Untitled Robert Lautner

by Robert Lautner

  Questioning was treason. Ban smoking in public, ban books, music, film, gatherings. And you abide to appease your neighbour who might report you, and the people police themselves. And that was how it was done. You saluted without thought and beggars saluted the heartiest of all for the change in your pocket. The people would police themselves. We would all become cameras to show the transgressors. Judge each other without being asked to do so. This the future.

  I went to the window, my usual habit. Standing beside an open window to blow my smoke away from Etta behind me. It was a clear night. The best stars. The plumes from the chimneys of the furnaces rose up across the moon. I could see the lights from the buildings. I did not have a watch but there was a clock in the kitchen, a tin alarm clock like the type they have in schools to time tests. It was near one in the morning. And the ovens were still going.

  Chapter 23

  Klein picked me up at eight. He bemoaned that the ash from the camp was in town also. Even with the windows closed. A fine grey dust over every surface in the room. He had complained and had gained a reduction from his bill but still it chagrined with him.

  ‘They should clean the rooms twice a day if they knew that to be a problem. Disgraceful. Did you sleep well, Ernst?’

  We were already on the road home. I had risen with the men an hour before. They boiled a pan of eggs, six at a time, and allowed me the first. We used the hot water from the eggs to shave. Four of us around the sink together. There was something happy about it despite the location. Like camping. They laughed at dirty jokes and we shared mugs of tea with goat’s milk and spoonfuls of sugar with black specks that I hoped were tea-leaves. I think I preferred this breakfast more than the one I would have had at the hotel. There was a warmth to it that made me forget the day before. A better memory to load on top of it. Keep that one. Push the other aside. How war is lived.

  I broached the question of Etta. ‘Did you manage to call my wife, sir?’

  ‘There was no answer. I had to go through three exchanges. Took me twenty minutes. I wasn’t going to try again. Perhaps she was asleep.’ He passed over a piece of paper, headed from his hotel. The number. Erfurt 4703. The number I had requested to the operator. I was right. It had rung. And there had been no reply.

  ‘You can try her again, at luncheon. Once we are into Germany proper. Not this cow-dung outpost.’

  Twenty-four hours without her voice. The longest time apart since we had met. I felt like an adulterer. I cannot explain that. You have to be married, and married well to understand.

  *

  We stopped in Görlitz, which Klein informed was Germany at last, divided from Poland only by a river, but still Germany.

  ‘We have destroyed all the bridges to the other side. If the Allies want Poland they will have to leave that to the red-jackets. They took it for us in ’39. I am sure they would love to do so again.’

  I got out of the car. ‘Surely it is all Germany, sir?’

  We were in Peter Street, could park on the street for it was devoid of cars. Park up right to the sandstone walls of the restaurant like royalty.

  ‘This is Prussia not Saxony. Scratch hard enough here, Ernst, and you will find either a communist or a Jew.’

  We walked into the restaurant, all white alcoves and arches, Görlitz as medieval as Erfurt. I spied the telephone at the bar and went to it before Klein could protest.

  I was still unsure of my fortune with the device and asked the barman to make the call. His eyes on my suit, fixed on my pin.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Moments later I was talking to Etta, heard her voice.

  ‘Ernst!’ her voice was cracked. ‘I was so worried. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Everything is fine. I tried to call. You did not answer. Last night I had to sleep at the camp. Herr Klein called you for me from town. He could not get through either. Are you all right?’

  She paused. ‘I have not moved. I have been here the whole time.’ She said this slowly. ‘Perhaps the machine has a fault. It clicks a lot. Can you hear it?’

  ‘No. As long as you are all right.’ The barman watching me. The word ‘camp’ had sprung his ears. I could not say all the things I wanted to in front of his astonished face. The sanity that was her voice. The joy of it even in its electric distortion.

  ‘I’ll be home in about three hours. We are just having lunch now.’

  ‘Where are you? You spent the night at the camp? Oh, Ernst.’

  ‘It was fine. We are in Görlitz. I’ll tell you about it later. See you soon.’ No romantic goodbye. No word on yearning for her. She knew I did not do such in public, would appreciate my not cooing in company. I thanked the barman and found Klein’s table. He pointed at my bowl.

  ‘A carrot and pumpkin soup,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it will remind you of your mother’s.’

  He did not ask about Etta. I felt like I was home now. That was enough.

  Chapter 24

  I came back to the house just after six. Klein reluctantly dropped me right outside. Reluctant because he would have to go back on himself to get home. If there had been a bus I am sure he would have put me on it. Would have made me understand how pointless it was for him to sacrifice such waste of his time for us both.

  There was a monster of an automobile parked in front of Klein’s Opel, the only other car on the street.

  ‘A Mercedes-Benz. W150.’ Klein was impressed. To me the car looked like it came from another decade. Dated. Imperial. A rich old man’s vehicle.

  ‘There are only maybe eighty of them in the world,’ he said. ‘Our Party’s leaders all have one. It is so exclusive they do not even advertise the price. Do you know someone with such a car, Ernst?’ His voice intimated this impossible. I was only grateful that there were no runes on the car’s plate.

  ‘No, sir,’ I said, but thought otherwise. I got out with my jacket and bag, the plan poking out, and looked at the stately car as Klein crawled off past it respectfully. I could see his head craning at it.

  I knew only one man who could afford such and so was not too surprised to find Paul sitting in my chair in the parlour. I had taken in the pipe smoke as I entered the hall. Etta in her chair. Beside the telephone. She stood to greet me home, wrapped me in her arms and that was all I wanted. The stress left me, the tension gone. I did not care to know about Paul, had forgotten Klein and the camp.

  I was home.

  Etta broke our embrace, stood back, her hands to my shoulders.

  ‘I called Paul to come over last night when you did not call.’ This not mentioned on the telephone. ‘I did not know what else to do. I was so worried about you. And spending the night alone here.’

  Paul scraped his pipe from his teeth. He did not stand.

  ‘I wouldn’t have come if I’d known you had no sofa. I would not sleep in your bed, Ernst, separate or not.’ The pipe went back to his lips. ‘Floor’s not so bad though. With enough blankets.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Thank you. My boss admired your limousine.’

  ‘Seemed a good idea at the time. Petrol ration does not make it as fun as it was. Good to see you, Ernst. Tea?’

  ‘I need to get the road off me first.’

  Etta squeezed my hand, picked up the cups they had been drinking together, and went to the kitchen. I took her seat and began to roll a cigarette. Paul pointed his pipe to my bag by the door. The paper tube of the plan unmistakeable.

  ‘Etta said you were at the camp. At Auschwitz. Are those new oven plans?’

  I rolled the cigarette paper across my mouth and watched him.

  ‘She should not say such things. I am not permitted to talk about the plans.’

  ‘Surely you can tell your wife? Why would an oven be so secret?’

  ‘The ovens are for the SS. I do not think they tell the public anything. I do as bid.’

  ‘By them?’

  ‘By my employer.’ I struck a match and he waited until I had fixed myself within and blew a blue cloud to h
ide behind. Some enormous relief went out in the smoke.

  ‘You showed me the plans before. Could I not have a look at these? I am in the trade after all. Use their ovens. I could help. Maybe invest in Topf if they are onto something.’

  ‘That does not sound ethical.’

  He laughed.

  ‘You think business is ethical, Ernst? Inside knowledge defines the bankrupts from the ones who drive Mercedes in recessions. In war. Have you seen anything ethical with Topf? How many German and allied companies do you think work with the SS?’

  The chuckle went on, pleased with himself, and the room became cloudy between both our smoke.

  ‘They have no choice.’

  ‘There is always a choice.’

  The kettle whistled. I went to help my wife.

  *

  ‘Why would you call him?’ I asked Etta as she made up a tray. ‘Why not one of your friends from the café?’

  ‘Do you think any of my friends can afford a telephone? Your parents do not even have one. The only numbers we have are Paul’s and your factory. I had not heard from you and I was worried. I hope I can trust your friends?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry I could not get through, Etta. I rang the right number.’

  ‘Perhaps the hook thing, the cradle, was not right. Does it matter now?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry I left you alone.’

  ‘I was not alone.’ She took up the tray. ‘I missed you so much, Ernst. Isn’t that silly? One night and I felt bereaved.’

  I followed her out. ‘It is not silly at all. That is how it should be.’ I watched the back of her head. Imagined her blushing smile.

  *

  I excused myself as soon as Etta had poured the tea and took mine to the bathroom to wash off the day, the night. I wanted to bathe, looked at the bath, considered it for too long and I heard the radio come on downstairs. Kraus instead of Wagner. It would be rude to bathe. I loosened my tie and rolled off my braces.

  Water, soap, mirror, towel. Something human coming back at me from the glass. I buried my face in the cloth and breathed through it. I looked at the water in the basin. A grey sludge, a foam on the surface. I ruffled my hair. More ash. I looked at the mirror again. A film of dust. I wiped my hand over, through the strange grease of it. On my hand again. I emptied the basin and washed again. Again and again. I recalled the rawness of Prüfer’s hands. I took the towel, held it out to wipe the mirror. The negative of my face imprinted on it. I threw it to the bath.

  Muffled laughter from the parlour. I sat on the bath’s edge, drank my tea, thought on Paul. Etta had called him. True, the only number she had. But she had followed me to Weimar, found me at the Party offices. I had to ask Paul where it was. I never questioned if she had done the same, that she might know where his crematoria was. Or had she merely asked a kindly rail conductor at the station? I did not know. Had not thought on it. And should I? One night apart and Paul had driven his yacht of a car to spend the night with my wife. He knew we had separate beds. Had mentioned it. My wife who kept her laundry secret from her husband had shown his friend her bedroom. And I had rung the correct number, even if Klein had only pretended to do so, I had rung the right number. And she did not answer. More laughter from the parlour. The radio barking something in that didactic staccato spittle that announcers use nowadays. News. Always news. Our army always winning. Strategy in withdraw. My tie. I lifted it and looked at the pin. Paul would have seen the pin. Did not mention it. And then I jumped up. Knocked the cup to the tiled floor into pieces.

  I had left the plan with him.

  Fool. Idiot.

  I picked up the china debris. Tried not to rush down the stairs.

  *

  They were not laughing when the man with the broken cup entered. They were standing, close together, stared at me. They were too close, the radio was shouting. I gripped the broken pieces in my fist. Etta to me before I could speak.

  ‘Ernst! The radio says we have withdrawn from Anzio. From Italy. They say it is for an assault on England. We will give Rome back to the Allies! What does it mean?’

  Paul sucked on his pipe. ‘It means they are losing. I hear the Soviets have also retaken Sevastopol and Crimea.’

  I looked to my bag. The plan untouched.

  Etta saw the broken cup.

  ‘Ernst! You are bleeding!’

  I touched her hand on mine. Looked only at Paul.

  ‘Don’t you mean we are losing, Paul?’ I ignored the blood. He had stood too close to my Etta. Nobody did that. Not even my father. So I bled.

  He smiled. A smile like Klein’s.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘That is what I meant.’ He sat to finish his tea. ‘We are all losing, Ernst.’

  The radio went on. The reporter peaking, running out of breath at our glorious stratagem. He reached his crescendo, shouted the salute into the room, the salute that we were all supposed to stand to and return to the ether. We did not. Etta was tending to my hand, the china to the ashtray. Paul sat and watched, half an ear to the radio at the concert announcements.

  I wondered how many people still stood and saluted to their light-fittings, men like my father sitting in their armchairs recalling the betrayals of the last war, hoping that a man that had ripped up the terrible treaty would have his retribution for him. Did he just mumble the words to the radio now, save the proud salute for the butcher in the morning, where it could be seen and heard? Like a cloth rabbit that the magician pulls, animated only by his arm raised out majestically. Puts it away before you can see its fraud well.

  Chapter 25

  I worked hard, dedicated, for the next two months. Dedicated the better word. Everyone works hard; that means nothing. The same oven designs again and again but annotated for different camps. Eastern camps. Northern camps. Places and names I had never heard before.

  June into July and Topf produced dozens of triple-muffle ovens, the engineers constantly out for repairs, the mobile oven supply exhausted, not enough brick in Germany to build more.

  Our own invasion, we were informed, suspended now the Allies were in France. But no matter. A week later we had begun rocket-bombing London with our ‘superior’ weapons. We could now save our air-force by destroying enemy nations with unmanned craft launched from our own lands. Now our airmen could protect our borders exclusively. The enemy had made a huge error by landing seaward into France. We could see them now and would not have to travel so far to repel them. Strafe them as they marched. And so the radio went on.

  And then in July we assassinated Him.

  As good as.

  When dictators survive such attempts from their own officers, and when you can count the tries on one hand, you must realise how unpopular your leader has become.

  One successful attempt and you become a martyr. A bronze statue fifty feet tall. Several failed attempts and you become a black and white cartoon duck quacking away from the oversized shotgun in a Fleischer Talkartoon.

  Something was happening. You could feel it. It was summer but it chilled like winter. Not the air. Not the air. Something cold was coming. Erfurt and Weimar were like another country. A land of Oz with mountains keeping the war at bay. But the planes were over us now. Gun batteries in the streets. Our leader’s torn trousers from his survival held up for photographic display in the papers. Was this a proud gesture? It returned the cartoon image, looked like he had been blown clean out of them just so. The flapping black and white duck. His own right hand covered by a coat now in photographs and newsreels. Unable to commit to his own salute except with his left. If he himself cannot perform it what for the rest of us ordered to do so?

  The consequence of the assassination failure was thousands of executions and the whole of the army having to re-swear loyalty and now they too would have to perform His salute, abandon hundreds of years of the traditional, the hand to forehead, the international military hail that connected them to the soldiers they fought, and replace it with something out of one of his beloved cowboy movies, s
omething a greasepaint Indian might do when he met Randolph Scott. The regular soldier must have found it pathetic. A child firing his pop-gun cork at them. It was still beggars in the street who did it the most fervently. That is history. The loudest shout to the mad comes from the gutter. Hail Caesar! For some alms! God save the King! Shilling, sir? Vive l’Empereur! Livre, Monsieur? And they hop or limp if they can remember to do so. It is a pity such men do not have the vote. Empires and dictators would never fall if they did. Someone will court them one day, court them like pirates of old. Not the poor. The very homeless. The dissolute. Someone will court them.

  *

  We bought more furniture. New furniture. I had never had a new sofa. We bought it from a catalogue. Etta telephoned. I was too nervous myself, felt fraudulent somehow. We telephoned and men in brown coats brought a sofa and cushions to us. I walked to my parents and invited them round to see it. That is what it meant to me. Etta found it foolish and she would be right. Her parents probably bought a new sofa whenever the old got dirty. But my mother almost cried and my father inspected the springs and the legs like it was he buying it from us. He shook my hand. Over a sofa.

  Etta and I talked about Paul. I would never conceive that she would be unfaithful to me but I had felt something never so before. It was seeing her with another man. A man my age, more successful than I. It was not a jealousy, that is not the emotion, softer than that, less definable than that.

  He was our friend. Had come to her when she had not wanted to be alone, when she was worried about her husband. Less definable.

  Etta convinced that it was the stress of going to the camps. That my work had come off the paper, into our home, into us. I had told her about the crowd pushing me into the arch, that I got swept away with them, about the night in the barracks. I never told her about the little girl. Just that it was the work, brimming over me. And that would have been fine, if not for the telephone call.