by David Lodge
The corridor was empty now, except for his bag, which looked as though it had been trampled by a herd of buffalo, and there were two vacant seats in the nearest compartment. He slid back the door and sat down. The seat was hard and narrow in comparison with English trains, but the relief to his aching limbs was delicious. In the corner opposite the young man he had noticed earlier was still reading.
– Hi, he said over his book. I nearly awakened you when the seats were vacated, but you looked so peaceful.
– When was that? Timothy asked.
– Most of the people got out at Mainz. Tired?
Timothy nodded. The young man, who seemed to be American to judge by his accent, returned to his book. Timothy picked out the word Europe on the jacket.
Outside the window Europe was acquiring a little definition with the first hint of dawn. The dim shapes of houses and trees flicked by. In the distance he could see the lights of some distant town or factory. He turned his head to look in the other direction, across the corridor, and looked straight into the eyes of the girl with the black pony-tail. Did she smile at him, or was it his imagination? She lowered her eyes at once and moved on past his compartment. She looked pale and tired and her uniform was crumpled, but at least she’d had a seat through the night. He was mildly disappointed that she had not come past earlier, in time to get the full effect, the pathos and endurance of his prone and sleeping figure. But perhaps she had – perhaps that was why she had smiled at him. He chose to think so.
He felt light-headed with hunger and fatigue, but in better spirits than at any time since he had left home. In little more than an hour the ordeal would be over: he would be safe in the capable hands of his sister. That hour included the trickiest part of his journey – the change of trains at Mannheim – but somehow he faced it with unaccustomed calm. Having survived this extraordinary night gave him confidence.
When he alighted at Mannheim the only person on the platform seemed to be an old man in grey denim with a broom and bucket.
– Heidelberg? Timothy asked.
The old man nodded over his shoulder and said something incomprehensible.
– I’ll show you, said a voice from behind him. I’m going to Heidelberg myself. It was the young American.
– Oh, thanks very much, said Timothy, picking up his bag.
– That looks kind of heavy, let me give you a hand, said the young man, taking one handle. His own luggage consisted of a small duffle bag which he carried easily over his shoulder.
Timothy stepped out with a light heart: his luck had decisively changed.
– It’s jolly nice of you, he said. I couldn’t understand that old man.
– You don’t speak German?
– No, they’ve only just started doing it at our school. This was the answer he had prepared to a question he expected to be asked frequently in the coming weeks. It was true; though it was also true that until very recently he would have regarded the idea of learning German as absurd and, in a way, unpatriotic.
– Would that be Junior High? Or don’t you call it that?
The train they had just left was leaving, sliding past with gathering speed. Timothy scanned the windows for the girl with the black pony-tail.
– I go to a grammar school, he said. I’m in the Sixth Form.
– That would make you, what, seventeen?
– Sixteen.
A blind was pulled back as if someone were peering out. Timothy straightened his shoulders.
– Sixteen. That’s kind of young to be travelling all this way alone.
– Oh, there’s nothing to it, really, said Timothy nonchalantly, as they descended the steps of the subway.
3
THE YOUNG MAN’S name was Don Kowalski, which matched Timothy’s idea of the typical American no better than his appearance. He was tall and thin and sallow. He had a long nose and a cleft chin. His black, crinkly hair was short, but not crew-cut; it fitted his head like a skull cap. The Americans Timothy had seen in London were immediately recognizable by their pastel-coloured draped suits and gaudy ties. Don wore a tweed jacket and rather grubby cotton trousers and a white shirt open at the throat.
– So what brings you to Old Heidelberg, Timothy? he asked, as they settled themselves in a compartment of the short, antique-looking local train.
Timothy told him.
– You should have a great vacation, he said. Heidelberg’s an interesting old town.
– D’you know it well?
– Pretty well. I’ve been there for over a year.
– Perhaps you know my sister, then.
Don shook his head.
– I don’t think so. I was a G.I. until last month. I guess your sister moves in more exclusive circles.
– National Service?
– Same thing, except it’s selective. I understand everybody has to do it in Britain. That’s fairer.
– You can get deferment, though, if you go on studying.
– Are you planning to go to college?
– I might. Or I might do an apprenticeship. I’m waiting to see what my O-Level results are like.
– But it’s free, isn’t it – college education in England?
– If you can get in.
– And that’s not easy – I know, I’m trying to get into the London School of Economics myself. In fact I’ve just been to England for an interview. You look surprised.
Timothy was indeed surprised: Don looked far too old to be a student, but it seemed impolite to say so.
– I just wondered why you wanted to study in England, instead of America.
– I like England. I’ve spent a couple of furloughs in London. I don’t want to go back home just yet. And L.S.E. is a good school, especially for graduate work.
– It won’t be free for you, though, will it?
– No, but we have a fine institution called the G.I. Bill. Just about the only thing to be said in favour of the draft.
As Don was explaining the G.I. Bill to him, and what graduate work was, the train moved out of Mannheim station. It was light now, though misty, and Timothy was astonished at the amount of war damage still in evidence. On both sides of the railway tracks there were many rubble-strewn open spaces and half-destroyed buildings. In the grey dawn light, with the mist drifting like smoke, the town looked as though a battle had only recently passed through it.
– Was there much fighting here in the war?
– That’s bomb damage, mostly. As a matter of fact, Mannheim was the first target of the British area-bombing offensive, some time in 1940 or ’41. And I expect they came back, or we did.
– It’s worse than London.
– This is nothing. You should see Frankfurt. Or Hamburg . . . But Heidelberg wasn’t touched. I guess that’s why we based our Headquarters there. So we wouldn’t have any ugly reminders of what we’d done.
Timothy glanced at him curiously. It seemed a queer thing to say – surely nobody need feel guilty about bombing the Germans? But it would be different for an American, he reflected. They wouldn’t know about the Blitz – wouldn’t know what it had been like.
– I s’pose there weren’t any factories or stuff like that worth bombing in Heidelberg? he speculated.
– I guess not, but that didn’t save Dresden. They say it was the Student Prince that saved Heidelberg.
– The Student Prince?
– Yeah, d’you know it? Kind of a light opera. Drink! Drink! and all that jazz. Real schmaltz, but it always went down very big in the States. Lots of Americans sent their kids to college there, just because of the opera. They say that if they’d ordered Heidelberg to be bombed, the Air Force would have mutinied.
Timothy laughed. He had never heard anybody talk about the war in this way before.
The train was rolling across flat, open country now. The mist lay thickly on the fields.
– Are there mountains behind this mist? he asked. My sister said there were mountains.
– Small mountains
, yes. Tree-covered. They start just at Heidelberg, where the Neckar comes out into the Rhine plain. Mannheim is where it meets the Rhine. He demonstrated the junction of the rivers with his long, bony hands. The Neckar valley is very scenic . . . Your sister will be meeting you, I guess?
– I hope so, said Timothy. He dragged out his school cap and put it on. So she’ll recognize me, he explained.
– How long since you last saw her?
– Three and a half years.
– That’s quite a time.
– She doesn’t seem to want to come home, Timothy said. The remark seemed indiscreet when he had made it, but Don seemed unsurprised.
– Heidelberg is full of people who don’t want to go home, he said.
The train began to slow down.
– Well, here we are.
– Heidelberg? Already? Timothy jumped up from his seat and leaned out of the window. The air was mild and damp on his face. Straining his eyes he thought he could discern the vague shapes of mountains through the mist.
– The sun will soon burn off the fog, Don said behind him. Then you’ll see it all.
Timothy couldn’t help wishing, ungratefully, that Don would disappear and leave him to meet Kath alone. The company of a protective adult, he felt, diminished the heroism of his journey. He had, after all, managed it unassisted for all but the last half-hour. He wanted Kath to see him like that: alone, tired, dishevelled, but unbowed. However, it was impossible to refuse Don’s assistance, and as they walked along the platform, with the heavy bag swaying between them, he saw Kath.
– There she is! he cried, and waved.
She didn’t react at first; then she ran forward with a broad smile of recognition, her large breasts bouncing under her white jumper. Timothy was more aware of her breasts than of anything else for the first few minutes. If they had been like that before, he hadn’t been of an age to separate them from the general amplitude of her figure. Now they hypnotized him. They were big, very big. Almost too big, but not quite. He was crushed against them as Kath embraced him, and felt the stiff material of her brassiere buckle against his bony chest.
– Timothy! It’s marvellous to see you! How you’ve grown!
– So’ve you, he said thoughtlessly.
– Timothy! And I’ve been on a diet! How was the journey?
– All right.
– I didn’t recognize you at first. I was looking for a little boy about so high (she held out her hand about three feet from the ground) and on his own. But I see you’ve had company. She glanced at Don.
– Only from Mannheim, said Timothy.
Don stepped forward and extended his hand.
– Don Kowalski, he said. You must be Timothy’s sister.
– It was very kind of you to look after him.
– My pleasure. I wish we’d gotten acquainted earlier in the journey.
Kath returned her attention to Timothy.
– Are you tired, my pet? You must be, and hungry too. We’ll get you some breakfast just as soon as we’ve dropped your bag somewhere.
– Can I give you a hand? said Don.
– That’s very kind of you, but I think I’ll get a porter, said Kath firmly.
– Well I’ll leave you, then, said Don, but still lingering.
– Thank you so much, said Kath. Her manner was becoming a little bit what his father called lah-di-dah.
– Well, have a good vacation, Timothy, said Don, picking up his duffle bag. Maybe I’ll see you around the town one of these days. It’s not such a big place. You too, er . . .
– Kate Young.
– It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Kate. You, too, Timothy.
They watched him lope away, swinging his duffle bag over his shoulder.
– Who is he? Kath asked in a low voice.
– I dunno. He said he’d just come out of the Army.
– I guessed he was a G.I. Seemed nice though.
– He was jolly nice. Why didn’t you let him help us with my bag? It’s terrifically heavy.
– You’ve got to be careful with these G.I.s. Another couple of minutes and he’d have been trying to date me. She grinned at him and tugged her sweater down over her breasts. Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile, I always say. Now, what I suggest is, that we drop your bag at the Left Luggage and have a look at the room I’ve got lined up for you, and then we’ll go and have some breakfast. I’ve got to go to work this morning, but probably you’d just like to rest and have an easy day, huh?
– I feel I’d like to sleep for about a week, he confessed.
– Poor darling, you do look tired. What time did they wake you up?
– Wake me up? he repeated, puzzled.
Kath gave him a searching look.
– You did have a sleeper, didn’t you?
– No.
– You mean you sat up all night?
– No, I stood up most of the time. Then I lay on the floor. I couldn’t get a seat. He grinned at the look on her face.
– My God! Kath screamed faintly. You must be half-dead! What time did you leave London?
– Eleven o’clock yesterday morning.
Kath groaned.
– And they sent you off without even a reserved seat . . . Of course, I should have known. Mum and Dad have no idea. Well, no use crying over spilt milk. You’re here, and you don’t look too bad, considering. Now, let’s get a porter. Träger!
A man in grey denims, pushing a trolley along the platform, nodded and veered in their direction. Kath looked at his bag, and poked it experimentally with the toe of her white, high-heeled shoe.
– Where did you dig this up from?
– It used to be Uncle Jack’s.
– Uncle Jack?
– Jill’s Dad . . . you remember. He left it in our loft.
– Oh, poor Mr. Martin. What an extraordinary idea.
– Why?
– Well, you must admit, it’s a bit morbid.
The porter came up and heaved the bag onto his trolley. She gave him an instruction in German, and they set off.
– You speak German, then, he said respectfully.
– Just a bit. You’ll find most of the Germans speak English around here, because of the American presence. We’re their bread and butter, you see. And their jam, too, I always say.
– You consider yourself American, then, Kath?
– No, why?
– You said we just now.
– Oh, it’s just a manner of speaking. After all, I work for them.
– And you told Don your name was Kate.
– That’s what everybody calls me here. It started with Kiss Me Kate. Did you see that show? I think it’s been on in London.
– No, I haven’t. What should I call you, Kath or Kate?
– Whichever you like. I always think of myself as Kath at home and Kate out here.
– Two different people?
She looked at him quizzically.
– I suppose you could say that, yes.
The porter led them to the Left Luggage counter.
– I’m going to check your bag in here, Kath explained, and then we can walk across to the guest house. I don’t want to take the bag with us until we’ve seen the room. I’m afraid it won’t be very luxurious.
– Anywhere with a bed will do, he said.
– Poor darling. She gave him a sympathetic hug. But it’s so good to see you. And of course I want to hear all the news from home. How are Mum and Dad?
– Fine. They send their love, of course.
– Good, you must tell me everything when you’re rested.
She tipped the porter and led Timothy out of the station. They passed through a colonnade and came out on to a broad street with a square to the left and gardens to the right. Blue single-decker trams, some coupled together, were cruising past, bells clanging. A huge, tree-covered mountain, startlingly near, heaved up in the mist behind the roofs. Timothy stopped and took it all in.
– Gosh!
he said.
– Wait till the sun comes out, then you get all the colours. The green mountains and the blue sky and the coloured roofs. I never get tired of it. This is the Rohrbacherstrasse, she said, as they crossed the tramlines. That’s Bismarckplatz, where all the trams are.
– I know about Bismarck, he said. He came into History this year.
– Your guest house is just down this street. I hope it’s going to be all right. Accommodation’s like gold-dust in Heidelberg. It’s a tourist resort, you see, but nearly all the hotels are requisitioned by the Americans for their personnel – I live in one myself – so, as you can imagine, it’s very difficult finding anywhere at the height of the season. The requisitioning is the big grudge the Germans have against us.
Timothy let her chatter on, too tired to say much on his own account.
– It was only as a special favour that I managed to get the offer of this place. It’s price controlled, but I’ll have to tip the woman.
– With cigarettes?
– Dear me, no. Those days have gone. The Germans are getting back on to their own feet now . . . it’s amazing, they really know how to work. Here we are.
They stopped outside a tall, shuttered house, and Kath rang the bell. After a few moments, they heard the sound of bolts being drawn, and a stout, middle-aged woman in a flowered overall ushered them into a dark hall. Kath introduced him, in a mixture of English and German, to Frau Himmler. Though she nodded and smiled amicably enough, Timothy thought the name was a bad omen. His misgivings increased as she led them up four flights of stairs, each flight darker and more dilapidated than the one before. Carpet gave way to lino, and lino to bare boards. Frau Himmler unlocked a door on the top landing and pushed it open. They went in.
It was an attic room. It was clean, but that was about all you could say for it. The floor sloped almost as much as the ceiling, and the heavy furniture looked ready to slide down to one end of the room. There was an iron bed covered with a mountainous quilt, and a small window through which he could see a neighbouring chimney. Kath walked round the room, testing the bed springs and opening the chest of drawers.