by Roy Jacobsen
She went there in the middle of the school year – she had begun to work again – in Léon’s Triumph, leaving Robert in Nella’s care – and to his youthful notions that a catastrophe was imminent, the feeling that lies in wait in the surrounding forests and flourishes unseen, even between the blows of fate. And he became more and more annoyed with Markus, who hadn’t done anything to help in this matter, because he could have done, that miracle man, with his connections both high and low; it wasn’t only war veterans and historians who came in small delegations to visit him and talk about the past, he also had a finger in many a pie and on the pulse. But he didn’t want to have anything to do with this book.
“I’m not risking it,” he said cryptically one evening when Robert went at him hammer and tongs. Whereupon he mumbled: “There is nothing I can do. Nothing would come out of whatever I might do. I’d just mess things up…”
But now Robert had a glimpse of the strength which must have kept his mother going at the field hospital in South Beveland, or when she so resolutely snatched the Pianist from the clutches of the Germans, for after her pilgrimage to Wallerode she returned with renewed drive. She immediately sat down and drew up an in-depth analysis of the two competing primers, proving point for point that hers was superior, not least with regard to the pedagogical strategy which was necessary to combat the younger generation’s misconceptions about the past in all its shapes and forms; and to his relief Robert heard that the letter was not laughed out of court, in fact it made quite an impression on both colleagues and the principal. She also wrote to the Ministry of Culture in the capital, to national and local school authorities, to the mayor in Clervaux, and in addition wrote articles in newspapers and magazines – the cuttings from which fill a small shoebox in her loft – which sparked a debate on the whole educational system.
She got plenty of plaudits and declarations of support. But the principal – on Maria’s own home ground – continued to turn a deaf ear and didn’t say a word about the case, maybe because Clervaux wasn’t actually her home ground, she began to wonder, she was a foreigner here, a Belgian.
But when push came to shove it was perhaps an advantage that the principal hadn’t tied his colours to a public mast, for now Markus threw his hat in the ring after all. He was sick and tired of listening to the whingeing of mother and son, he said one evening after he’d had an earful of it, and agreed to go and see the principal, whom he knew from meetings at the local history society, and to plead for Maria’s book, on one condition, he added – that from now on she would keep quiet, inside and outside the home, whatever the outcome.
She said she couldn’t promise, this was her life’s work, it was the last thing she would do…
“OK, well, let’s say six months then?” Markus suggested as a compromise. “You stay quiet for six months. You must be able to manage that?”
She wriggled and squirmed, but then promised, at least she said she would do her best, God knows whether she would manage it.
“And Robert comes with me,” Markus said.
“Robert?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Markus picked him up from the school playground one day just after Christmas and they went together to see the principal, a tall, bony figure with a legendary bowed neck which had earned him the nickname “Crookneck”. And here Robert witnessed a conversation of which he understood not a single word. The two old men talked about the war for almost two hours, about tanks and the fighting around Mon Schumann – “Hill 490” (a particularly dramatic event in the country’s history) – about concentration camps – the principal had spent more than a year in Natzweiler and was well-known for his vehement and irreconcilable hatred of Germans, he even sabotaged a student exchange arrangement with schools in Trier and Prüm. And they ended up with a lengthy discussion of elderberry wine, food, horses and the need to preserve the oak forests in the areas where expansive farmers wanted to dig them up and plant spruce instead, as they did on the German, the enemy’s, side…
Maria’s textbook wasn’t mentioned at all. But Robert was there, fidgeting in his chair, and was doubtless an irritating reminder of what the conversation should have been about, and when Markus eventually stood up, he did so with a specific reference to “the young man”, who was getting impatient, he could feel it, heh-heh…
“You managed to control yourself, well done,” he said as they came out. “I couldn’t have done at your age.”
As Robert still had no idea what this was all about, he said they had both acted like cowards, they had come to get things sorted, to restore his mother’s honour …But Markus smiled at that and said the boy should be proud of himself.
“As I said,” he repeated, “a young man who can control himself beats an old man who can.”
However, there was no progress in the “primer affair”, except that Markus intervened a couple of times and ordered Maria to ditch a new newspaper article she was preparing, which irritated Maria beyond words, she wasn’t a patient person – nor should she or anyone else be, patience is a weakness, it is cruelty’s wicked stepmother…
“You have to be able to vary your tactics now and then,” Markus said drily, and wanted nothing else to do with the matter, he didn’t want to talk about it or hear about it, and Maria followed his advice, with visible reluctance.
But she used her own book in her lessons, to the principal’s annoyance, but they don’t like trouble in this peaceful country, so he bit his tongue. And in the exams she achieved better results than her colleagues; she always had done, but now they were even better and this time, for once, there were tangible reasons for the difference, which could not be overlooked when the staff met again the following summer to discuss course books. However, they weren’t able to agree, several meetings had to be held, and finally there was a ballot, which Maria won by one vote. The four who voted against her were the same four who had opposed her the previous year, while the ones who didn’t express their opinions the previous year, but who were also against her then, had changed their minds. The principal didn’t vote on either occasion. This was a time when Robert was becoming politically aware and viewed – with exuberance – the result as the power of democracy – one man, one vote – where those who don’t dare, or are unable to, or don’t wish to state their opinions still make their voice heard.
But the whole affair was so odd it stuck in his mind for a while after, more as an anecdote than proof of this slogan. As Maria’s book was so much better than the old one, one might well presume that it was this that made the difference, her colleagues just needed more time to see this, or to abandon old habits; indeed, several of them would perhaps have accepted the book at the outset if she hadn’t smacked down her palm on the staffroom table with such a triumphant flourish (actually an expression of childish pride) prior to the decisive meeting.
Or one might think that her book wasn’t any better but was accepted because her colleagues no longer had the heart to hurt her, she being the minor war hero in Clervaux that she was, even if she was a Belgian, though now they were beginning to get heartily sick of this war, it has to be said.
Maria’s explanation, on the other hand, was this: My book was better, but the world is full of idiots who don’t realise they are idiots, and that is why it took some time.
This is the romantic version, and it befits her, truth wins out in the end, but God knows what it would be like if you don’t have a tactician like Markus on your side. And what was the opinion of the principal, Crookneck, who had acquired his wisdom in Natzweiler, and knew that all this was just tedious, depressing nonsense? He thought there was little difference between the two books. That was his view. And now, at least, there was peace.
9
But no sooner had the Latinist battle been brought to a happy conclusion than a new mystery struck our little circle of friends. Father Rampart had been thoughtless enough to help a young history student at the university in Leuven, Belgium, with what he kne
w about the Vatican’s connections with the Nazi regime; he did this as a matter of course, even though his account was flawed in places through loss of memory and his very complicated view of humanity. In the process he lost much of his trust in the student and, in a violent exchange of words intended to guide the student towards a greater insight, he served up the following bold assertion:
“I don’t mind telling the truth as long as nobody hears.”
Nobody but God, he had intended to add, but in his excitement he forgot, and this sentence came to embellish the title page of the finished dissertation, almost as an ironic slogan, complete – unfortunately – with an acknowledgement.
The blunder might not have caused such a stir if the dissertation had been gracefully allowed to join the millions of files which gather dust in Leuven’s cool, sedate archives, but the Belgian-language dispute also casts its Babylonian confusion over Leuven, which meant that a Flemish journalist got his hands on the dissertation, with the result that the matter landed on the front page of De Standaard, beneath the exultant headline SUSPICIONS OF VATICAN COLLABORATION CONFIRMED BY SERVANT OF CHURCH.
Father Rampart had his recreation in his valley-bottom sanctuary rudely interrupted and was harassed round the clock by both friend and foe of the true faith, the former under the cover of darkness, the latter in full daylight, but the Vatican, as always, was adept at dealing with hot potatoes, so Rampart was granted a new study tour, which he was to use to purge those aspects of his teaching that did not accord with that of the Church – local parishioners had frequently complained about his sermons. He was delighted to move out of Rodershausen, which was in uproar, and first stayed for a few months in secret with Robert and Maria, in Leni’s old bed, thereafter with Markus and Nella.
But now the residence and the pulpit and the confession box were unoccupied, and people don’t only need the Word of God and forgiveness, they also have to be buried and christened and joined in holy wedlock, and they are not keen to go to Daleiden – on the German side – for these purposes, nor to Hosingen or Clervaux, where you are on foreign soil in your own country, and deputy priests are as they have always been: their souls are elsewhere.
The unrest turned to a sense of loss and eventually to vocal dissatisfaction, and strident voices were heard demanding an immediate reinstatement of Father Rampart, a request which was also put to paper in two languages by the village mayor and sent to Rome, and after some closet discussion it was decided to grant their wish. At the end of his study tour Father Rampart could, in other words, move back to his valley and on this occasion hold his most memorable sermon; he was so moved by all the support and affection – he had finally found a home, on both sides of a border – that he wept through the Kyrie Eleison and the Gloria and didn’t recover again until a good way into the Proprium Missae, the part where they collect the money, his usual star turn, and many in his flock wept with him.
However, people in this area are not only Catholics, like the average Portuguese, they are also down-to-earth border folk who have to keep all their options open, so when they emerged into the dazzling sunshine and their heads were cleared by the River Our’s earthy sighs and rushing waters and the sobering moo of a cow, they began to wonder what kind of priest this actually was. They’d had their doubts about him before, they now remembered, there was some truth to them, but when all was said and done it was the Vatican – some claimed it was the Pope himself – who had sent him here, this German priest, so they would have to put up with him, he was better than nothing.
But, in the name of all that is holy, it has to be admitted that there were those who said the complete opposite, such as: “We couldn’t have got a better priest,” or, “We’ve got the priest we deserve,” or, “We’ve got a priest who deserves us.” For there are all sorts of people, that is what Father Rampart has realised, and there is only one earth, but that is how it is.
10
After Léon’s arrival in Clervaux the relationship between Markus and Robert cooled. They saw each other less and less, and their conversations increasingly took the form of irritable debate.
“What is it with you?” Robert asked, annoyed. “Why can’t you stand the sight of Léon? He’s a war hero, you know?”
“Yeah, yeah, there are a lot of strange things going on in our country right now,” came the enigmatic response. “It’s haunted, heh-heh. And I’ve got quite different heroes.”
“Oh yes, who then?”
“My heroes are German, Robert, if you really want to know, and the reasons are quite complex…”
“What rubbish. We hate the Germans!”
“Well, yes, but not everybody does.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“There are some people who can pull off unimaginable feats, no matter where they come from, Germany or Luxembourg or Canada …both in war and in peace, there are people who are better than us, Robert, and they don’t come from any particular place, we have to accept that, believe me, they come from the strangest places.”
“Rubbish…”
“One day I’ll tell you about a general in the Wehrmacht no-one has ever heard of and no-one ever will. Not only was he on the wrong side, he didn’t save any Jews or Cossacks or gypsies either, only his own people, and he didn’t even manage that properly, anyway that won’t interest you…”
“Markus!”
“I’ve never met him, but I can still hear his voice saying, ‘Panzerlage 0/4/2/0/1, Hauschild destroyed, no further use possible.’ That kind of thing. Does it annoy you?”
“What do you think?”
“You’re growing up, Robert, but don’t forget, this is the time when we begin to believe we’re not as small as God made us.”
Yes, Robert had slowly started to view himself as bigger than he actually was, not only that, the final exams are approaching, he is above average on the football pitch, well above average in the classroom, he enjoys a large degree of freedom thanks to his own efforts and suddenly he has a sense that he is not so weak-kneed and aggressively neurotic in his thoughts and behaviour as many of his friends who have a father to help them, the St Vitus brothers as he calls them, St Vitus’ father was his bitterest enemy, as we know, which is the reason why the saint has lent his name to those twitchings and tremblings of the body – St Vitus’ dance – which extreme unfortunates are afflicted with, that at any rate is Markus’ explanation, and it is not his most outlandish notion either, for, while there is a certain disagreement among believers about whether St Vitus was beset by these twitchings or whether he was able to cure them, Markus believes that one possibility doesn’t rule out the other, illness can be a gift of grace, just like lameness or blindness.
In addition, Robert, after three failed attempts, has finally managed to start a relationship with a girl, a bright spark from the hills in the north who lives in a bedsit in Clervaux in the winter and must be able to avoid milking and digging when she is at home in the summer because she has such soft hands. Her name is Brigitte, she has feet like petals, milky white skin with invisible freckles and a slight squint, which means Robert sees two versions of himself in her eyes when he confesses his love for her. His mother knows her as a “quiet, gifted child” from school, but now, when Robert takes her home and makes the relationship official, Maria says:
“Ah yes, love, it’s an impossibility, my dear, but come over here and I’ll show you the family album.”
And these are big words since this family consists of only her and Robert, he is frozen in all the brief stages of childhood, sometimes supported by his mother’s hands, or wearing Markus’ glasses or sitting on Nella’s ample lap holding a sunflower the size of his own head. In one of the photos Marion and Josephine, their summer dresses fluttering in the wind, are holding a hammock between them, which is actually a sheet, and in it Robert is sitting with a catapult, wearing an American beret he was given for Christmas by the American war hero Cota.
Maria sits with a seraphic smile on her face as t
hese photos are being admired, but it loses its glow as they approach the present, and the album is always closed well in advance, as though she hasn’t got the strength to reveal the end of a complicated tale.
But there is limited scope for developing the relationship with Brigitte, seen through Robert’s eyes; he can’t reap the rewards today of his renunciation yesterday, as it were, in matters of the flesh for example; the same has to happen over and over again, i.e. nothing, otherwise something is lost. Change and innovation impoverish and confuse, bleed you white almost, Brigitte says. But a young man in this situation is more patient than an old one, so Robert strolls through the streets with her for weeks on end, hand in hand, murmuring words which are alien to him. He hears her calling his name from the stands (only just) when the school team hammers the village teams, and she always has to have reisfladen when he takes her out, what else, and Pepsi Cola. And he starts wondering how she ever manages to rise through the school without breaking down, not to mention what it must have cost her to leave home and move to town, a small town but a metropolis compared with where she comes from, a cluster of six houses around a crossroads, so there must be something in her, apart from this fragile light she carries around with her like a halo, he is sure of that, but less and less sure as the days and weeks repeat themselves.
Irritation begins to build up in Robert, impatience, and this results in a short conciliatory kiss in the wake of a tiff, whose cause neither of them can identify, but the argument is there and creates an atmosphere, and again the next time they meet, perhaps they are not suited, but a break-up now would be sad when we love each other so much, and so on. And Robert has to consult Father Rampart and listen at great length to his tortuous thoughts until the priest breaks off and says: