The Safety Net

by Heinrich Böll

  Bleibl was punctual and turned up carrying a magnificent bouquet: white lilac and red roses veiled in yellow mimosa. He brought the flowers in himself, removed the paper, and she was surprised to see how serious he looked, pensive in a way; changed, like Tolm and the boy. The day of great changes: of the frozen grandson, of a newly determined Tolm, of a pensive Bleibl, who even helped—although it was not quite “done”—to arrange the flowers in a tall vase. How surprising, those hands of his—she had never noticed them before: strong and slender, very different from that quite brutal-looking face, the knobbly, knotty nose, the totally bald head that had not exposed a well-formed cranium. He looked in frank admiration at Eva Klensch as she brought in the tea and the rose-patterned china dish with the freshly made éclairs.

  “I’m actually going to have some tea,” he said, nodding to them, and, dropping his voice, added: “I’ve heard the news, I’ve heard all about it—including the change of cemetery. You know, they’ll have your head for this.…”

  “Yes,” said Tolm, “I know, I’ll be glad to get rid of it—this head of mine.…”

  “Stabski has asked me to have one more talk with you. But I know it’s no use—is it?”

  “It’s no use, Bleibl, you can save yourself the trouble.”

  “It’s a funny thing but I was sure you would be adamant, although you’re the least adamant person I know. Today, I don’t know why, I knew you wouldn’t change your mind. I’m glad for your sake—not for ours, no, not for ours—and not because of the brief tenure. President for a day, that’s pretty embarrassing, and not even because of that—you were the right man for us, and I never intended to destroy you, never. All I wanted to do was force you to be tenacious, in fact to train you.…”

  “So now you’ve succeeded.… Don’t eat too many éclairs, they’re very deceptive—watch it!—won’t you change your mind and have a whiskey?”

  “No, later, I’d like to be sober when I talk to you both.…”

  His eyes followed Eva Klensch with unconcealed desire after she had brought in the milk, lemon, and sugar. “My God,” he said, “who is that woman?”

  “Forget it, she’s spoken for, she’s Blurtmehl’s girlfriend.”

  “I’d marry her on the spot.”

  “You’ve …” Käthe poured the tea and blushed.

  “Married too often on the spot—that’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?”

  “More or less—not exactly—but please, not her, Bleibl … please.…”

  “I’ve never yet taken somebody else’s wife away, never—I hope you realize that. Someone took mine—that goddamn leftist aesthete, that Botticelli-worshipper—and that’s a fact.”

  “Do you still hanker after Margret?”

  “No, not the least little bit. It’s just that: you may laugh but I’ve always respected commitments, so never fear: your masseur’s in no danger of losing that exquisite flower.” It was strangely alarming to see him cry, suddenly burst into tears, the brutal-looking face dissolve, under the heavy upper lip, the unexpectedly narrow lower lip, the face twitching with emotion. “Oh, my God, Kortschede,” he muttered, “and now that goddamn boy—if you only knew what I have in the vault, I’ve got something down there in the vault.” No, there was nothing humorous about the way he nodded through his tears when Tolm held out the whiskey bottle. “Goddammit, do you know how that terrible boy, that mathematical genius, killed himself—no? They don’t tell you that kind of secret, do they? Dollmer has already given the thing a name: the hands-up-spring-gun-machine. You don’t understand, do you? That boy built himself a kind of waistcoat that went off when he put his hands up! One half inward, the other—the left—outward: a kind of mini-rocket-launcher to be worn over the chest like a flat life jacket. They’re still taking the thing apart. Killed a Turkish policeman, severely wounded a German, and as for himself—well, you can imagine what he looks like—madness—in any event Dollmer is now scared to death of anyone putting his hands up. And now this letter of Kortschede’s, which must be terrible.…”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “No, no one has, apart from Dollmer, Stabski, Holzpuke, and the two officers who found Kortschede. Total blackout. Incidentally, Zummerling hasn’t seen it either.”

  “And it was written to me?”

  “Yes, I believe it starts with ‘My dear Fritz’—and then I’m sure come some grim prophecies—about the environment, nuclear energy and growth and banks and industry—they’re bound to be grim—it was written to you, and you have the right to receive it. See to it that you get your rights, and make sure, both of you, that no one—no one, do you hear?—finds out about the funeral in Hetzigrath. I suppose I’ll have to give the oration in Horrnauken. You won’t object if we say you’re ill, seriously ill? I suppose he doesn’t have any relatives left? You know they had to actually put his father into a straitjacket.”

  “He has an aunt still living, she should …”

  “She should nothing.…” He spoke very softly, had tears in his eyes again. “Keep her out of it, don’t take anyone with you! Don’t say anything to your children either … please, please, no crowds, no scenes—I wouldn’t put it past Sabine …” He poured himself some tea, took another éclair.

  “You’re right,” said Tolm. “I wouldn’t put it past Sabine to come along.”

  “Fischer’s coming back because of Kortschede, cutting his trip short. So she’s not likely to go to Horrnauken. He’s going to make trouble for you, even more after the funeral, and with more valid arguments … that uncle, that uncle’s girlfriend—and now these grandparents! Oh, it’s a shame that Sabine’s left Fischer! Good God, what an idiot, a woman like that—and he leaves her, leaves her alone! I would never have left a woman like that alone, I never left Hilde alone either, there was only that vault I couldn’t take her into—I was alone down there, lonely, and no one noticed, scared to death, and no one noticed. Funny, when I was talking to Dollmer just now, and later when Stabski phoned me, when I heard all about it, how that terrible boy, surrounded by shoeboxes, set off his hands-up device—and they were all ladies’ shoes size thirty-eight which he had had sent up to the hotel to choose from—I don’t know, but suddenly I was able to get out of that vault—I had to cry, I cried all morning, and I was glad that the girl—your Veronica—wasn’t in the room … was glad against my own convictions, I hope she’ll turn up alive, hope it against my own convictions, against all my principles. You two are going to be very lonely after this funeral, very lonely—you know that?”

  “Yes,” she said, “we always have been, really, we just weren’t aware of it, didn’t want to know it.” She poured him some whiskey, but he not only shook his head, he shook himself, and without embarrassment wiped the tears from his eyes with his handkerchief, lifted the teacup, put it down again without drinking, looked toward the door through which Eva had disappeared. My God, how much sadness there must be in him, and what in the world was that vault where he had sat all alone and had come out of? And whyever had he had to marry them all right away—he’d had no children from any of them except Hilde, his Number One, who had been the nicest, nicer even than Number Three, whose peasant-girl arrogance had sometimes been too much for her, that austere beauty really had despised everything except herself, and had sold herself at a high enough price.

  Tolm remained distrustful, almost cold, Bleibl’s tears obviously embarrassed him; he gave an impression that was entirely new: he seemed determined. “All right then,” he said quietly, “you can say I am ill—I leave the details to you. And we’ll keep his aunt out of it. Just the two of us—and the gravediggers.”

  “No priest?”

  “No, he wouldn’t have wanted it, and I’d like to respect that. Besides, the Hetzigrath priest at Beverloh’s grave?” He laughed. “No, he’d die on us from fear. No, Käthe can say a prayer, he wouldn’t have minded that. Perhaps Veronica will turn up—or phone. I am sure Kortschede would have understood.”

  Thirty-three years
, she thought, and they had never exchanged a sensible word, not one; never anything but that joshing and mild flirting, and finding some common ground: now the dollar was falling again, and gold rising, because somewhere there had been a putsch, she didn’t even know by whom against whom, had merely glanced at the financial section of the paper; and the dollar would rise again, and gold would fall because somewhere else someone else had started a putsch, never mind against whom.

  “You can stay for supper,” she said, “if you like, and of course you can sleep here too, your apartment is free now. Kulgreve has had it all fixed up again.”

  “No, no,” said Bleibl, “thanks, but no. You two have no idea what you have set in motion with this funeral, what utter confusion you have caused, it’s going to deprive at least a hundred police officers of their leave or day off, and Stabski and Dollmer their sleep, and Holzpuke will be cursing: he has enough on his hands in Horrnauken. It’s madness, Tolm, what you have in mind, sheer madness—I can’t talk you out of it—or you, Käthe, or you him?”

  “No, you can’t. Is that why you came, or because you—because you’ve managed to get out of your vault?”

  “I came to see you both, to talk to you, that was all arranged before—you know that. It’s simply that Stabski and Dollmer urged me to grasp the opportunity—you can’t imagine … it’s madness, Tolm. Even if the cemetery authorities keep mum, and the gravediggers too—a hundred police officers won’t keep mum.…”

  “You misunderstand me—I’m neither asking for it to be kept secret, nor do I want it to become known. I’m simply going to a funeral. I want that boy Heinrich to be returned to the earth from which he was made—from which I too am made—that’s all. I’m not trying to prove anything, one way or another, and I know that Kortschede wrote me that letter so that I would get it, read it, and perhaps make use of it. I am honoring his memory and his intention by not going to Horrnauken. After all, we knew Heinrich as a child, as a boy—no, you won’t talk me out of it—how about you, Käthe?”

  “No, if it were possible I would say: even less so. Even without you I would have gone to this funeral. But of course I’d rather go with you.”

  “That’ll be totally misinterpreted, totally, both consciously and unconsciously—three days after your election.… Would you change your mind if you were to get the letter after all?”

  “Don’t tell me you have it in your pocket?”

  “Don’t be so unkind! No, I haven’t, I haven’t even seen it. I’m just thinking of alternatives. You in Horrnauken, Käthe in Hetzigrath—for your own sakes, believe me, for your own sakes. I care no more than you do for these pompous funerals.”

  “It’s too late, Bleibl, too late, the letter is mine anyway, and even if I were to get it—I’ve made up my mind.…”

  “You must admit the Horrnauken funeral is one of your official duties.…”

  “Which I am neglecting, and for which, as you say, I am risking my head.… Forget it, Bleibl, stay for supper, have a drink with us—let’s celebrate the vault we’ve emerged from, you and I. I know: they’ll say I’ve become senile. Never mind—I’ll make it easy for you to get rid of me, let Amplanger finally have his turn. I’m glad you came, stay awhile, we might have a game of cards? I’d enjoy that.”

  “No, thanks, I have to leave. I still have to have a word with Hilde—I have a favor to ask. Would you put in a good word for me in that quarter, Käthe?”

  “I could, but I won’t. It won’t help you and it would only offend Hilde. When are you going to grasp the fact that she alone has to make the decision? And you alone. Later, when you’ve come to an agreement, yes—not now. Will you still come to see us? After the funeral, I mean?”

  “How can you doubt that? Do you really doubt it?”

  “Not anymore. No. And don’t try again to change our minds.”

  “I was just about to.”

  She kissed him goodbye, and they both accompanied him down the stairs to the courtyard, where he got into his car. He waved once more. She was amazed at how easily Tolm walked up the stairs, hardly using the banister at all.

  “Now give your bishop a call,” she said, and when he looked at her inquiringly: “About the vicarage in Hubreichen. We can’t stay here.”

  16

  One hour after the news of Bev’s death, which they heard on the radio, the invasion had begun, the guards were reinforced and the reporters moved in. Now the guards were posted around the wall on all sides, three to a side, and he had immediately called the children into the house from the garden, where they had been picking up nuts and apples off the ground. They were after the boy, of course, believing that Veronica would show up, were waiting; waiting for what?

  Shortly before that, Erna Breuer had arrived with her lover. He had recognized her at once from her resemblance to her brother and mother, a distraught woman who complained about the noise, the noise, the noise in town, then withdrew with Sabine and her boyfriend into the bedroom, where he could hear them whispering and complaining. He had advised her not to go out, to wait, if necessary in the vicarage: she would be photographed with her boyfriend the minute she appeared, her case would be recalled, and she would be linked up with a situation where she did not belong and from which she would never escape. After many attempts he had finally reached Roickler by telephone, and the priest had given him permission “to let a few guests stay in the vicarage if necessary. I’d better go there, look after the guests myself—yes, of course I know Erna Hermes, she can stay at my place, with her boyfriend too. I’m coming. Don’t worry. They’d better all stay in the house. No, I’ll be leaving Anna here.”

  Katharina had suggested phoning Hermes and asking him to have one of the boys bring over the milk. He said no, he would go himself, even if they were to photograph him to death; he would go if only to feel out the mood of the village, if only perhaps to stick out his tongue at them or raise a clenched fist and shout: “Socialism will win!”—his other hand carrying the four-liter pitcher.

  At first Holger I had not grasped the news of Bev’s death, then he asked a strange question: “Did he … himself?” And when he nodded the boy had burst into tears, asked for his mother, and clung to him: “But Rolf, Rolf, you’re my father!”

  “Yes, I’m your father—you’ll stay with me, and I’ll stay with you—Veronica is alive—you’ll talk to her soon.… Bev wanted it like that, the way it happened. Believe me, he wanted it that way. Now you can go into the shed with Mr. Schubler and split some wood, we’ll have to keep the stove going all night.”

  Phoning. Phoning. With Father, Mother, Herbert, all of whom he reassured and asked not to come. “No, please don’t, Herbert. You’ll run into a barrage of flashbulbs.”

  Don’t worry. That was easily said when, to top it all, Fischer phoned and Katharina happened to bear the brunt. He heard her low voice saying: “Yes. Erwin, she’s here, I’ll get her for you,” and he could tell from her face that Fischer must have made a nasty remark. “Very well, Mr. Fischer, if you don’t like using first names with Communists and resent even more their using yours, Mister Fischer, I’ll get her for you.…” But Sabine raised her hand in a gesture of refusal, shook her head, and Katharina said: “Mrs. Fischer does not wish to speak to you. Yes, I’ll give her the message—the custody!”

  Finally he suggested they make some pancakes and put on some coffee, ordered them all not to leave the house, grabbed the milk pitcher, neither stuck out his tongue nor raised his clenched fist, merely held up the red-enamel pitcher into the blazing fire of the flashbulbs, and set out for the Hermes farm. It was cold, dark, drizzling, he had forgotten to put on his parka and hurried along. He was later than usual, he had to go over to the Hermeses’ kitchen to ask for someone to come out, and he stopped in the doorway, gave an awkward laugh, and swung the pitcher. He felt embarrassed at interrupting their supper, they looked so cheerful sitting there in front of their bowls and plates, and he wasn’t sure whether what showed in their faces was suspicion, curiosit
y, or surprise. He was relieved when young Hermes got up, nodded at him, and went across with him into the dairy. “You should warm up a bit,” he said as they crossed the yard.

  “I have to get back in a hurry, they are all frightened—waiting.”

  “Tell my sister she’s welcome any time. There can’t be much room at your place.”

  “I didn’t want her to be photographed under the circumstances. You never get rid of pictures like that. I’d like her to wait till the mob has left—tomorrow, or the day after. The priest is going to help us.”

  “He’s coming back?”

  “Yes, he wants to talk to you all—he’s coming for our sakes too.”

  “Was that—was this—was he your friend?”

  “Yes, until seven years ago. We were at school together, in the army, both of us in the artillery—at university—yes, I knew him well.”

  “And his wife?”

  “Was my wife, in those days. We separated.”

  He was glad that Hermes asked him such forthright questions, didn’t protest when Hermes refused the money for the milk and said: “Not today—tell my sister it’s for her—and her friend. It’ll pass, one, maybe two days and they’ll be gone. You must know what they’re like.”

  “Yes, I’ve been through it twice. I’m only afraid they’ll get your sister, Mr. Schubler, and the boy. They’re standing there as if they wanted to storm the garden gate or tear down the walls—all because of the boy. I’d like to thank you, on behalf of your sister too. She is sick, from the noise, the noise, the noise—that’s how she put it.…”

  “If things get bad, I’ll have one of the boys bring you the milk.…”

  He didn’t raise the pitcher when he ran into the flashes again. Dazzled, he stopped for a few seconds, saw only shadows and hands and flashes before unlocking the garden gate.

  Schubler and Holger I were stacking wood beside the stove, Erna Breuer was making pancakes—was she really as happy as she looked, or merely flushed from the heat? Sabine and Katharina were knitting, Kit and Holger II were playing with the building blocks and animals, there was coffee on the table; he sat down between the two women, lit a cigarette, and thought about money. It didn’t seem to have occurred to anyone that this was likely to become a rather expensive household, first five instead of three, then six people, now eight, and so far he had always refused to accept money from Käthe or Father. He was sure Sabine didn’t have any money, she was one of those who live without cash, and he was certain she would get nothing from Fischer, probably no more than the minimum support for the child if he wasn’t successful in his custody claim. Probably Sabine was a bit too naïve, too gullible. There were thousands of tricks and dodges to bring her to her knees, in public and in court, and there was no getting around the fact that Holger I was the child of a terrorist. He couldn’t make head or tail of the boy, they had thoroughly and ruthlessly silenced him, perhaps with threats, and he was sure Veronica had had to fight hard for his release. Not a sound, not a word, was to be got out of the boy, in a chilly way he was polite, said “thank you” and “please,” had proudly demonstrated that he could already write, in German; only once, when he took the boy unawares with a question about Bev, he said: “He was good to me and—” and had clammed up. Now there was really no reason for him not to speak, the shoes having wrecked the whole affair.