“Maybe we’ll both make it out alive. Then you can come with me to Donaublau. I’ll get you a job at the secondary school. As a janitor or something. Let me take care of it. I get along well with the principal. Let me take care of it.”
Wilhelm revered Rudolf, and he liked the idea of going to Donaublau with him, it sounded nice, peaceful. He was familiar with Rudolf’s tendency to swing from irate rebellion at the interminable madness of those years to soft, tranquil daydreams—and then to the naked fear he felt for Berta, the alpha and omega of his sentimental daydreams.
“Don’t forget the ‘Aquarelles’! Or the ‘Blue Danube’ either! You have to learn to play the fiddle. Swear to me. Cross your heart. I can feel it—I’m not going to make it back. There’s no use saying otherwise. I know.” As he said this, the Private First Class pointed at his temple. So firm was his belief that the assembly lines of war had already manufactured the decisive bomb or bullet that would bring his life to a close, that at times even Wilhelm came to think his friend’s survival unlikely.
Wilhelm never promised Rudolf he’d learn to play the fiddle; he was too old for that, he felt. But he did repeatedly swear, whenever Rudolf demanded it, that he would look at Berta through Rudolf’s eyes. It wasn’t hard to do: Rudolf could paint an aquarelle of Berta with words, so convincingly that Wilhelm could never see her except as Rudolf did, even if he tried.
And he knew he was thinking with Rudolf’s mind when he concealed from Berta the particulars of his friend’s death. But Wilhelmine insisted on wheedling it out of him.
It hadn’t been easy, but he’d managed to make his way to Allerseelengasse. Building 13 was the only one remaining that was halfway habitable. On the fourth floor, he’d knocked at door 12 and seen Berta with Rudolf’s eyes, a thing that wasn’t hard for him to do.
And Wilhelm kept the oath he had sworn to his friend. He stayed.
He even tried to learn the fiddle, but gave it up after a time. Berta started crying, utterly bewildered, when she heard the violent moans and groans he coaxed from the instrument; at last she took the fiddle away from him, saying, “Leave it, Wilhelm. Put it in the dresser. Leave it alone. It’s out of tune. I can’t tune it and you don’t know a music teacher who can. Just forget about it.”
“Be patient with me. I’m learning. Believe me, I really am,” he objected, and Berta simply smiled.
This smile he attributed to whimsy rather than contempt. And with time, Berta managed to convince him that she wouldn’t trade him for any man in the world. Not even for the best fiddle player.
BERTA’S ANSWER
Wilhelm shook Berta more and more violently, and his breath came faster and his face twisted.
“Why? Berta? Why?”
Berta giggled. “So. So,” she said, and her eyelids began to flutter open and closed, open and closed.
WILHELMINE ON HER WAY
Wilhelmine was restless, pacing back and forth in the courtyard. Her eyes scanned the north and west sides of the fortress. There was no sign of Wilhelm anywhere.
Wilhelmine was indignant, highly indignant. So great was her indignation that she waddled past the porter to see for herself whether everything in the fortress was in order.
She wheezed up and down the staircases, one hand balled into a fist, the other clutching her handbag.
Her indignation propelled her forward, and it was not until she became aware of the conflict between her movements and her indignation that sensible thoughts were able to once more work their way into her head. All the doors were closed, she saw; she was merely marching upstairs and down. So she waddled back to the porter, though it was difficult to track him down in this labyrinth. From him she learned that in order to get to Berta she had to take one specific staircase. She found this one staircase, wheezed her way up, sucked in several deep breaths while standing outside the door to the ward, then pressed the button, and the door opened.
She zipped past Sister Franziska Querbalkener, who called after her, “Hello! You! Madame! Where are you trying to go! That is against the rules! Hello!”
Once more, Wilhelmine stopped for a moment to catch her breath, and she used this moment to give Sister Franziska Querbalkener an annihilating stare: “I must be admitted to Ward 66, to see a certain Berta Schrei,” she said, in a tone that said quite clearly: “Don’t hold me up with your needling. I’m in a hurry!”
Sister Franzi shook her head. “Ma’am! You’re going the wrong way! Over here! Over here!” Wilhelmine again welled up with indignation. Yet after an arduous struggle with herself, she thought it best to let it pass, even if letting things pass was far from her strong suit. She nodded solemnly and said, “Of course. I know that. I’m not an idiot, you know.” And she marched past Sister Franziska Querbalkener with her head held high.
She stopped one more time, to gather herself in front of the door to Ward 66. She caught her breath before opening the door. Now she was in her element. She would create order, set matters aright, and save that catastrophe called Berta from Wilhelm’s doubting and brooding once and for all.
“So!” she said, and, “Here I am!” pinning Wilhelm in a devastating stare that clearly indicated what awaited him as soon as they had left the fortress behind. “Wait and see! Just you wait!”
INSEPARABLE FRIENDS
When Wilhelmine caught sight of Berta, she went up to her with arms wide: “Berta! You poor thing! How are you though? Just look at you! This hair! Who gave you this outrageous haircut?” She accosted Berta’s left cheek with a kiss, her right with another, examined her from all sides, took a look around the room, and declared with satisfaction, “The bed linens are clean and everything seems to be in its place.”
She ran a finger lightly over Berta’s nightstand and announced, thoroughly contented, “Indeed. No dust. That’s what I call order. See, Berta. Things have actually turned out quite well for you. They take care of you here. Here everything is in order, everything has its place.”
She pawed Berta’s cheek and then offered good-naturedly, “Isn’t that right, you poor little thing? It’s not so bad as all that. What do you say, my little dear?”
Berta giggled and dropped her head, ashamed. Hardly had the door opened when Wilhelm jumped up, jerking back his hand and sending the roses flying from Berta’s lap onto the floor. Desperately, he racked his brains for a clever turn of phrase, something to make light of the situation. He soon found it, or so he thought, for as soon as he spoke it aloud, he immediately regretted opening his mouth:
“You know our Wilhelmine, Berta! She sweeps in, tosses everything into disarray, and then, miracle of miracles (!), God looks down and all is squeaky clean.”
Wilhelmine’s eyes were on the Madonna. She sat down by Berta on the bed, ran her hand over Berta’s hair, reached nonchalantly for Berta’s necklace, and in a tone so gentle it made the sweat bead up on Wilhelm’s forehead, she cooed, “Berta! My child! My little disaster! You’re still holding onto that Madonna trinket!” She smiled, stared into Berta’s eyes, and Berta giggled, more ashamed than ever, before lowering her eyes to the floor.
Wilhelmine rested her right hand on Berta’s lap and left it there a long while, till Berta’s fluttering eyelids showed she had seen what there was to see on Wilhelmine’s ring finger. Berta reached up, let her arm drop, said, “So. So,” and set to twiddling her thumbs. Her own ring was locked up in the fortress depository.
Wilhelmine rolled the Madonna trinket back and forth between her fingers. When Wilhelm nudged her, she responded with an obstinate shrug. He wiped his forehead with the large white kerchief Wilhelmine had embroidered with a W and an S, then tugged at his necktie, opened the top button of his white shirt, and pushed the cloth down into his collar, mopping up the sweat on his neck.
“Wilhelmine. We have to go.”
Berta looked up, her eyes met Wilhelm’s, and in that moment he longed for the floor to open up and swallow him and Wilhelmine whole.
“So. So,” Berta said, and turned toward Wi
lhelmine: “He’s a good chauffeur. Does he take good care of you?”
Wilhelmine tried to look solemn, but was incapable of hiding the triumphant gleam in her eyes. Berta had understood!
“Yes. What can I say. There’s the occasional ‘if’ and ‘but,’ the occasional ‘on-the-one-hand’ and ‘on-the-other.’ But I don’t suppose he’s a bad man. He’s managed to make a little something of himself. No, he’s not bad. If you keep your ears open, if you look around the neighborhood, you can see he’s better than most.” Wilhelmine sighed. “If only I could break this habit of his, this doubting and brooding. That would be progress. But he just can’t seem to give it up.”
“Well then,” Berta said and twiddled her thumbs busily.
Wilhelmine felt the clock ticking and reached for Berta’s treasure one more time. “Believe me, my dear, believe me—life on the outside is no cakewalk. I would be happy to change places with you. You have everything here, there’s nothing for you to worry about, you’re always taken care of. No noise from the city, no bills, no rushing here and there. Just quiet, blessed quiet. No one curses at you, no one tells you off, no one makes you toe the line. You always were a bit of a disaster, weren’t you? Even as a child, no? But now all that’s finally over. You deserve a rest. You shouldn’t feel the least pang of conscience. I understand you, you know. Once someone’s been through what you have, they deserve a bit of peace and quiet. If they hadn’t sent you here, you’d be made out to be a black widow, a vulture, killing her children out of pure selfishness, to satisfy her own wanton urges, who knows, to have more time for her lover. Oh! People! Sometimes they’re so horrible, and from pure ignorance, too! People! I … I have to tell you that! But that’s no reproach, my little catastrophe. How could I reproach you? It was your disease that dragged you into this story, wasn’t it? Isn’t that the case?”
Berta giggled while Wilhelmine pawed her hand: “It’s true, it’s true. That damned illness. And anyhow, things are better for your children now, up there with the Lord God. They really were such miserable things, such sad little waifs. Most likely they’d never have come to any good. You shouldn’t reproach yourself. Everything does turn out for the best. And I mean everything. The Lord God makes sure of that. He knows there was nothing you could do about it. He knows what he’s doing. You poor, poor little thing, poor Berta. How can one person be so unlucky!”
And Wilhelmine pulled Berta’s head into her bosom, and as she looked down, pity and sympathy filled her shifty eyes; it was a commendable display of fellow feeling for the fate of Berta Schrei. The mercy she bestowed on this poor disaster made her eyes grow damp, and tears rolled down her fat cheeks as she turned Berta’s face to hers and gazed deep into her eyes. Moved by Wilhelmine’s compassion and understanding, Berta felt for the necklace with the Madonna trinket.
Placid and comprehending, Wilhelmine smiled, caressed Berta once more on the cheek, and said, “We’re the closest of friends, isn’t that so? We women understand one another. If only I could show you, in spite of everything, just how close I feel to you. But there’s nothing so dear to me that it would make a fitting gift for you. Really, I have nothing!” And Wilhelmine was aggrieved.
BERTA HANDS WILHELMINE THE CHAIN WITH THE MADONNA TRINKET
A few tears rolled down Berta’s cheek, a tremor rose up inside her and tugged at the corners of her mouth. Berta fidgeted with the clasp of the necklace for what seemed to Wilhelmine an eternity before she finally figured out how to open it. She cupped her left hand, laid the necklace inside it with her right, and stared at it, contemplative, almost brooding.
Wilhelmine was worried Berta might have second thoughts. Wilhelm held his breath. Just then he swore to himself that if Wilhelmine tried to snatch it, he would disregard her virtues and end their marriage right then and forever.
But she didn’t try to snatch it. Berta raised her cupped hand to Wilhelmine and said, “I have this,” looking at her as if she wished to say, “This is everything.”
Wilhelmine gave an extravagant sob, then moaned, “Berta! My poor dear! You can’t give that away! Berta! I simply can’t accept it! You have no idea what you’re doing!” She turned away, indignant.
Wilhelm sighed with relief. His fears had been needlessly bleak.
Berta came down from her bed, stood like a sparrow before Wilhelmine the dove, got up on her tiptoes, teetered, then, clumsily, but with unswerving resoluteness, placed the necklace with the Madonna trinket around Wilhelmine’s neck. When she saw what she’d done, she sat back on the bed, said, “So. So,” and began twiddling her thumbs frantically.
“Wilhelmine!” Wilhelm shouted. He had forgotten he was in a public place. “Wilhelmine!”
Wilhelmine looked over at him, helpless and contrite: “What should I do then, Wilhelm? What should I do? Wilhelm? You give it back to her. I can’t bring myself to spoil her happiness. You do it,” she whispered to him, and shrugged feebly.
Wilhelm knelt down in front of Berta, gathered up the fallen roses, and laid them back on her lap. “You have given Wilhelmine great joy. That was very generous of you,” he said, and cursed himself ten, twenty, a hundred times for every word he spoke.
Berta looked down at the roses’ slightly blemished buds, plucked off the petals and the leaves, giggled, and fell silent.
The inwardness she had struggled for, tirelessly and to no purpose, now suffused her face, and it would never leave her thereafter.
The Wise Little Mother saw this, and was pleased.
WILHELM CRIED AND LEFT
And Wilhelm cried.
The last time Wilhelm cried, he had been crawling after Rudolf’s head. Finally he grabbed hold of a shock of hair and pulled up on that trunkless head, thinking to seal away in his memory the features of his only friend, until he realized the thing he held was no longer Rudolf at all, it was little more than a scalp, that there was nothing left of Rudolf to hold onto; so he gave up and kissed what remained of Rudolf’s head, blown off by the machinery of war; he kissed the eyes, nose, mouth, cheeks, and forehead over and over, he daubed himself with Rudolf’s blood, longing to reattach the severed head to its torso, to breathe life back into his friend amid the torrent of bullets and grenades. His comrades in the trenches looked on with disgust as this bizarre spectacle unfolded, and went on dealing death from their various emplacements.
This time, Wilhelm didn’t wail or bellow as he had then, and his features weren’t quite so contorted. Instead, his sobs were soft, silent in fact; he cried without making a sound.
Berta’s hands edged warily toward his face, and she wiped away his tears, helpless and a little awkward. She looked past him as she did so. There was nothing left to say.
Wilhelm stood, turned around, and walked out. Wilhelmine watched him, perplexed, lingered a while longer in Ward 66, and finally said, “Well, Berta, until next time! Of course we’ll come visit you again!” Berta got up and pressed the roses into Wilhelmine’s hands, so forcefully that to refuse her would be uncalled-for. Berta turned, looked over at the Wise Little Mother, said, “So. So,” shrugged, and giggled.
Wilhelmine left.
WAS THE LONGING STILL THERE, AND THE BURNING SILENCE?
Having turned all the “on-the-one-hands” and “on-the-others,” all the “ifs” and “buts” over and over in her mind without arriving at any conclusion, the a-man-a-word-and-then-you’re-lost Berta turned to the Wise Little Mother for advice. “My Berta was looking inward, and so was my Rudolf. They really were, weren’t they? So why is it, Wise Little Mother, if I may ask you a question, why is it my Berta looked so little like the Madonna from the painting, and my Rudolf so little like the Christ Child?”
The Wise Little Mother twiddled her thumbs and said nothing.
“If I may ask the Wise Little Mother’s opinion. Could it be that the molding hands of life disfigured them once it was over? I’m only wondering. Could it be that the molding hands of life outwitted me? Is that something we should consider?”
The Wise Little Mother folded her hands and ardently prayed her “Hail Mary, full of grace …”
The a-man-a-word-and-then-you’re-lost Berta had really believed that the only thing she needed was to get the Madonna necklace back from the fortress depository, after which she’d be able to figure out whether or not the molding hands of life had played a filthy trick on her. Or perhaps she simply needed the Madonna trinket as a barrier to shield her from what she’d seen as she carried out her deed.
But even once she had it, a-man-a-word-and-then-you’re-lost Berta had still never mastered the inwardly turned gaze she had believed was her only means of finally triumphing over the molding hands of life. Only when she hung her Madonna around Wilhelmine’s neck did her doubting and brooding compulsion fall away from her like withered autumn leaves, and then she understood that she had lost, and that life, with its molding hands, the weight of things, had won. Was the longing still there, and the burning silence? Giggling Berta’s inward gaze gave no indication one way or the other. Only on occasion did the thing the old woman called the wound of life still flare up in Berta’s eyes.
A NEW RESPONSIBILITY FOR THE WISE LITTLE MOTHER
The old woman, well schooled in all that pertained to the wound of life, had seen straight through the events of 13 January, 1963.
“There’s no doubt about it. The wound of life is challenging me, trying to step in and hinder Berta’s recovery.”
The Weight of Things Page 8
