Marrow and Bone

by Walter Kempowski

  ‘Look at that guy!’ said Jonathan, pointing to a man dressed for the demonstration, carrying a small child on his back who sported a communist beret. ‘What sort of memories of early childhood will he dredge up for his psychiatrist in fifty years’ time?’

  Ulla also spotted some amusing sights. This was what they referred to as ‘conducting research’, and it brought them a little closer again. The Masuria question, the cheque and the bouquet flickered into their minds, but they held them at bay.

  •

  As entertainment for the weekend, the diffident waters of the Elbe were full of all kinds of amphibious cars, racing about and churning up soapy froth in front of and behind them. There was a huge variety of vehicles. The drivers waved to one another; surely Hamburg had never seen so many cars cruising about on the river. There were even some Dutch people here, with their pretty national flag, and Danes flying the Dannebrog. Television had sent people too; the camera crews were racing out in front in a couple of motorboats, spewing blue exhaust. Maybe they’d get lucky and there’d be an accident and, with luck, some casualties.

  The occasion for this hectic sporting display, which pretty much everyone was enjoying, was the big grey warship slowly ploughing up the Elbe. Military music could be heard in the distance, booming from a restaurant’s loudspeakers to welcome this wonder of technology. This was a warship of peace: to demonstrate friendship between nations, it intended to drop anchor in the Hanseatic city that had been criminally destroyed by the Anglo-Americans and, of course, abysmally rebuilt by business-orientated German idiots. The cannon fore and aft were pointing at the sky, the big radar domes providing a formal contrast to the slim gun barrels. This contrast could not be said to be beautiful, because the spirit behind the technology was a diabolical one, but its aesthetic quality communicated itself to Ulla and Jonathan nonetheless.

  ‘That ship is stuffed to the gunwales with electronics,’ said Jonathan. And Ulla wondered whether women of easy virtue were waiting to satisfy the mariners’ needs. She thought of the special sailors’ trousers with a flap in the front.

  Now the sailors, all dressed in white, were lining up on deck. Flags flew up the ropes, and commands were given in a strange way on special whistles. The drunks raised their bottles, and the sports enthusiasts lined up in their amphibious cars. After reaching the grey monster they turned elegantly and escorted the messenger of peace as they’d seen it done in photographs of the old days, when the Queen Elizabeth first arrived in New York harbour. The flotilla included an amphibious Volkswagen that had previously swum across the Dnieper and the Don. Every individual part had been replaced, but it was still the real thing.

  Hark! Were they ringing the church bells? Was the church joining in this festival of peace – the progressive Hanseatic ministry that had, in the past, defied water cannon with crucifix and cassock? But no, this wasn’t a special peal for peace; there was just a religious ceremony being performed in the church. A wedding, probably, thought Jonathan. He imagined aborted embryos borne before the bridal couple in little glass coffins, bedded on cotton wool and adorned with plastic flowers – for the glory of humankind, which was adopting a medically impeccable approach to ending the overpopulation of the planet.

  He put the child’s drawing – ‘Good poison for all’ – in a plastic wastepaper basket emblazoned with KEEP THE ENVIRONMENT CLEAN! in seven languages. He didn’t want to be carrying the rolled-up paper around like a field marshal’s baton.

  •

  It was, undoubtedly, a splendid sight, watching the gentle giant of a ship glide by. Everyone gathered on the promenade, as well as those sitting in cafes or at the panoramic windows of their villas up on the Elbchaussee, felt the same. Meanwhile, in the water, the fish struggled to breathe.

  Just then a sort of pirate fleet came zooming across from the opposite bank, nippy little rubber dinghies fitted with outboard motors. They were crewed by people in orange, waving green buccaneers’ flags, who had prepared themselves for every eventuality. As long as we live we will not tolerate warships here! Of any kind! A sea battle ensued between the rubber dinghy people and the amphibious cars, reminiscent of the fishermen’s jousting on Lake Constance. The sports enthusiasts in the water cars were clearly coming off worse. Then the river police swept in, and the circling, honking mêlée slowly swam towards the harbour until there was nothing more for the spectators to see. Only the television people were still getting their money’s worth. People would be able to watch the footage at home, and then they’d get to hear what they were supposed to make of the event.

  4

  That evening Jonathan and Ulla went to their local Turkish restaurant, the Ali Baba, which served kebabs made from the roasted flesh of rams that had been tortured to death. The texture was variable, from fatty to crisp; the meat was accompanied by sheep’s cheese in oil with sliced onion rings on top, and, most importantly, it was not at all expensive. Maximum performance at minimal expense, plus extremely friendly service.

  As regulars they were greeted effusively and led to a specially reserved corner divided off from the main restaurant by large, highly polished brass vessels. Their mutual friend Albert Schindeloe was already there waiting for them. An elderly bachelor in a beret and a rust-coloured polo neck, Schindeloe was an antiques dealer. He was the one who had sold Jonathan the Botero all those years ago. When Albert Schindeloe saw them, he leapt up and kissed Ulla’s hand.

  The candle on the table was lit with a lighter, and the Turkish waiter, a student from Ankara, made quite a fuss of Ulla. Albert Schindeloe had filled him in: this lady is celebrating her big day today, which means she’s entitled to preferential treatment. The Turk even tried to kiss her, which was presumably the custom in his country; whatever the reason, Ulla didn’t dare turn her head away as she did whenever Jonathan made an approach at the wrong moment.

  Albert paid Jonathan no further attention; that was how things worked in this three-way friendship. The Turk, however, shook his hand and informed him that he had a checked jacket just like his; it was hanging in his wardrobe at home.

  Ulla was looking delightful. Gentlemen at neighbouring tables turned their heads, thinking what a lucky devil Jonathan was to be going about with such a woman. Her round face in the candlelight, with its delicate features, her air of puzzled intellectuality, as if she were thinking: Where am I? What is this place? The little silver box engraved with flowers that Albert had just placed in front of her – was this for her? But why? He didn’t have to do that! She was pleased with the present – ‘Is it Biedermeier?’ – as her mother had kept a similar little box for her milk teeth. She must have a look next time she visited, see if it was still there.

  Jonathan accepted the admiration of the other customers unquestioningly. It was true: in these surroundings the pair of them did come across as rather impressive. He had once seen Chagall, in Paris; and here was Ulla with her splendid name . . . At the same time, however, Jonathan couldn’t help thinking of the safety pin his girlfriend had used to fasten her blouse beneath her little jacket. She’d stuck Elastoplast in her shoes, too, to stop them flapping.

  Soon their hunger was assuaged by tomato soup with melted cheese. The restaurant wasn’t only inexpensive, it was also fast. The cheese trailed metre-long strands, prompting good-natured jokes about how, if necessary, you could always stand on a chair.

  An agreeable mood prevailed, reinforced by the agreeable mood of the guests at the neighbouring table and the Ali Baba music issuing discreetly from four speakers, one in each corner. There was no need to be irritated by it, as it was impossible to judge its quality. Rather less pleasant were the pictures that hung on the walls between strings of glass prayer beads: chickens with bound feet, three men riding one small donkey and another who had seized his goat by the hind legs and was pushing it in front of him like a wheelbarrow. There were no photos on the wall of the Armenians who were driven out into the desert to die of thirst along with their wives and children.

  �
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  Albert Schindeloe was their indispensable companion. His obscure past and mysterious financial circumstances made him interesting. Was he stinking rich or virtually bankrupt? Had he been in the SS or was he a communist? Was he from Thuringia or the Rhine? Probably all of the above. What was certain was that at some point he had tampered with a cheque, which had earned him a year and a half’s so-called ‘study vacation’. He loathed the current government as a result.

  He loved Ulla, of course, but he also loved Jonathan. He had homosexual inclinations, and his way of expressing this to Jonathan was to be curt with him. He liked to call him ‘Herr Schmidt’, because surely Fabrizius – meaning ‘craftsman’ – was a Latinate version of Smith.

  For their part, Ulla and Jonathan pronounced Schindeloe’s first name in a Frenchified manner, which was their way of teasing him. ‘Albair’ they would say – and with some justification, as it was Albert’s custom to live in Paris from November until March, selling to the French the stuff he couldn’t shift in Germany.

  It pained Albert that stupid people would call him ‘Schindelow’. The insipid idiocy of that final syllable had accompanied him all his life, and it maddened him. ‘Schindeloe’, properly pronounced – Schinder-lower – sounded like the German for ‘aloe’ and made him think of frankincense and myrrh. Perhaps this was why he wore an Egyptian ring, a massive lump of copper-coloured gold he called ‘the Ledger’. Ulla would very much have liked to know whether it was real, as real and old as her ring, which she would twist compulsively with her thumb whenever she was cornered. Once, years ago, she had asked if she might try the Ledger on and had been rebuffed. The magic would be lost, she was told; one might as well give it away.

  The name Schindeloe never ceased to provide fresh topics of conversation whenever the three of them met up. A seminar would be held on the number of Untermenschen who had mispronounced it again, when really it was so terribly easy! Schin – der – low – er: how could you get it wrong? A very characterful name, incidentally, of Lower Saxon origin. ‘Schindeloe’ sounded like a witch-hunt, with its echoes of the German words for ‘tumbrel’ and ‘bonfire’. How very fitting, then, that Albert was a redhead, the remnants concealed by his cat-hair-covered beret.

  Ulla was also able to join in, her own name providing conversational fodder. ‘Bakkre de Vaera’ translated as ‘behind the weir’, so she was really Ulla Behindtheweir, or Hinterdemwehr. And if you shifted the gender ‘Wehr’ could also mean ‘weapons’ – ‘Ulla Hinterderwehr’. It made you think of chainmail and a sword; something Amazonian, anyway. Incidentally, Ulla was German through and through; you had to go back generations to find her Swedish origins.

  •

  ‘Cheers!’ they said, and again, ‘Cheers!’ They knocked back the schnapps – which smelt of dishwasher and was laced with poisonous chemicals – and smacked their lips. The Turkish music created the right atmosphere. This restaurant was an oasis; who needed to go to Istanbul?

  That was when it happened. A stone came flying in from the street, smashing a window and making a dent in a highly polished decorative samovar. People leapt to their feet and ran outside to grab the perpetrators; the cook even brandished a knife, yelling something about fascists and how their bellies should be slit open and boiling oil poured inside. Amid his unintelligible curses the word ‘xenophobia’ rang out loud and clear.

  The birthday party pressed themselves to the window to watch the attacker being beaten up. Unfortunately there was nothing to be seen but traffic streaming indifferently past.

  One by one the pursuers returned, the police were called, the roller blind was lowered in front of the broken windowpane and a girl from the kitchen swept up the shattered glass. People gradually calmed down, declaring from one table to another that it was a disgrace that fascism should be spreading again. Smashing the windows of the poor friendly Turks! What a pity they didn’t catch those lads; they’d have been given such a hiding. They’d have been thrown to the ground and kicked to death. Or smacked till their cheeks were in shreds. Or pushed in front of an U-Bahn train.

  Had they really been Nazis, though? That was the question. Perhaps they were unemployed people who were actually supporters of the Social Democratic Party but were being denied a more meaningful life. Or perhaps even fanaticized Turks from the other camp? Grey Wolves?

  The little birthday party also considered various methods of killing, after which a degree of understanding was expressed, up to a point. Young hooligans did things like this – they had too much energy. Like students with their fencing duels around the beginning of the twentieth century. You had to adopt a loving approach to these youths, take them by the hand, speak to them kindly. They needed people in authority with psychological training, job-creation schemes, a programme of leisure activities and so on. We weren’t averse to a bit of fun ourselves in our youth. Smashing windows was tradition, a silly boys’ prank. When you looked at America, that was a whole different ballgame – they’d wipe out the entire restaurant. Dear God! Albert Schindeloe confessed to having tortured a great many frogs – it’s just the way boys are . . . And Ulla Bakkre de Vaera was able to tell them about decapitating cockchafers; you just flicked off the head with your finger. She laughed as she said it but stopped abruptly because it exposed her dead tooth.

  Jonathan had never done anything of the sort. He had only ever beaten up his teddy bear.

  Albert owned a corner shop on Lehmweg where he sold his antiques. Clocks of all sizes, old spectacles, all kinds of carafes, tin figurines and medals. Browsers could pick things up in his shop for five marks, and from this Albert Schindeloe made a living. In addition, he received some mysterious income, pensions or compensation payments which were nobody else’s business.

  They went over to his place briefly after the meal, to please him. Above the shop, its windows crammed with wares and protected by strong bars, he owned a little studio that was also bursting at the seams with junk he was either unwilling or unable to let go. Chairs were cleared; two cats came up, purring, and the visitors glanced around in discreet astonishment. Beside a folded-out family altar, its cross missing the Crucified, and a box of votive figures’ silver arms and legs was a cardboard box with a rubber tap. From this Albert drew red wine into glasses, which he cleaned for his guests with a handkerchief, and they sat around telling stories. Albert told them what he had coaxed out of whom and how there were customers who would declare, ‘I’ve already got that painting.’ There was the clock scheme in the 1960s – the shipping of hundreds of pendulum clocks to America. And the silver boom in the 1970s when those crazy Americans bought up silver by the hundredweight and came a terrible cropper.

  He’d love to go through French people’s apartments, Albert said; see whether he could find any loot confiscated in Stuttgart by French infantrymen during the First World War. He had an image in his mind of a delightful little girl’s head, in marble, sitting on a mantelpiece. Where could it be? Lyons, perhaps? ‘You wouldn’t believe all the stuff that turned up again in Moscow.’

  Perhaps he could travel to Moscow and look around the flea markets. The Russians were sure to be happy to get their hands on foreign currency. ‘Watches! Watches!’ You must still be able to pick up wartime wristwatches over there, he was sure of it.

  It was getting late by the time Albert opened various drawers containing all sorts of medals and spectacles from the 1920s and 30s. Heaven knows who had worn them. Hundreds of pairs of spectacles.

  He probably has drawers full of cut-off hair here too, thought Jonathan.

  •

  When they got home they said, ‘Goodnight, then,’ and went to their respective rooms. The toilet flush rang out, and Jonathan wound his watch. He thought of the little Turkish woman at the Ali Baba whom he had glimpsed briefly as she swept up the shattered glass, the chef’s trousers with the little checks, the white cap on her head. He looked in the mirror over the basin and wondered whether he made any impression on a woman like her, with or without h
is straw hat.

  He flung himself on to his leather sofa and reached for a book on the basilica in Trier. It was a brick construction but had nothing else in common with the northern goddesses, their wide pelvises squatting over the little houses of medieval towns. Good to the left, wicked to the right, thought Jonathan; that was how it should be in churches, and those who streamed in departed feeling enriched.

  Just then he heard a two-fingered whistle from the adjoining room. This was his girlfriend’s way of letting him know that she still expected something of the day.

  At moments like these Jonathan hated her childishness, her efficacious grin and bony frame. He hated the fact that he was called upon to devote himself to her three times a week. But, as he walked along the sweetish-smelling, mildewed corridor to her room, desire rose up in him after all, as it always did when she summoned him: a kind of ‘oh well, why not?’ response. He groped his way into her room with its orange-red glow and allowed himself to be pulled into her bed, to be welcomed by naked arms, complacent laughter. Breathing hard, he set about the act that was supposed to be pleasurable for him, and ultimately was; she issued precise instructions, and he followed them with increasing satisfaction.

  When it was over he was abruptly dismissed. Ulla Bakkre de Vaera turned her broad back on him and rolled on to her side, his cue to depart. He collected himself and fumbled his way back to his room, where he threw himself on to his lovely sofa and heaved a deep sigh. Et in Sion habitatio eius!

  Now the general’s widow could also set aside her volume of poetry and take her sleeping pill. There was nothing more to be expected of the day.