“Nope. Wasn’t even working on that one. I was changing something else. Changed my mind about what the first thing I want is,” said Kniptash.
“What?” asked Coleman, fascinated.
Donnini winced. So did Kleinhans. The notebooks had heightened the spiritual conflict between Donnini and Kniptash, had defined it in black and white. The recipes that Kniptash contributed were flamboyant, made up on the spot. Donnini’s were scrupulously authentic, artistic. Coleman was caught between. It was gourmet versus glutton, artist versus materialist, beauty versus the beast. Donnini was grateful for an ally, even Corporal Kleinhans.
“Don’t tell me yet,” said Coleman, flipping pages. “Wait’ll I get set with the first page.” The most important section of each of the notebooks was, by far, the first page. By agreement, it was dedicated to the dish each man looked forward to above all others. On his first page, Donnini had lovingly inscribed the formula for Anitra al Cognac—brandied duck. Kniptash had given the place of honor to his pancake horror. Coleman had plumped uncertainly for ham and candied sweet potatoes, but had been argued out of it. Terribly torn, he had written both Kniptash’s and Donnini’s selections on his first page, putting off a decision until a later date. Now, Kniptash was tantalizing him with a modification of his atrocity. Donnini sighed. Coleman was weak. Perhaps Kniptash’s new twist would woo him away from Anitra al Cognac altogether.
“Honey’s out,” said Kniptash firmly. “I kind of wondered about it. Now I know it’s all wrong. Doesn’t go with eggs, honey doesn’t.”
Coleman erased. “Well?” he said expectantly.
“Hot fudge on top,” said Kniptash. “A big blob of hot fudge—just let ’er set on top and spread out.”
“Mmmmmmmmmmm,” said Coleman.
“Food, food, food,” muttered Corporal Kleinhans. “All day, every day, all I hear is food! Get up. Get to work! You and your damn fool notebooks. That’s plundering, you know. I can shoot you for that.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Food,” he said softly. “What good does it do to talk about it, to write about it? Talk about girls. Talk about music. Talk about liquor.” He implored Heaven with outstretched arms. “What kind of soldiers are these that spend all day exchanging recipes?”
“You’re hungry, too, aren’t you?” said Kniptash. “What have you got against food?”
“I get quite enough to eat,” said Kleinhans off-handedly.
“Six slices of black bread and three bowls of soup a day—that’s enough?” said Coleman.
“That’s plenty,” argued Kleinhans. “I feel better. I was overweight before the war. Now I’m as trim as I was as a young man. Before the war, everybody was overweight, living to eat instead of eating to live.” He smiled wanly. “Germany has never been healthier.”
“Yeah, but aren’t you hungry?” persisted Kniptash.
“Food isn’t the only thing in my life, nor the most important.” said Kleinhans. “Come, now, get up!”
Kniptash and Coleman arose reluctantly. “Got plaster or something in the end of your barrel, Pop,” said Coleman. They shuffled slowly back onto the littered street, with Kleinhans bringing up the rear, digging plaster from his rifle muzzle with a match, and denouncing the notebooks.
Donnini picked out a small rock from millions, carried it over to the curb and lay it at the feet of Kleinhans. He rested for a moment, his hands on his hips. “Hot,” he said.
“Just right for working,” said Kleinhans. He sat down on the curb. “What were you in civilian life, a cook?” he said after a long silence.
“I helped my father run his Italian restaurant in New York.”
“I had a place in Breslau for a while,” said Kleinhans. “That was long ago.” He sighed. “Seems silly now how much time and energy Germans used to spend just stuffing themselves with rich food. Such a silly waste.” He looked past Donnini and glared. He waggled a finger at Coleman and Kniptash, who stood together in the middle of the street, each with a baseball-sized rock in one hand, a notebook in the other.
“It seems to me there was sour cream in it,” Coleman was saying.
“Put those books away!” commanded Kleinhans. “Haven’t you got a girl? Talk about your girl!”
“Sure I got a girl,” said Coleman irritably. “Name’s Mary.”
“Is that all there is to know about her?” said Kleinhans.
Coleman looked puzzled. “Last name’s Fiske—Mary Fiske.”
“Well, is this Mary Fiske pretty? What does she do?”
Coleman narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “One time I was waiting for her to come downstairs and I watched her old lady make a lemon meringue pie,” he said. “What she did was take some sugar and some cornstarch and a pinch of salt, and mix it in with a couple of cups of wat—”
“Please, let’s talk about music. Like music?” said Kleinhans.
“And then what’d she do?” said Kniptash. He had laid his rock down, and was now writing in his notebook. “She used eggs, didn’t she?”
“Please, boys, no,” pleaded Kleinhans.
“Sure she used eggs,” said Coleman. “And butter, too. Plenty of butter and eggs.”
II.
It was four days later that Kniptash found the crayons in a basement—on the same day that Kleinhans had begged for and been refused relief from the punishment detail.
When they had set out that morning, Kleinhans had been in a terrible temper, and had railed at his three charges for not keeping in step and for marching with their hands in their pockets. “Go ahead and talk, talk, talk about food, you women,” he had taunted them. “I don’t have to listen anymore!” Triumphantly, he had pulled two wads of cotton from his cartridge pouch and stuffed them into his ears. “Now I can think my own thoughts. Ha!”
At noon, Kniptash sneaked into the cellar of a bombed-out house, hoping for a rack of full mason jars such as he knew were in his snug cellar at home. He emerged dirty and dispirited, gnawing experimentally at a green crayon.
“How is it?” asked Coleman hopefully, looking at the yellow, purple, pink, and orange crayons in Kniptash’s left hand.
“Wonderful. What flavor you like? Lemon? Grape? Strawberry?” He threw the crayons on the ground, and spit the green one after them.
It was lunch hour again, and Kleinhans was sitting with his back to his wards, staring thoughtfully out at the splintered Dresden skyline. Two white tufts protruded from his ears.
“You know what would go good, now?” said Donnini.
“A hot fudge sundae, with nuts and marshmallow topping,” said Coleman promptly.
“And cherries,” said Kniptash.
“Spiedini alla Romana!” whispered Donnini, his eyes closed.
Kniptash and Coleman whipped out their notebooks.
Donnini kissed his fingertips. “Skewered chopped beef, Roman style,” he said. “Take a pound of chopped beef, two eggs, three tablespoons of Romano cheese, and—”
“For how many?” demanded Kniptash.
“Six normal human beings, or half a pig.”
“What’s this stuff look like?” asked Coleman.
“Well, it’s a lot of stuff strung together on a skewer.” Donnini saw Kleinhans remove an ear plug and return it almost instantly. “It’s kind of hard to describe.” He scratched his head, and his gaze landed on the crayons. He picked up the yellow one, and began to sketch. He became interested in the project, and, with the other crayons, added the subtler shadings and highlights, and finally, for background, a checkered tablecloth. He handed it to Coleman.
“Mmmmmmmm,” said Coleman, shaking his head and licking his lips.
“Boy!” said Kniptash admiringly. “The little bastards practically jump out at you, don’t they!”
Coleman held out his notebook eagerly. The page it was opened to was headed, straightforwardly, “CAKES.” “Could you draw a Lady Baltimore cake? You know, white with cherries on top?”
Obligingly, Donnini tried, and met with heartening success. It was a fine-lookin
g cake, and, for an added flourish, he sketched in pink icing script on top: “Welcome home Private Coleman!”
“Draw me a stack of pancakes—twelve of ’em,” urged Kniptash. “That’s what I said, Lady—twelve!” Donnini shook his head disapprovingly, but began to rough in the composition.
“I’m going to show mine to Kleinhans,” said Coleman happily, holding his Lady Baltimore cake at arm’s length.
“Now the fudge on top,” said Kniptash, breathing down Donnini’s neck.
“Ach! Mensch!” cried Corporal Kleinhans, and Coleman’s notebook fluttered like a wounded bird into the tangle of wreckage next door. “The lunch hour is over!” He strode over to Donnini and Kniptash, and snatched their notebooks from them. He stuffed the books into his breast pocket. “Now we draw pretty pictures! Back to work, do you understand?” With a flourish, he fastened a fantastically long bayonet on to his rifle. “Go! Los!”
“What the hell got into him?” said Kniptash.
“All I did was show him a picture of a cake and he blows his stack,” complained Coleman. “Nazi,” he said under his breath.
Donnini slipped the crayons into his pocket, and scrambled out of the way of Kleinhans’ terrible swift sword.
“The Articles of the Geneva Convention say privates must work for their keep. Work!” said Corporal Kleinhans. He kept them sweating and grunting all afternoon. He barked an order the instant any of the three showed an inclination to speak. “You! Donnini! Here, pick up this bowl of spaghetti,” he said, indicating a huge boulder with the tip of his toe. He strode over to a pair of twelve-by-twelve rafters lying across the street. “Kniptash and Coleman, my boys,” he crooned, clapping his hands, “here are those chocolate éclairs you’ve been dreaming about. One for each of you.” He placed his face an inch from Coleman’s. “With whipped cream,” he whispered.
It was a genuinely glum crew that shambled into the prison enclosure that evening. Before, Donnini, Kniptash, and Coleman had made a point of half limping in, as though beaten down by terribly hard labor and unrelenting discipline. Kleinhans, in turn, had made a fine spectacle, snapping at them like a bad-tempered sheep dog as they stumbled through the gate. Now, their semblance was as before, but the tragedy they portrayed was real.
Kleinhans jerked open the barracks door, and motioned them in with an imperious sweep of his hand.
“Achtung!” cried a high voice from within. Donnini, Coleman, and Kniptash halted and slouched, their heels more or less together. With a crackle of leather and the clack of heels, Corporal Kleinhans slammed his rifle butt on the floor, and stood as erect as his old back would permit, trembling. A surprise inspection by a German officer was under way. Once a month they could expect one. A short colonel in a fur-collared coat and black boots was standing, his feet far apart, before a rank of prisoners. Beside him was the fat sergeant of the guard. All stared at Corporal Kleinhans and his charges.
“Well,” said the colonel in German, “what have we here?”
The sergeant hurriedly explained with gestures, his brown eyes pleading for approval.
The colonel walked slowly across the cement floor, his hands clasped behind his back. He paused before Kniptash. “You pin a pad poy, eh?”
“Yessir, I have,” said Kniptash simply.
“You sorry now?”
“Yessir, I sure am.”
“Good.” The colonel circled the small group several times, humming to himself, pausing once to finger the fabric of Donnini’s shirt. “You unnerstandt me ven I talk Enklish?”
“Yessir, it’s very clear,” said Donnini.
“Vot part von Amerika I got an agsent like?” he asked eagerly.
“Milwaukee, sir. I could have sworn you were from Milwaukee.”
“I could be a spvy in Milvaukee,” said the colonel proudly to the sergeant. Suddenly, his gaze fell on Corporal Kleinhans, whose chest was just a little below his eye-level. His good humor evaporated. He stalked over to stand squarely before Kleinhans. “Corporal! Your blouse pocket is unbuttoned!” he said in German.
Kleinhans’ eyes were wide as he reached for the offending pocket flap. Feverishly, he tried to tug it down to the button. It wouldn’t reach.
“You have something in your pocket!” said the colonel, reddening. “That’s the trouble. Take it out!”
Kleinhans jerked two notebooks from the pocket and buttoned the flap. He sighed with relief.
“And what have you in your notebooks, eh? A list of prisoners. Demerits, maybe? Let me see them.” The colonel snatched them from the limp fingers. Kleinhans rolled his eyes.
“What is this?” said the colonel incredulously, his voice high. Kleinhans started to speak. “Silence, Corporal!” The colonel raised his eyebrows, and held a book out so that the sergeant could share his view. “‘Vot I am going to eat de first ting ven I gat home,’” he read slowly. He shook his head. “Ach! ‘Tvelf pangakes mit a fried ek betveen each von!’ Oh! ‘Und mit hot futch on top!’” He turned to Kleinhans. “Is that what you want, you poor boy?” he said in German. “And such a pretty picture you drew, too. Mmmmm.” He reached for Kleinhans’ shoulders. “Corporals have to think about war all the time. Privates can think about anything they want to—girls, food, and good things like that—just as long as they do what the corporals tell them.” Deftly, as though he’d done it many times before, the colonel dug his thumbnails beneath the silver corporal’s pips on Kleinhans’ shoulder loops. They rattled against the wall like pebbles, down at the far end of the barracks. “Lucky privates.”
Once more, Kleinhans cleared his throat for permission to speak.
“Silence, Private!” The little colonel strutted out of the barracks, shredding the notebooks as he went.
III.
Donnini felt rotten, and so, he knew, did Kniptash and Coleman. It was the morning after Kleinhans’ demotion. Outwardly, Kleinhans seemed no different. His stride was spry as ever, and he still seemed capable of drawing pleasure from the fresh air and signs of spring poking up from the ruins.
When they arrived at their street, which still wasn’t passable, even to bicycles, despite their three weeks of punishment, Kleinhans didn’t browbeat them as he had the afternoon before. Neither did he tell them to appear to be busy as he had done the days before that. Instead, he led them directly into the ruin where they spent their lunch hours, and motioned them to sit down. Kleinhans appeared to sleep. There they sat in silence, the Americans aching with remorse.
“We’re sorry you lost your pips on account of us,” said Donnini at last.
“Lucky privates,” said Kleinhans gloomily. “Two wars I go through to be a corporal. Now,” he snapped his fingers, “poof. Cookbooks are verboten.”
“Here,” said Kniptash, his voice quavering. “Want a smoke? I got a Hungarian cigarette.” He held out the precious cigarette.
Kleinhans smiled wanly. “Let’s pass it around.” He lit it, took a puff, and handed it to Donnini.
“Where’d you get a Hungarian cigarette?” asked Coleman.
“From a Hungarian,” said Kniptash. He pulled up his trouser legs. “Traded my socks for it.”
They finished the cigarette and leaned back against the masonry. Still Kleinhans had said nothing about work. Again he seemed faraway, lost in thought.
“Don’t you boys talk about food anymore?” said Kleinhans, after another long silence.
“Not after you lost your pips,” said Kniptash gravely.
Kleinhans nodded. “That’s all right. Easy come, easy go.” He licked his lips. “Pretty soon now, this will all be over.” He leaned back and stretched. “And you know what I’m going to do the day it ends, boys?” Private Kleinhans closed his eyes. “I’m going to get three pounds of beef shoulder and lard it with bacon. Then I’ll rub it with garlic and salt and pepper, and put it in a crock with white wine and water”—his voice became strident—“and onions and bay leaves and sugar”—he stood—“and peppercorns! In ten days, boys, she’s ready!”
&n
bsp; “What’s ready?” said Coleman excitedly, reaching where his notebook had been.
“Sauerbraten!” cried Kleinhans.
“For how many?” asked Kniptash.
“Just two, my boy. Sorry.” Kleinhans laid his hand on Donnini’s shoulder. “Enough sauerbraten for two hungry artists—eh, Donnini?” He winked at Kniptash. “For you and Coleman, I’ll fix something very filling. How about twelve pancakes with a slice of colonel between each one, and a big blob of hot fudge on top, eh?”
Happy Birthday, 1951
Summer is a fine time for a birthday,” said the old man. “And, as long as you have a choice, why not choose a summer day?” He wet his thumb on his tongue, and leafed through the sheaf of documents the soldiers had ordered him to fill out. No document could be complete without a birthdate, and, for the boy, one had to be chosen.
“Today can be your birthday, if you like it,” said the old man.
“It rained in the morning,” said the boy.
“All right, then—tomorrow. The clouds are blowing off to the south. The sun should shine all day tomorrow.”
Looking for shelter from the morning rainstorm, the soldiers had found the hidingplace where, miracle of miracles, the old man and the boy had lived in the ruins for seven years without documents—without, as it were, official permission to be alive. They said no person could get food or shelter or clothing without documents. But the old man and the boy had found all three for the digging in the catacombs of cellars beneath the shattered city, for the filching at night.
“Why are you shaking?” said the boy.
“Because I’m old. Because soldiers frighten old men.”
“They don’t frighten me,” said the boy. He was excited by the sudden intrusion into their underground world. He held something shiny, golden in the narrow shaft of light from the cellar window. “See? One of them gave me a brass button.”
Armageddon in Retrospect Page 6