After her third visit in two weeks, Preisinger insisted on returning upstairs with her one morning to collect all her knives, which he then proceeded to sharpen in his smithy. Afterward, he refused payment. What impressed Klara most was that his work clothes might be black with soot, yet he moved with such a sense of where he was that no detritus was left in her clean kitchen.
Then, on a Saturday evening when he must have known Herr Hitler would be off to the Gasthaus for his beer, Preisinger came by on a visit, dressed in his Sunday shirt and suit. That caused no little perturbation in Klara (and in Angela), but he, too, was uncomfortable and sat on the edge of the sofa.
Yet Klara would look back on this occasion with satisfaction. That was because when Alois returned, he was even more disturbed than his wife at the sight of Preisinger installed on their sofa, huge hands clamped together in his lap. While the blacksmith departed soon after, he did bow to Klara and manage to say, “Thank you for your invitation.”
Alois waited until he and Klara were alone in their room.
She was contrite. “No, I didn’t invite him.” She shook her head as if to tumble a few bits of memory back into place. “Well, yes,” she then said, “I suppose I did.” She had been courteous, merely courteous. Adolf had been spending so much time down below with Herr Preisinger that she thought it would be polite to make a suggestion, no more, that Herr Preisinger visit them for her strudel. But only on some day or other. She had not specified. It had not been a true invitation.
“And did you serve him strudel?”
“Well, I had to. Does one offer a guest nothing?”
“A guest?”
“Well, a neighbor.”
On it went. Afterward, she never knew how much of all this could have been planned. She would deny such a possibility. Yet, not two days later, Alois informed her that he had sent a letter to a friend in the Customs House at Linz inquiring whether real estate was available in Linz or nearby. “I am bored here,” he told her. “The noise from below is becoming intolerable.”
A week later, an answer came. There was a fine little house at a good price in Leonding, not too far from Linz.
Klara and Alois knew that they would buy that place before they even went to look. Each was full of the same determination, if for altogether opposite reasons.
9
This would be all I need to narrate about Preisinger (since they would never see him again after the move), but I cannot leave the man without speaking of one of his final conversations with Adi, now that he knew Klara would soon be gone.
Preisinger had fallen in love. Needless to say, it could not be love with lively hope for the outcome, yet all the same, he had felt a sympathetic quickening in her. Conceivably, it could in time become a legitimate match. Her husband was certainly getting old. So Preisinger, full of his own hard-acquired dignity, was desolate when he heard that she and the boy would soon be gone.
He acted, therefore, in the only way he could. He took the liberty of offering up the depth of his working philosophy. The boy might be only nine, but by Preisinger’s estimate, there was true eagerness to know more.
“Why is iron so strong?” Preisinger asked, and replied to his own question. “Because it is in its spirit to be strong.” He paused. Any further exposition would depend on the boy’s reaction to what he would next be told. “Every material,” Preisinger said, “has a spirit which is its own. Some spirits are strong, some are gentle.”
Young Adolf did not reply but chose to nod. Preisinger decided to proceed. “Grass,” he said, “will bend before every wind. It is ready to give way to any foot that steps upon it. It is the opposite of iron. Even so, iron ore can be found deep in the same earth where grass grows above. And, once this iron ore is smelted you can make it into a scythe. A scythe is there to cut the grass.”
“That is so interesting,” said Adi, with real enthusiasm.
“Yes. You do not step on a piece of iron. Iron will hurt any foot that does not show respect.” Preisinger’s breath grew heavy with the ardor he felt for his subject. “That is because iron ore, once it has passed through the hottest fire, will turn into a unique material.”
“Unique?” the boy asked.
“Unlike any other. Unique.”
“Yes, that is so.” The boy paused. He hesitated to ask his question, then did. “What is a will of iron? How is that made?”
Preisinger was delighted. “Think of how hot a fire must be to call out the will of iron that is in the ore. Iron is strong against every force except the one that made it into iron. I will say that I have felt such a force within myself.”
Adi was agog with the incandescences necessary to create a will of iron. He even made the mistake later that night of trying to explain what he had been told to Angela and to Edmund. Alois, however, happened to overhear and roared with derision. “The mark of a truly stupid man,” he announced to Klara, “is that he takes his own occupation so seriously that he comes to believe it is superior to others.”
Nonetheless, Preisinger’s discourse on the will of iron was to prove of considerable use to Adi after he received his first serious whipping. The spirit of restraint Alois had been looking to develop came to an end on a given night when Adolf was playing soldier in the woods and continued to stay out long after dusk. Normally, as evening approached, Alois had only to whistle and Adi would race upstairs from Preisinger’s shop or come whipping back from the nearby woods. Indeed, if he did not arrive soon after the echo of the first whistle, Alois would put him over his knee and give him one rousing slap on his behind. In secret—he would hardly admit it to himself—he liked the feel of Adi’s buttocks.
On this evening, however, the light that lingered in the forest proved too exciting. It was night before the boy came through the door.
Alois had been brooding over Paula’s condition—just that day she had been trying to jump up and down in place (which, the doctor had assured Klara, would be a sign of development) but the child soon gave up. Despite Alois’ coaxing, she would not try again. Then, Alois had to whistle for Adi. When the interval became too extended and he had to whistle again, Alois decided it was a willful insult and proceeded to give him a genuine whipping.
Full of Preisinger’s precepts, Adi took an oath. He would live with whatever came down. He would fortify his will of iron. Even as the first blow fell, he was issuing orders to himself to fortify such determination by biting his lips.
Tears stood out in his eyes but he would not allow himself to cry. Even as he was being belabored, Preisinger’s mighty biceps oscillated before his eyes. Let his father injure himself against a will of iron.
BOOK XII
EDMUND, ALOIS, AND ADOLF
1
Since Leonding was only five miles from Linz, Alois could feel that he was near again to the active life of a real city, a longing he had not allowed himself to indulge in Hafeld or Lambach. For Klara, however, the house would have been more attractive if it had not been situated across the street from the town cemetery. On the other hand, this was the only reason they could afford it.
For compensation, the village church was near, and their new home sat within its own garden bordered by maples and oaks whose limbs had grown into such artful shapes that a godly spirit must have been present. So Klara decided.
Nonetheless, Klara feared the move to this Garden House—as indeed it was called. Part of the uneasiness came, I would warrant, from her friendship with Preisinger. He had aroused an interest that ought to belong only to her marriage. Now, on these streets of Leonding, many of the townspeople had faces sly enough to suggest that they knew quite a bit about these treacherous sides of life. While she had certainly lived in any number of more sophisticated places—Vienna, when she kept house for an old lady, in Braunau with Alois, and then Passau—she had never looked for anything larger than her duties or her family. Now she might be ready for more. Not permissible! So, for a time, forays to town were restricted to visiting the shop of Josef Mayrhofer,
who not only owned a fine grocery but was a fine man and the Mayor of Leonding. There she bought vegetables two or three times a week, and always dressed neatly for the occasion. She was friendly to Herr Mayrhofer, but invariably would say, “I can’t stay. There’s so much work waiting for me.”
She was of course still living with the conviction that she had given herself over to the Devil on the night when she thought that Alois had just killed Alois Junior. She could see the boy on the ground again and remembered her vow, “Oh, Devil, save him, and I will be yours!”
All the same, she was attracted to Mayrhofer. He was more worldly than Preisinger, and that could prove tempting. She kept telling herself that she must not ruin a good man.
I was witnessing a comedy. I knew nothing would happen. Mayrhofer happened to be as proper as Klara. Moreover, he and Alois had already formed a quick friendship. Alois was drawn to a man smart enough to be Mayor, and practical enough to own a prosperous store. In turn, Mayrhofer respected Alois’ years of service in Customs, particularly his promotions. Before long, they were drinking together at the tavern.
Nonetheless, a subdued flirtation stayed alive between Mayrhofer and Klara, and I continued to enjoy it because Mayrhofer, a man of honor, by his own measure, could not smile too often when Klara was near. Along with all else, he had a jealous wife. So Klara was doubly content to leave well enough alone. Alois had told her that the woman was a shrew and always pointing her finger. “These women who come to the store every day,” Frau Mayrhofer would repeat, “are just waiting to throw themselves at you.” Indeed, Mayrhofer confessed to Alois that years ago, he did have a small affair. Just one. Then his wife found out. His life had been a misery since. In turn, Alois was wise enough not to tell his new friend that in this regard, his own life might have been more agreeable.
At first, they drank only in the local tavern, but Mayrhofer soon confessed that given his position as Mayor, the premises were a little too raw for his office. After some deliberation, he even invited Alois to a Buergerabend, an evening for the town burghers. That was an occasion which took place on four separate evenings each week. The members could attend regularly or rarely, but it was an opportunity for substantial individuals to exchange opinions. These gatherings, explained Mayrhofer, rotated among the best four inns of Leonding and were held for the sole purpose of good talk with good prosperous company. The object, as Mayrhofer explained tactfully, was not to get drunk but to enjoy conversation. In fact, he did murmur that they had had a few tipplers who were not asked to come back. “We did it politely—as much as possible, under the circumstances—but it is essential, Alois, that a man must never appear to be even a hint unbalanced on these occasions. Merriment is certainly acceptable, but good manners are paramount.”
“I have to agree,” said Alois. “That is always the essence of fine and decent company.”
So Alois was introduced, and went through the considerable tension of sitting in with the local gentry. He most certainly did not get “unbalanced,” and he did return several times a month to keep up his friendship with Mayrhofer, who would not even go to the tavern any longer because of one dreadful occasion when a drunken lout tried to insult him. The malcontent had been told to leave by the tavern owner, and did, but the place was spoiled for the Mayor.
During the day, Alois now spent his time working in the garden or at his new beehive. He had purchased one Langstroth box, and to it added only a modest population. As he explained to Mayrhofer, “Some honey for my family’s use and gifts for friends—no more than that. At Hafeld, I used to feel so dominated by these little creatures. They are a force larger than oneself.”
“So is the Mayoralty,” replied Mayrhofer.
Soon enough, Alois grew impressed by the Buergerabends and purchased a book of Latin quotations. Retaining the phrases was a treacherous enterprise, however. His greatest problem these days had been boredom. Now he had discovered its loyal assistant—poor memory!
The greatest counterbalance he found against the long stretch of eventless afternoons at home was to play with Edmund. The little boy was more charming at four years of age than any of his other children had been, and Edmund stayed so close to him at the beehive that Klara had to make a little veil and sew up white pants to go with a white shirt and white gloves. Klara protested: “The boy is too young.” But Alois insisted, and so the two were out at the hive a great deal.
Before long, Alois had fallen in love again, a charming love, indeed, for he knew it was bound to be his last true romance. He adored Edmund. It was not only because his little son was so clever but that he was, in addition, tender and sweet. “If I had ever met a woman so perfect, I would have married her for forever,” he would repeat to himself as a joke. He did like humor that was bifurcated. He could picture the look of woe on Klara’s face if he ever told her this, and yet he also laughed at his own tenderness—for the boy and for Klara, too. So much of all that was good in her (which he was never about to acknowledge) was in Edmund too. As Alois measured it, the boy had his father’s intelligence and his mother’s capacity for loyalty. A fine balance.
Yes, so bright. And Edmund loved the bees. He did not even squeak too much when some of the sluggards crawled over his gloves on their way back to the hive entrance. Once he even received a bite inside the glove but kept from crying, so soon as Alois said, “We must keep this a secret. Your mama won’t let you play here again if she knows.”
“No, Father,” said Edmund, “she will listen to you.”
“It could cause trouble,” said Alois.
“That is true,” said Edmund and sighed. “Too bad,” he said, “it hurts. I would really like to cry.”
At which they both laughed.
Back in the house, they would play Customs. Alois even put on his old uniform (although he could hardly button the waist) and they pretended that Edmund was trying to smuggle a valuable coin past a border inspector.
“Why is my coin so valuable?” asked Edmund.
“Because it was owned by Napoleon,” said Alois. “He used to keep this guilder in his pocket.”
“He did not,” said Edmund. “You are teasing me.”
“No, I am not. It is part of the game.”
“I like that.”
“Yes, but just you try to hide that coin from me.”
“How will you get it back?”
“I will tickle you. Then you are bound to confess.”
“I won’t,” said Edmund, giggling already, and stepped into the parlor closet to hide the guilder. Struggling beneath the coats hanging from the rack, he wedged the coin into the cuff of his boot. That way, he did not have to undo the laces.
When he came out, Alois stared at him with a fair share of the malevolence he used to direct at suspects who were being interviewed.
“Are you ready to confess?” he asked.
Edmund was hardly frightened. He began to giggle.
“Very well. Since you are so insolent,” said Alois, “I will pat you down,” and proceeded to tickle him under the arms until Edmund dropped to the floor in a puddle of helpless mirth. “Stop it, Daddy, stop it!” he cried out. “I have to pee.”
Alois desisted. “But you are not ready to confess.”
“That is because I am not smuggling anything.”
“You are. We know. We have information that you have Napoleon’s coin.”
“Try and find it,” said Edmund, and began to giggle again.
“Oh, I will find it,” said Alois, and pulled off Edmund’s boots, shook them, then watched the guilder fall out. “You are under arrest now,” he said.
Edmund was furious. “You cheated,” he said, “you cheated. You did not obey the rules.”
“State your case.”
“You said you would only tickle, but you took off my clothes.”
“These are not your clothes,” said Alois, picking up a boot. “Clothes are garments. This is footwear.”
“You changed the rules.”
Aloi
s made a face. “That,” he said in a deep voice, “is what we like to do in Customs.”
For a moment, Edmund was uncertain. Then he began to laugh. Alois laughed so hard and so long that, once again, he began to cough, which, at first, was fine—he could clear some phlegm—but his coughing did not halt for many seconds, and then came a minute of paroxysms which brought Klara over to the parlor from the kitchen. Alois rolled his eyes at her and took a tentative breath. Had he come close, he wondered, to a hemorrhage of his lungs?
Edmund began to weep. “Oh, Papa!” he cried, “you must not die, you must not,” and the sound of his voice numbed the response of his parents—he had seemed so certain of the outcome.
“Papa, I know you will not die,” he now said in amendment. “I will ask God to forbid that and He will listen. I pray to Him every night.”
“I don’t pray,” Alois almost said. Still cautiously in balance from the reverberations of this attack, he could not speak but did shake his head at Klara. These pious women were the real smugglers—to steal across the border of a young boy’s mind, especially when he was so bright. Someday Edmund might be an esteemed professor, or even a legal eminence in Vienna, and yet his mother had to offer this religious pap, good oats for horses.
All the same, Alois was not yet ready to correct her. Religion was necessary, perhaps, for the very young. For now, he would leave it at that. There was so much beauty, Alois decided, in the boy’s love for his mother and, yes, most certainly, his father.
Up in his bedroom with the door locked, Adolf took his revenge on the sounds of laughter he had to hear from below. He chose to masturbate. The image he held in his head was a picture of Luigi Lucheni that he had seen in the Linzer Tages Post. It was the assassin’s small mustache, fixed to his upper lip just below his nostrils, a dark little daub of a mustache. That certainly excited Adolf. Once, at a time when he and Angela had still been sleeping in the same room, he had caught a glimpse of her pubic hair just as it had begun to manifest itself, no more than a patch of dark down, and Luigi’s postage stamp of a mustache was close in resemblance.
The Castle in the Forest Page 35
