.” M.v.D., like all housewives in her age group, with no experience in tea-making, had to be persuaded almost forcibly to use at least four times as much tea as she had intended. She turned out, incidentally, to be wonderfully resourceful, and as soon as she found herself with a head start on her food preparations she took the Au.’s jacket, looked—for a long time in vain but then, with Lotte’s help, successfully—in Schirtenstein’s chest of drawers for his sewing kit, and began, with consummate skill and no glasses, to mend the jacket’s painful wounds from inside and out, with a skill that, while not certified by any diploma, was tantamount to invisible mending.

  The Au. took himself off to Schirtenstein’s bathroom, whose opulent dimensions and enormous bathtub delighted him no less than Schirtenstein’s supply of fragrant toiletries. Lotte having discovered, before he could prevent it, the tear in his shirt, Schirtenstein lent him a shirt which, despite a certain discrepancy in chest and collar measurements, was thoroughly acceptable.

  One is fully entitled to describe Schirtenstein’s apartment as ideal: an old-fashioned building, three rooms facing the courtyard, one of them containing a grand piano, his library, and his desk, the second room, almost warranting the term enormous (dimensions—merely paced out, not measured with a tape: twenty-three by twenty), containing Schirtenstein’s bed, clothes closet, chests of drawers, with scattered files containing his collected reviews; the third room was the kitchen, none too large but adequate, and then that bathroom which, compared with a bathroom in any modern building in terms of both spaciousness and fittings, seemed extravagant, not to say luxurious. The windows were open to the courtyard, overlooking trees that were at least eighty years old, an ivy-covered wall, and while the Au. was prolonging his bath a sudden silence fell in the adjoining rooms, a silence that had been commanded by a vigorous “ssssh” from Schirtenstein.

  And now something happened that temporarily distracted the Au.’s thoughts from Klementina, or rather, considerably intensified them, painfully in a way. Something wonderful happened: a woman was singing—it could only be Leni. Those who have never wondered what the lovely young Lilofee was like would perhaps do best to skip the next few lines; but those who have ever invested a little imagination in the lovely Lilofee, to those we say: only thus can she have sung. It was a girl’s voice, a woman’s voice, yet it sounded like an instrument, and what was she singing out into the quiet courtyard, through the open window into open windows?

  I made my song a coat

  Covered with embroideries

  Out of old mythologies

  From heel to throat;

  But the fools caught it,

  Wore it in the world’s eyes

  As though they’d wrought it.

  Song, let them take it,

  For there’s more enterprise

  In walking naked.

  From an existential point of view, the effect of that voice singing those words out into the courtyard into which it had probably sung—unheard and with unheard-of beauty—more than forty years ago, was such that the Au. had difficulty restraining his T., and finally, because he asked himself why one should always hold them back, allowed them to flow unimpeded. Yes, here he was overcome by W., yet he felt B. and, since he finds it extremely difficult to keep himself from thinking in literary terms, he suddenly felt doubtful of the information he had been given regarding Leni’s books; was it possible that a search had been made, with all due care, in trunks, shelves, closets, but that a few books once belonging to Leni’s mother might have been overlooked, books by an author whose name had been withheld for fear of mispronouncing it? There was no doubt that among Leni’s books there were still riches to be discovered, hidden treasures known to her mother as a young girl back in 1914, or at the latest 1916.

  While the Finance Committee had still not clarified their problems, the Social Action Committee had suddenly realized that, while those brutal measures were to get under way at seven-thirty in the morning, the offices in which it might be possible to have these measures stayed would not open until the same hour; that—in this connection Schirtenstein had made some fruitless telephone calls to a number of attorneys, even district a
ttorneys—it was impossible to have these measures stayed during the night. The question therefore was how to gain time, the almost insoluble problem: how could the forced evacuation of the apartment be delayed until nine-thirty or so?

  Pelzer temporarily placed his expertise and useful connections at the disposal of the Social Action Committee, made telephone calls to a number of moving companies, bailiffs, fellow members of his Mardi Gras club, the “Evergreens,” and since it turned out that he was also a member of a male choral society “which was swarming with lawyers and people like that,” he did at least manage to ascertain that it was virtually impossible to get a legal stay of proceedings. Once more at the telephone, he suggested to a person whom he addressed as Jupp the possibility of a truck breakdown which he—Pelzer—“would be quite prepared to pay for,” but Jupp, who was apparently supposed to do the moving, would not bite, it seemed, thus prompting Pelzer’s bitter comment: “He still doesn’t trust me, still doesn’t believe in my purely humanitarian motives.”

  However, now that the magic word “breakdown” had been uttered, Bogakov had what amounted almost to an inspiration. Wasn’t Lev Borisovich a garbage-truck driver, and weren’t Kaya Tunç the Turk, and Pinto the Portuguese, garbage-truck drivers too, and mightn’t garbage-truck drivers have something like solidarity with their jailed buddy and his mother? How—thus Pinto, who looked just as rustic as Tunç and, since he did not appear to be needed on either the Finance or the Social Action Committee, was peeling potatoes in the kitchen while Tunç was in charge of the samovar and preparing the tea how—thus both now—could mere solidarity do any good? Were they supposed—in hurt and contemptuous tones now—to demonstrate solidarity in empty bourgeois phrases (they expressed it differently: “Words, words, nothing but words from them bourgeois”), while ten human beings, including three children, were being legally evicted?

  But here Bogakov shook his head, obtained silence by a painful gesture of his arm, and told them that many years ago, in Minsk, when he was a schoolboy, he had seen how reactionary forces had prevented some prisoners from being driven away. Half an hour before the trucks were due to leave, a false fire alarm had been turned in, care being taken, of course, to see that the fire trucks were being driven by reliable comrades; then, outside the school where the prisoners were locked up, the fire trucks were made to collide in such a way that even the sidewalk was blocked, causing a simulated pile-up. This way time had been gained, and the prisoners—all accused of desertion and armed mutiny, soldiers and officers in real peril of their lives—were freed through the rear exit.

  Since Pinto and Tunç, as well as Schirtenstein and Scholsdorff (the latter having hurriedly joined the group), still did not understand, Bogakov proceeded to explain. “Garbage trucks,” he said, “are pretty heavy objects which even at the best of times are not particularly salubrious to have around in traffic. You know how they’re always causing traffic jams; now if two, or better still, three garbage trucks collide here at the intersection, this whole part of town will be impassable for at least five hours, and that fellow Jupp won’t get within five hundred yards of the building with his truck, and since he would only be able to get to the building by driving the wrong way down two one-way streets, if I know anything about Germans we’ll have an official stay of execution long before he gets here. But just in case he does cover every angle, that’s to say gets permission to use the one-way streets on emergency grounds, just in case that happens two garbage trucks must collide at the other intersection.”

  Schirtenstein pointed out that there were bound to be repercussions, especially for foreign truck drivers, if they were found responsible for all this, and that some thought should be given to whether it would not be better to persuade Germans to do the job. To this end, Salazar was given streetcar fare and sent on his way, while Bogakov, equipped by Scholsdorff with pencil and paper, drew a map on which, with Helzen’s help, he marked in all the one-way streets. It was decided that a collision of two trucks would be enough to create such total chaos that Jupp’s vehicle would get hopelessly stuck half a mile or so from the apartment. Since Helzen knew something about traffic statistics and, in his capacity as an employee of the highways department, the exact size and tonnage of a garbage truck, he came to the conclusion, working side by side with Bogakov over the strategic sketch map, that “it would almost be enough if a single garbage truck drove into that lamppost or this tree.” But it would be better to have a second truck cause a further accident by ramming the first one. “What with the police and all that rigmarole, that’ll take at least four to five hours.”

  Thereupon Bogakov was embraced by Schirtenstein, and when asked if there was anything Schirtenstein could do for him Bogakov replied that it was his dearest, perhaps his last wish—for he really was feeling lousy—to hear “Lili Marleen” one more time. Since he had never met Schirtenstein before, malice cannot be suspected here, merely a certain Russian naiveté. Schirtenstein turned pale but proved himself a gentleman by immediately going over to the piano and playing “Lili Marleen”—probably for the first time in about fifteen years. He played it through without a mistake. Apart from Bogakov, who was moved to tears, those who showed pleasure in the song were Tunç the Turk, Pelzer, and Grundtsch. Lotte and Mrs. Hölthohne held their hands over their ears, M.v.D. emerged grinning from the kitchen.

  Tunç, once again businesslike, said he would be responsible for the fake accident, he had a record of eight years’ accident-free driving to the satisfaction of the city truck pool, he could afford an accident, but he would have to change, or rather exchange, his route; this would require some prior arrangement which, though difficult, would not be impossible.

  Meanwhile the Finance Committee had achieved some results. “But,” said Mrs. Hölthohne, “let’s face it, the results are staggering. The Hoysers have got their hands on everything, they’ve even bought up the debts to other creditors, including the gasworks and waterworks accounts. The whole sum amounts to—brace yourselves—six thousand and seventy-eight marks and thirty pfennigs.” Incidentally, the deficit coincided almost exactly with the loss of income caused by Lev’s arrest, thus proving that Leni was perfectly capable of balancing her budget; so what was needed was not a subsidy, in other words money down the drain, merely a loan. She took out her checkbook, placed it on the table, made out a check, and said: “Twelve hundred to start with. That’s the best I can do at the moment. I’m overextended in Italian long-stems—Pelzer, you know how it is.” Pelzer, before drawing out his checkbook too, could not refrain from a moralizing comment: “If she’d sold the building to me this whole trouble would never have happened, but never mind, I’ll give fifteen hundred. And”—with a glance at Lotte—“I hope I won’t be considered a pariah the next time someone needs money.” Lotte, ignoring Pelzer’s hint, said she was broke, Schirtenstein assured them convincingly that with the best will in the world he could not drum up more than a hundred marks; Helzen and Scholsdorff contributed three and five hundred respectively, Helzen stating that he would reduce the balance of the debt by paying a higher rent.

  Scholsdorff now declared, with a blush, that he felt under an obligation to assume the balance, since he had been to blame—only to a greater or lesser degree, it was true, but causatively one hundred percent—for Mrs. Pfeiffer’s financial plight; the trouble was that he had a vice which imposed a constant restriction on the liquidity of his assets, he was a collector of Russiana, especially holographs, and only the other day he had acquired at great expense some letters of Tolstoi’s, but he was prepared to start taking the necessary steps with the authorities first thing in the morning and to speed things up, and because of his connections he was sure he could get a postponement, particularly if he took out a loan against his salary—which he would do as soon as the bank opened in the morning—and went with the whole amount, in cash, to the proper authorities. Incidentally, he felt sure half would be enough to go on with if he promised the rest by noon. After all, he was a civil servant, k
nown to be trustworthy, and besides, after the war he had made Leni’s father several personal offers of private restitution which had been declined, but now here was a chance for him to atone for his philological sins, whose political dimensions he had not realized until it was too late. One really had to see Scholsdorff: the complete scholar, not unlike Schopenhauer in appearance—the T. in his voice were unmistakable. “But what I need, ladies and gentlemen, is at least two hours. I do not approve of the garbage-truck action, I will accept it as a final resort and, despite the conflict with my oath as a civil servant, I will say nothing about it. I assure you that I too have friends, influence; a spotless record of service, contrary to my inclinations yet apparently not to my talents and now extending over a period of almost thirty years, has earned me friends in high places who will speed up the stay of execution. All I ask of you is: give me time.”

  Bogakov, who had meanwhile been studying the city map with Tunç, felt that the only possibility would be in a detour, a faked breakdown, or a wait in a quiet side street. In any event Scholsdorff was promised the time he requested. Schirtenstein, even before he could begin to speak, interrupted himself with a vigorous “ssssh”—Leni was singing again.

  Like your body swelling fair,

  Ripening vines make gold the hill,

  A distant pond gleams smooth and still,

  The reaping scythe rings through the air.

  Peizer’s comment on this, after an almost awed silence broken only by Lotte’s derisive titter: “So it’s true then, she really is pregnant by him.” Which only goes to show that even exalted poetry has its grass-roots communication value.