Europe After the Rain

by Alan Burns

  A crowd had gathered to read the funeral notice posted in the entrance hall. I felt her hand. “Lean against me – it’s cool.” “I want to tell you…” She spoke in slow, carefully articulated words: “A mistake. The wrong man. You find it strange?” She said her father’s men had fired the shots at random – part of their war of nerves – they were not concerned with whom they killed, as long as they killed. Her father had his own methods: the assassination was meaningful – the work of his brain – an excuse to wage sensational war. But she was trusted by the commander, and she would deal with him in her own way. “Get him in bed and stick scissors in his back. That’s the method. We shall make sure of him this time.” She took me to his room – she knew her way about – she showed me where they slept; she behaved like a wife; she said I could stay – I would not have to hide – I could sleep in their room.

  Chapter 8

  Holding himself above her, moving neither forwards nor backwards, the commander allowed her to survive; he turned with ease, mounted; just as he reached her, she shifted away – he pursued her; she shielded herself with her arms, facing him and crouching, she tried to escape; suddenly she turned towards him, hopeless – it was over. Failed, beaten, he continued in hope, really tired, not persevering; he did not share her panic – his exhaustion made it easy. As he woke, she prepared for a long fight; she was persistent; she stuck to her hate until it happened, but she was thrown off by his remaining motionless, by his motionless power. She endeavoured to close with him while she was strong – an amazing exhibition: she furiously hunted, grasped him; he flicked aside, he saved himself; she shifted to avoid the agony; it was driven home; there was no agony – he seized her neck and gave her a sharp hit at the base of the skull: it was over – swinging – no sound; she was overwhelmed; silence followed, clapping, whip-like, in the dense atmosphere.

  With his height and weight he knelt on her spine; they fell with violence: her shocked face and flapping hands, her wrists against the wood; discoloured eyes, stains of earth and tears, bruised lips, cheeks splashed with tears; his dog between her feet, her feet in its belly; streaks of black across his face, his fingers. The short whip with a pellet of lead at the end of its lash; the hairs in his nostrils; the gaze of pleasure. The fourth stroke tore her skin – the patches of suffused blood were at first dark red; sharply defined injuries produced by blows, rupture, the skin dragged in a particular direction. She was aware only of some dazzling, some flattening; very slight, her red reflection; I could see the folded skin – the muscle dislocated, the normal state interfered with, altogether lost. Her body shook with frightened movements – the movements in her chamber, unusually deep – complicated, dragging. She fell downwards and inwards; it occurred several times – her body was dragged back; the nature of the pain was not understood, the pain in the stretched membrane remained; portions of the membrane stretched in fine threads, detached by a blow; the blood lay red and fresh, then black; a fly moved slowly across and came to rest; glittering spots, small particles of white, appeared in the blood and danced about with slightest tremor of the skin, lasted for several minutes and disappeared, leaving the surface wet.

  No feet or stones – some soft thing, her head twisted sideways towards a basin of water. “Lie still.” A fat face, poor child, a smell of onions; the marks of his teeth on her shoulders. She tried to stand up. He threw a handful of sweets towards her. “No.” I saw her struggling; I touched her skirt. His fingers held her head, reached her elbows. I watched the pointed bones move, leant forwards and picked up her hand. I saw her teeth grinning – dim, squared shapes with a side still grey. I touched her mouth; he moved her arms and hands. I tried to help her – I saw her in the centre of the room, her throat, hair. “Her arm is broken,” I said. “Very well – strap it to her side.” He lifted her onto the bed; I watched the touching of the two of them, the specks on her fingernails, her white skin, freckled, reddened. They had both been hurt. He seemed taller, older. He set her arm in splints, bathed her mouth, brought a scarf for a sling. She bent down in front of him and, rather than look at her breasts, he turned his head away and examined the ironwork on the door. By their references to their childhood both seemed to have come from the same town. This irritated and depressed me. She ate from his hand; the feeding was done in silence – in his fingers the food became toys, coloured string, painted wood. He looked at her; they whispered; he kissed her face. No one spoke. He changed her bandages, trimmed the edges with her scissors. I handed her the scissors. She looked at me coldly: “You said?” “I? Nothing.” He bathed the wound, touched her body, humming. He took the bandages from her arm. “There may be a scar.” “Are you sure?” Her smooth face, pale mouth, thick hair. The ape was on her; I trained myself to watch.

  When she was bitten by his dog, she welcomed it with a bowl of milk; she put in some sugar; the dog ate from her hand saturated with cream. She hung like a black thread round its neck, her hair round the roots of its ears; she spoke to it, confidently. Her sharpened scissors were three-quarters of an inch long, longer and sharper than they ought to have been, for needless pain was inflicted. She sat low so that she could stab freely; she stabbed hard, seized the dog’s legs and twisted them so that they were dislocated, and it lost the lower joints as a result of this trick.

  I did nothing at all. I avoided killing the minutest insect. I walked carefully – examined every seat before sitting on it. I wore muslin across my mouth. I counted fifty insects lying on the ground. I scrutinized every bit of dirt lest I should tread on and crush something.

  I received word from her father of the plans being made outside. The advancing troops had surrounded an important town, and new attacks were planned.

  She stood still in the centre of the room. We waited – I by the door, the commander asleep on the bed. She would not cut his throat with the scissors straight away, though nothing would have been easier. She said she preferred the continuous presence of death – the long sickness. She went to him like a dog a hundred yards away from a building; she sniffed the walls, then went away without eating. He placed ice in a bucket; she licked the frozen cubes. I reminded her of the plan we had made; I described the state of the war outside – the changing fortunes; I hinted at the prospect of revenge. She showed no response; concealed the scissors, while he watched, listened, watched the other, ready to dodge violent attack.

  I went outside and started walking. I did not choose a direction, I could think only of what had happened to her, unable to believe that she had changed. I avoided the prisoners – I knew no one. I walked out of the camp without any idea where to go.

  Chapter 9

  Her father’s men had taken half the country – they had moved from the hills towards the town, so it was easy to make contact with them. I was stopped and threatened by their frontier police. I waited until the son came to me in uniform to thank me for what I had done for him during his illness. He was especially grateful that I had not betrayed him to his father; he distrusted me, but recognized my good qualities nonetheless. He was still a sick man. He told me his father had refused his request to serve with a fighting unit – instead he had been required to broadcast propaganda speeches to the other side. I remarked that this was responsible work – a compliment to his abilities – it would give him scope to speak and write. He said he was incapable of writing, he had never written a single word – he “spouted” what others composed.

  The father received me in his spacious and magnificent apartment: there I found him, sitting in one corner, near a window. I had remembered a more impressive figure – he was not good-looking as in his photographs. He wore the blue coat and darker blue trousers, his well-worn clothes contrasted with those of his handsome son, an imposing figure in rich uniform, whose hair grew low on his forehead, who wore armbands and epaulettes, each with a knot of gold. I paid attention to what the older man said while he listened to me closely; his penetrating mind at once absorbed the essence of each ques
tion; his answers were as sharp as a command. The son impatiently shuffled his typewritten script as he prepared to rehearse before his father the speech he was to make later in the day. In accordance with custom, he began with compliments: “Within three months our leader will revolutionize the country, restoring it to its former high position among the nations. But if conditions are allowed to worsen, three years may be necessary for this task… Wounded in the trenches, oblivious to personal advantage, our leader has succeeded in creating a powerful party, but has remained a man of simple tastes. He is generous and warm-hearted. If he chooses to live austerely, it is to devote all his energies to his great work; he lives in a modest palace – the only diversion he permits himself is playing the violin; he does not drink wine, nor does he smoke; he never laughs; he entirely prohibits any projection of his own personality; he is not only a clever, but also a good-hearted man; here is a man who resolutely puts the futilities out of his life, to leave place for nothing but work. A perfect gentleman – his charming wife, a clever son and pretty daughter complete the family group. His photograph, sent to all who apply, will be valued the more in the knowledge of how rarely he allows himself so personal a gesture. He is unfailingly kind to visitors – he receives them in the spacious and magnificent state apartment; there they find him, sitting in one corner, near a window, paying close attention to what is said; his penetrating mind at once absorbs, his answers sharp as a command…”

  I saw the son each day – it was a privilege to be his friend. He never failed to run after me in the street, calling a greeting until he attracted my attention. The father resented my close friendship with his son. He explained that there were those at that time who were in the highest positions, who had access to state secrets, and yet were known for their sympathies with certain persons. The son’s high station made him difficult to deal with. An order was made that all letters were to be left open except those addressed to the leader himself. The repeated leakage of news to the commander made them suspicious and wary.

  They accused me of failing to comply with certain regulations, though I performed my duties with straightforwardness and strictest impartiality, whatever my sympathies. When they tried to prevent my reporting interviews, if these were unfavourable, I pointed out that this prohibition constituted a breach of international law. They replied that they were not a party to these laws. Such lack of understanding I found disturbing.

  Certain messages related to the manufacture of munitions. Finding that the son was anxious to earn large sums of money, I arranged transmission of these messages through him. When he insisted that no message sent with his assistance should be against the interests of the country, I said that such requests confused the issue. He replied that, though he was and wished to remain a good friend of mine, he could not be a party to treason, and consequently it would be necessary to replace him. My conscience would not permit me to agree to this; my mission demanded his cooperation. I tried to persuade him that his work for me need not affect his other duties. I pointed out that he needed the money, which was his by right. I said to him: “I admire your character.” I told him what he already knew – that this work was being done in other capitals by other envoys. I increased the sums allotted to him, and he was finally convinced by this argument. But there were further complications.

  It was my custom to bring the morning papers to the father’s office. I knocked on the door at the appointed time. The son was there. The storm was raging. “What do you want?” the old man demanded. “To give you these papers,” I said, closing the door, never to open it again. I saw that nothing would change. For myself, I asked and received attention, I was promoted, but I realized that it was unwise to remain too long in foreign lands. The father was growing senile; one obtained favours only through his son, with whom one had to deal. Friends warned me that these were difficult and dangerous superiors to serve under, but for the time being I remained with them.

  When a serious dispute arose between the father and the party, he let it be known that if his son was raised in rank, the matter would be settled in an acceptable manner. So it was done, although raising a young man to high rank was contrary to all custom. The father was old and unattractive, and his lack of success in war worsened his chronic bad temper.

  It was impossible to rely on the son’s loyalty. There were many who sold information. They knew no side but their own. I discovered that, while he was taking money from me for disclosing secrets, the son was at the same time gathering information on my movements. I was cautious; my first duty was to preserve strict neutrality during those difficult days. When he asked me to work with him on a film he was to produce, I did not accept at once. I began to make enquiries. I found that both brother and sister were in the pay of both sides – that they exchanged secrets impartially. They had associates on the border, and messages were smuggled through several times before they were discovered.

  The son should have paid with his life. He was jailed for fifty days, on suspicion. Then it was proved that he had been falsely accused by a real spy – a deserter taking his revenge when the son said he would not take part in his treasonable schemes, and had flatly refused to provide certain information. The son was released to continue his criminal, dangerous work.

  The son came to me with a woman he called his nurse. He had been ordered to pay certain restaurant bills, but had left without paying. He had given my name and had been told that the man was unknown. I was annoyed by this feeble swindle. He then said he needed money to send to his sister. I promised to help. He returned within minutes to say that his sister had not received the money. I said it was impossible in so short a time. He said the money had been mislaid and produced a record of the correct sum sent. I said I would straighten the matter out by finding the money and repaying him. He would not accept this. I reasoned with him. He began to shout. I was obliged to call the police. He was furious. I could not understand him. He was one of the few I had trouble in dealing with.

  He was accused of supplying troops with cocaine, and he was detained on this charge. He requested help through friends. But justice could not be interfered with. At that time no one cared or dared to tamper with the law. However, the accusations were proved false, by other events which later transpired. After he was caught and jailed, he dared to telephone me begging me to pay his bills, which of course I could not do.

  The police planned his execution with unusual strategy. A senior detective was entrusted with the case. A friendship sprang up between them. They decided to escape to the frontier; police followed; they arrived; he grasped him by the throat: “You are detained as a spy. I am an agent of the political police.” He was brought home and judged, expelled from the party and shot, protesting that he was a friend of mine.

  His father announced that “the heroic defender had been taken prisoner after the demolition of the fort, after he himself had twice been wounded”. I was there when the father learnt of the son’s execution. He began to shout. “And they call it war!” It was a bad sign. I tried to interest him in the plans he had formed, the tactics he had originated. “What do we want maps for?” He snatched the maps from me. “We’ll want maps. You’ll see!” He unfolded the maps, replaced them on the table so that the battlegrounds lay face down; uppermost were the gentle hills and the sea, a fresh, unused blue. “I need a rest from this war. It’s peaceful there.” His finger pointed to a seaside town famous for its boredom and its waste. I said he should go there – the war would continue without him. His mood changed – to loud laughter and wild behaviour – I could see his son in him. A young soldier came in, from the son’s detachment. He stood waiting. “Have you news?” “There’s nothing left. No one.” “What do you mean?” “The situation has not improved.” He turned in military fashion, saluted and left. The father mumbled to himself. “These are details, details. He saw nothing, but that is not to say there was nothing. The man showed his blindness, that is all.” I pointed out that the “sk
irmish” took place close to the frontier; his son could have escaped, though nothing would be heard for months; he could be posted missing – this was the normal procedure; he could be alive in another country. I was relieved when he interrupted me rudely: “That’s nothing. I know that. You tell me nothing I do not already know.” He continued talking to himself. “I used to shave every morning; now see what I will do. I used to eat meat, and fish. I cannot be the lover of another man – even my son.” He staggered round the room; I insisted on helping him into his chair. I pushed towards him the model of the new piece of artillery with which his men were to be equipped, but he was not interested. He showed me again the photograph of his son in uniform. “Take a look at this. So you see. Better for him to have been shot than to be kept for ever in prison without trial. What could I have done to prevent it?” He stood beside the table; memorials of battles, tattered flags hung over the table. I spoke about his son’s desire to go to the front. He answered: “He’s disappeared. Finished.” He went on to discuss tactics. “The strength of their artillery – and for defence we use sheets of tin! Tin is useless in modern warfare! We must improve our supplies of steel, or we’ll all be blown to pieces! The leader must be cheered when he meets his troops; they attack with bayonets and are killed; the artillery goes on firing; they fight and are killed, hand to hand. The battle comes to an end. They cannot understand why it has taken so long, but if I have learnt the name of a village, it has been a necessary battle. I dream of the battle of annihilation. Kill them all, so there shall be none. Annihilation does not mean physical annihilation – annihilation means surrender, demoralization. A battle which goes on is not annihilation; annihilation means surrender. But these fellows fight. We must have artillery, the concentration of forces on one front, the direct blow against the enemy’s decisive forces, tactics face to face with tactics – tactics orientated towards the offensive, tactics adapted to defence, to terrain and climate, based on the simultaneous use of weapons for defence and attack, in the pursuit of the enemy. Activity which knows no seasons gives an absolute tactical advantage over the enemy; the enemy is to be misled about our positions and dispositions, our defence in depth, our tank defence zones. Night will cease to be a time for rest – we shall break through at night over frozen lakes and rivers, we shall overcome by force as the result of superior tactics systematically applied.”