The Safety Net

by Heinrich Böll

  Rolf thanked him, picked up the milk, and shook hands with young Hermes before leaving. Damn it, was he turning into a creature of impulse or even an opportunist? Of course the people in the village also had sons and daughters who went to university and sometimes turned up at weekends, smartly dressed, with their little cars, refused to go to church, with leftist airs, sexual freedom and all that; sometimes they had even come to them, grumbling and grousing, talked about Mao and treated him with a certain awe because he had been in the slammer. But he didn’t care for people trying to get chummy with him, he regarded the slammer as neither a distinction nor fun, and for Katharina’s sensitive Communist heart they spoke too openly, and their comments on sexual problems were more obscene than enlightened. They had tried to get chummy, clumsily, and then had stayed away, suddenly, they must have become scared of associating with them—for the last couple of years that had no longer been advisable, and only the one boy remained, Schmergen the farmer’s son, whom his brother’s suicide had at first shattered, then made thoughtful. He came and talked about Cuba, wanted to learn Spanish, and they found him a Chilean woman—Dolores—who gave him lessons; he still came sometimes, Heinrich Schmergen, sat quietly beside the stove, rolling cigarettes, smiling, and didn’t leave even when old friends came, reliable, disillusioned friends, out of work, banned from their professions, discussing the difference between guarded and watched, and it pained him to detect from their faint, very faint undertones that, in the last analysis, in spite of slammer and surveillance, they regarded him as privileged.

  That pained him the most, was worse than if his windows had been smashed, for it applied not only to his background but also to Veronica and Beverloh, who somehow, even if they were completely repudiated and loathed, were still regarded as belonging to the aristocracy. After all, he had been married to one of them, and the other had been his friend—and he could sometimes sense, although he couldn’t prove it, that they didn’t quite accept him. And he felt something of the same sort with Holzpuke, “in charge of security,” who looked for more in him than he would ever be able to yield. Shaking his head, Holzpuke kept looking for motives, found none, questioned him about possible motives, was still poking around in the psychology that yielded nothing, nothing: no one had ever “injured” Heinrich Beverloh, no one had done or wished him harm, he had been sponsored, praised, given every possible encouragement, that “towering intellect straight from the people,” not exactly a working-class child but almost, considering that his father had started out as a mailman, that is, at a working-class level: he had pushed the parcel cart by hand from house to house, had laboriously and diligently worked his way up to the status of clerk, and had retired with a civil servant’s pension.

  Yet in those days it had still been possible, without bending the truth too much, to sell Heinrich as a child of the working class, highly talented, bordering on genius, even with a sense of humor, likable, with a Christian upbringing, humanistically inclined and educated, and it may have hung only by the merest thread—probably Sabine’s childish notion of entering untouched upon the married state—whether they would become brothers-in-law, and instead of Veronica it would have been Sabine who would be living with him somewhere—where?—faithful unto death, including this madness, this murderous, mythical logic that he was constantly trying to explain to Holzpuke, and to himself by discussing it with Holzpuke. When he recalled their time in New York, their conversations there, the frenzy, the horrified frenzy that had seized Heinrich when he discovered the “international continent of money,” that ocean no one can cross, those mountains no one can climb—that immensity—it sometimes seemed that Beverloh reached the point of deciding to reverse his intelligence and insight. It wasn’t envy, not that, no more so than Saint George or Siegfried killing the dragon out of envy. Indeed, perhaps his motives might be better understood by comparison with the Nibelung saga than by any sort of envy- or hate-philosophy or by something as stupid as resentment. As a banker and stock-exchange operator, Heinrich could have earned more money than he could ever spend, and that was probably his whole motivation: that rampant, rampaging immensity that no one needed, that benefited no one, merely breeding and inbreeding in an obscene incest, that many-headed hydra, he would try to chop off all those heads, not sparing Father either, of course—they had better watch out for him—that was no longer encompassed by the word “capitalism,” it was something more, something mythical. They shouldn’t count on memories of younger days, gratitude, outings, dances, discussions, games, and carefree parties in lamplit gardens; and next to Father, if he (Holzpuke) wished to know, the person most at risk was his sister, Sabine Fischer. That was the virgin whom he, Beverloh, wanted to snatch away from the dragon. He didn’t consider Fischer himself to be at risk at all; in all probability they merely considered him a “conceited young puppy” whom they would not deign to honor with an assassination or kidnapping. But of course they would kidnap the child, Kit, as well, though only in order to spare Sabine suffering.

  “Yes, you heard me correctly: in order to spare her suffering. They like her, you see, he does and so does Veronica, my former wife. Of course I can’t give you any advice, nor can I guarantee that my advice and my prognoses are accurate—I am trying to get at the motivation, that’s all. And I’m reasonably sure that you can save yourself the trouble of keeping my friends under surveillance.”

  “And how about yourself?”

  “In objective terms, since we have a phone and there is a chance of connections being established: keep up the surveillance, of myself at any rate, but not for Katharina, my wife; she will never, never take that route, never.”

  “And you?”

  “In all probability, bordering on certainty: never—but mind you, I said bordering on certainty—there might remain the fine line of the border itself—there remains a residue, a minute vestige, that prevents me from guaranteeing for myself.”

  And at that point Holzpuke sighed and said: “What a pity you wouldn’t consider joining the police,” laughed and added, “and probably wouldn’t be accepted either—or would you?”

  “If your ‘would you?’ refers to my considering joining the police, the answer is: no. Whether or not I’d be accepted, I can’t judge. Most likely not, the police protects many things that are worth protecting, but it also protects the dragon that I was trying to describe to you. Keep an eye on me, I’d prefer that, but spare my wife if you can.”

  “We must keep an eye on your wife too, a protective eye, if you like, she’s a potential contact, I’m sure you’re aware of that—and we have to protect your little boy, too. How interesting—you say ‘money’ and not ‘capitalism.’ ”

  “I do say capitalism—but those people always say money.”

  “And your first wife?”

  “She’s a Socialist—I imagine she’d be happy to get out right now, but she has one terrible trait, the same as my sister, Mrs. Fischer: she’s faithful.”

  “Faithful unto death?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Unto the death of others?”

  He didn’t know how to answer this, became embarrassed, and said: “She has a child—and she could be put away for life.”

  “One more thing: did you have to call your second son Holger too?”

  “It’s a fine old noble Nordic name. My first son is called Holger Tolm, my second Holger Schröter. Is it a crime to call two sons Holger?”

  “No, only I find your reference to the origin of that truly fine name—well, not quite up to the standard of our discussion. No, it’s not a crime to call two sons Holger if they have different last names. I enjoy talking to you, you always bring me a little closer to this wretched business which I know you yourself condemn. But I’d like to know—I won’t pin you down—do you also guarantee for your friends, for their wives, their girlfriends—I mean the people you visit and who sometimes visit you?”

  “I guarantee that not a single one of their theoretical or practical utterances pu
ts them even remotely in the proximity of those you are looking for and pursuing; I guarantee that not one of them, even secretly, has ever referred to the police as ‘the fuzz.’ But guarantee? Whom would you guarantee one hundred percent?

  Every single one of your men, that he wouldn’t ever crack up, lose his nerve—quite understandably? And don’t forget that my friends, their wives and girlfriends, including myself and my wife, would like to work, as teachers, mechanics, and I’m a pretty good authority on banking, I really am—and our friend Clara is one of the best teachers I’ve ever known.…”

  “Look, I’ve nothing to do with the protection of the Constitution or with the Ministry of Education.…”

  “I know that, and you know I’m not blaming you for anything, but just remember what can happen to people who aren’t allowed to practice their profession—we can’t go on growing tomatoes forever.”

  “Is there anything particular I could do for you?”

  “My son, the first Holger—do you know anything at all about him?”

  “No more than what your former wife sometimes tells your sister over the phone.”

  “And if you did know anything more …?”

  “I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you, nor would I—and you know that—for your son’s sake as well as for yours, and not only because this is a matter for the police. We’re pinning our hopes on the phone—just as you are. Let me ask you one more question, an abstract, theoretical one, maybe also a logistical one: which mode of transport would you use if, as one of those people and theoretically familiar with the logistics, you wanted to approach our area?”

  “Plane, car, rail—I’d exclude all those, and there would only be one thing left—and that seems to me obvious, or rather, logical: a bicycle.”

  “A bit slow—and why not a motorcycle?”

  “Motorcycles have a bad reputation—and as for ‘slow,’ that’s of no importance, it’s merely a matter of planning, of preparation, of deployment. And now you will say, Why not on foot, then? In my opinion, on foot is too conspicuous—a pedestrian is always taken for a potential hitchhiker, and that’s dangerous, while bicycling is fashionable and makes one independent. So my guess would be a bicycle. Let me add one comment: Beverloh learned to calculate when he was a banker, and ballistics when he was in the army—he was with the artillery.”

  “Like yourself.”

  “That’s right, we were in the army together too—only my brother Herbert refused to serve.”

  Sometimes he also drove to the Zelgers’ to give Veronica’s mother a hand in the garden. He would weed, clip the hedges, help pick apples and pears, plums, red currants, and blackberries, dig potatoes, and when they worked together at the far end of the garden, burning potato stalks, she would come close to him and whisper: “Have you had any news of her?” And he would tell her what he had heard from his mother, Sabine, or Herbert: Mary, Queen of Heaven, and all that—and that Holger was fine. Mrs. Zelger, whom he still called Mama, had aged, become quiet and very shy, frail beyond her years. She couldn’t be more than in her mid-fifties and had only this one child, Veronica; on several occasions she had been victimized by the media, had talked to newspaper and TV reporters about the criminal nature of banks and the cowardice of the Church; since then she had scarcely allowed anyone into the house. Zelger had given up his practice; at some time or other his enamel doctor’s plate had been smashed with rocks, and he had refused to replace it. After all, he had been a doctor here in Hetzigrath for more than thirty years, they should have known him and not smashed his plate and smeared threats all over the walls.

  He would come hobbling out into the garden, leaning on his cane, pipe in mouth, mumbling: “Who’s supposed to eat all the jam, Paula? Who’s supposed to eat all the potatoes? There are no more refugees to give them to. Believe me, Rolf, if she knew where Veronica is she would send her some blackberry jam.”

  “Yes, I would—and for the boy, too, and even for him, for Heinrich. Even prisoners get fed, jam too, even murderers are given jam. I would do it, I’d send them all some jam.”

  Then they would sit down for a cup of coffee and some cake, and if Holger was along he would be given money for ice cream. Old Dr. Zelger would smoke his pipe, muttering to himself, refusing to agree that “the days of hostility are over,” that no one in Hetzigrath bore a grudge against him, but no, he said: “Now I bear the grudge and will to the end of my days. To hell with their sympathy, their grudges, their confidence, or their suspicion. Night after night I’ve got out of bed for them, for every little twinge and every confinement, I’ve never refused my services, for thirty years and not even in those dreadful postwar years when it was dangerous to walk on the streets at night—and then they suddenly throw rocks through your windows, smash up your doctor’s plate, smear up your walls—and no one, not a single person, came to us during that time to apologize or just to say a few kind words; not one. And the priest, who’s been here just as long as I have, turned aside to avoid the embarrassment of having to greet me on the street—simply turned on his heel and went off in another direction, the yellow bastard. Yes, Paula—don’t look at me like that when I call a priest a yellow bastard, that’s what he is. No, my dear, no—and why all that? Because you’ve got a daughter who suddenly veers off and turns to crime—and there they are with all their own criminals in this stinking, dirty, Catholic hole: thieves and murderers, rapists, incest and abortion and fraud—how many of these swine have violated their daughters and their daughters-in-law, and how many times did I have to testify to save fathers from jail and kids from reform school? How many times? Sometimes, Rolf, I get terrorist notions myself, especially toward these yellow-bellied priests: refused to greet me anymore, just imagine, the first who should have come to us.”

  He would dig out the photo album and show Veronica as a First Communicant, such a sweet little thing in white, a candle in her hand and flowers in her hair; the priest beside her at the tea table, helping himself to some whipped cream. “Look at him, grinning, helping himself to your whipped cream! What kind of people are they? Are we supposed to have the plague? And what if we did? No sir, even if his appendix were hanging out of his navel he wouldn’t get so much as a pill from me. And do you realize, Rolf, that we’d be close to starvation if it weren’t for your mother? I never saved any money, all I have is the house with its mortgage, that’s it, and if I could I’d send her a lot more than blackberry jam. Have we become untouchables because our child has turned to crime? So what? How many of that lot came to me to have their SS tattoos removed? If it weren’t for your mother—she’s the only one I accept it from. I’d accept it from your father, too.…”

  And occasionally he would drive on to see old Beverloh, who would let him in suspiciously, without so much as a muttered greeting, and lead him upstairs without a word into the attic of the tiny house to show him Heinrich’s old room. They used to call it the cubbyhole, ten feet square with sloping walls and two attic windows, and the old man would point scornfully to the books still on the shelf: Thomas More and Thomas Aquinas and Thomas Mann, “and all those other Thomases,” folders, rulers, pens and pencils neatly arranged on the folding table screwed to the foot end of the bed; the blotter was still lying there, and the transparent pencil sharpener still contained the curly shavings; an open package of cigarettes, a butt in the ashtray, on the wall the framed Ph.D. diploma, a crucifix, Raphael’s Madonna: an eerie reliquary complete with first lieutenant’s shoulder boards. “Heinrich really did well in the artillery—he was their best man on ballistics, they wanted him for the general staff,” and the wizened, sour old man even accepted an arm as he hobbled down the stairs, saying at the door: “He always said, The world will hear of me one day—and now it’s hearing of him.…”

  And since it was almost on his way, requiring only a very small detour, he would decide to drive on to Tolmshoven. He and the boy would walk past the security officers to see the grandparents, who were so overcome that they almost burst into tears,
and his father would immediately take the boy by the hand, walk with him through the corridors, onto balconies; he loved holding children’s hands, his father. Rolf remembered his father’s hand holding his own childish hand when they went for walks in the fields around Iffenhoven; he always had two children by the hand, was happy, would switch around, sometimes himself and Herbert, then Herbert and Sabine, later also Veronica—but he couldn’t remember whether Heinrich Beverloh had shown up in the family at an age when he could still be taken by the hand. The best thing for Father would probably have been to restrict himself to children’s hands and art history, not the paper and certainly not the manor. That was a few sizes too pretentious, too formal—he could no longer simply walk away, a child by the hand, through fields and woods, and forget about the lousy paper. And Käthe couldn’t do all her own cooking anymore, her own canning, behave as would have been natural in Eickelhof. The old man had fallen victim to a childhood dream and a childhood trauma.

  It was really touching to see his parents’ delight when he happened to turn up, to see how Käthe started right away to fuss around in her tiny kitchen, producing one of her incomparable soups, making pancakes for the boy—always in a somewhat strained rivalry with the big kitchen downstairs that they called the conference kitchen. Father there too, happy as a lark, forever taking his package of cigarettes out of his pocket and putting it back again. What a blessing he never talked about the war, never mentioned it, not even in connection with his obvious cigarette trauma; fortunately also never carried on about the “old days,” about the poverty of his childhood, the poverty of his student days, merely asking now and again, and somewhat anxiously, whether they couldn’t ask Katharina’s parents over, since they were living in the village; they were too diffident, Father and Käthe, didn’t feel the least bit—as Käthe put it—like “lords of the manor,” but nevertheless lived in it. Father had known Luise Kommertz, Katharina’s mother, when she was a child, a little girl, when they played “bounce ball” in the Kommertz yard.