The parable is his great astonishment. Astonishment that there are people—and apparently the majority of people—who dare to take a decision and carry it out, too, with no fear, reservations or pangs of conscience, people who do not even think to consider the far-reaching ramifications and possible consequences of their decision and its execution, who thus act beyond morality and seem to do just fine without it; indeed, that life itself—regarded as a happening—actually takes place outside the realm of thought and reflection, indeed must take place there, because only beyond the realm of thought can it have any color at all and be deserving of the name life.
In a way these stories illustrate this very point: that no one can act or be in this world, without becoming guilty—a very unmodern, biblical notion in our ideal world of transparency and accountability.
The five well-meaning but flawed protagonists of these five stories—sometimes shrewd, sometimes bumbling—all manage to wreak havoc, more or less unwittingly. And yet these too are lives lived, real and valid stories worth telling. “Human life,” a character in one Urzidil story muses, “is long but also short. One can suffer through it or laugh through it, use it to function or leave an impression, but one can also squander it. There is no need to be alarmed by this. Squandering it does not mean living life any less. One cannot, after all, do more with life than live it.”
David Burnett
Leipzig, September 2016
* All translations from the German are mine, except where otherwise noted.
† From Labyrinths (1962), translated by James E. Irby.
‡ This and the preceding quote were translated by Wolfgang Elfe (Dictionary of Literary Biography, 1989).
§ Hermann Hesse read the story and commented to Urzidil in a letter: “your story about Otti and the Bohemian Forest deeply impressed and delighted me. I thank you very much for that. I once knew a child with similar gifts…” (Letter from Montagnola, December 12, 1955).
THE LAST BELL
I
THIS MORNING, in the wee hours, the Mister and Missus went away. I don’t know where to. All they had were their two little suitcases. I accompanied them to the train anyway. Not many lamps at the platform, but a load of policemen and undercovers. You can recognize them a mile away.
“Don’t talk too much, and more than anything: Don’t start bawling. You’ll attract attention.”
I knew it would be forever. But I don’t know why I wasn’t allowed to cry. I pulled myself together. I usually bawl my eyes out at the station, no matter if they’re coming or going. All I need to do is walk past a train station and already I start to cry. I feel bad for the ones who are leaving, but I also feel bad for the ones arriving, because they had to leave from somewhere. Goodbyes everywhere! This time I cried on the street, was still crying behind the theater. Some people were just coming out. “Why you crying, miss?” one of them asks me, “the show was hilarious.”—“Ten years,” I say, “ten years. The beds in the morning, then the coffee, and every Sunday an egg for the Mister. Then cleaning up, shopping, cooking. Dusting whenever I had a chance: old cups, glassware, books, and so forth; I was always careful that nothing got chipped or cracked. Ten whole years.”—“Well,” says the man, “that’s a long time. But don’t you think you’ve maybe got a screw loose?”—“No. Because suddenly nothing matters anymore. I can shatter everything, tear it to shreds, dirty it to my heart’s content. ’Cause it all belongs to me now.”—“Is that so? Well then, you’re awfully lucky,” says the man and continues on his way, as if he’d been frightened.
The Mister called me into his workroom at around nine o’clock. “Listen up, Marška”—he addressed me in the polite form, but was always switching back and forth—“we’re leaving tonight. Swear that you won’t tell a soul for the next two weeks. If anyone asks, you know nothing. Where to? Somewhere. To tell the truth, we don’t even know ourselves. Don’t faint on me now. Here’s ten thousand crowns. A gift from me to you.”
“What for? How come?”
“Don’t ask too many questions. Put it in your pocket. It’s all we’ve got, and we’re not allowed to take more than twenty marks with us. If they catch us, they’ll get us for currency smuggling too. It’s all the same in the end, I suppose, but you like to think you’re safer by following more of the rules. That’s poppycock, of course. But poppycock is what makes the world go round.”
“And what about the apartment?”
“Ah, the apartment. You can have that too. It’ll make a nice dowry for you.”
“What? All the furnishings? The glass cabinet? The porcelain and the antique glassware? The rugs? The Tyrolean chest? The clothing and linens?”
“Stop cataloging. Do what you want with all that junk. The rent is paid for the next six months. That gives you enough time to think it over.”
“So you’re never coming back?”
“One never comes back, except from summer vacations and business trips, but even that isn’t certain. Enough said.”
He actually said, “junk.” My teeth were chattering. Not because I was happy about the money and all the stuff. But because everything suddenly seemed worthless. Could you call it a gift at all? It was nothing but discarded goods. I’d looked after these things for years, watching each object like a hawk.
“And the books? What’s going to happen to the books?”
“Well, you’re probably not going to read them. Sell them before they end up on the dung heap. Now leave me alone for a little while.” So I went in the kitchen and started to bawl. “Stop your whining,” the Missus said, “that’s all we need right now.” He probably thought I was honest and loyal. Granted, I wasn’t the worst. But I wasn’t as honest as he might have thought. I really lined my pockets sometimes. Nobody’s a saint, and what fun is anything without a little swindle. Anyway, it all has to balance out somehow.
The Missus could be unbearable at times. Of course she didn’t always have it easy, what with all his running around. Men! But even that can have a silver lining. Because the more somebody runs around, the more considerate he can be. Not necessarily, but sometimes. I was always careful with him. There was never any hanky-panky with me. Kind of a pity, actually! But it’s not worth it, I know that from my sister. She thought she’d be better off if she fooled around with the husband, but as soon as she was in a delicate condition the husband denied everything and the wife threw her out. She was lucky the child preferred not to come. Joška was only seventeen. That kind of thing shouldn’t happen to you. I was much more practical in this regard. As is evidently the case, Uncle Peter used to say.
I’m awfully scared now. What do I say if someone asks me: Where’d you get all that? No one will believe me if I tell the truth. “You should have had it put in writing,” they’ll say. “Thief,” they’ll say. The cash I can try to stash away and use up little by little. Not that that’ll be easy. If you’ve got money, you want to feel like you’ve got it. The furniture, books and things, those are going to be a real pain. But I don’t have to sell anything yet. Because, first of all, maybe—Heaven forbid—they’ll come back after all; second, I have no clue what any of it’s worth, so they’re just going to rob me blind; third, I have no need, ’cause I’ve got enough cash; fourth, I can always say I’m managing affairs for the master and mistress of the house. In any case, I’ll have Joška come live with me. Who could stand to live like this alone? Everything’s become so slick. If I touch anything, it’ll slip through my fingers. I have to get used to it first, and the things here have to get used to me. I’m no longer in between them and the Mister and Missus. I’m the mistress of the house now. And I have to learn that the ones who don’t obey get the boot. Joška is two years younger than me, but cheekier from all the lessons she’s learned, a few dozen more than me, I imagine.
I’m one grand richer than I was an hour ago. I found it behind a dresser drawer that used to belong to the Missus. The Mister said the furniture’s mine. So anything stashed in the furniture must be mine too.
She probably didn’t think of it, what with all the commotion. But who ever heard of a woman who doesn’t think of her money? She probably didn’t have the guts to take it with her. But are there women who don’t have the guts when it comes to money? What business is it of mine? Whatever the case, I’ve got it now. But I won’t tell Joška how much and where I got it from. I’ll call it my savings, and strictly speaking it’s true. I worked here for ten years and was probably worth three times my wage. A pretty penny if you factor in interest and compound interest. So why should I have a bad conscience? Who’s got one of those nowadays anyway? True, I still feel a little bit ashamed before I fall asleep. But that’ll pass. Everything does. Tomorrow I’ll buy myself a couple of new outfits, then I’ll write to Joška. Come and stay with me, I’ll say. “With me” because my employers are on vacation, until further notice. How much further, I don’t really know. But you can stay a while for sure.
And so I went clothes shopping. Two dresses in two different shops. I tried on five at each and it was worth it. I kept the one with green polka dots and the one with a blue-and-red check pattern. The Missus’s things are still in decent shape, but none of them fit me. Maybe Joška can wear them. The salesgirl in the second store was kind of impatient. It was just before closing time, and she was probably in a hurry to get to some rendezvous. But I decided to borrow her time for a while. “Don’t treat a customer so rudely.” I rustled up a dozen pairs of socks too, and a snakeskin purse in a leather-goods store. I’m a sucker for snakeskin. And I even went to a restaurant. I made it worth my money too. “This roast venison stinks. Send it back to the kitchen.”—“It does not stink, madam. It’s haut goût.”—“It stinks, don’t lecture me about hoe goo. I’m the customer here.”—“As you wish, madam. I’ll bring you another portion.” The other portion stunk just as bad, but that’s the way you have to deal with these people. As long as you’ve got money, the prettiest roses can stink to high heaven.
The waiter, by the way, looked just like Uncle Peter, who happened to be a waiter too, and was the first one to do it with me, back when I was thirteen. My mother had gone shopping and I was bringing him his breakfast. I was almost naked, on purpose, and so he went all the way with me. I acted like I knew all about that stuff already, and let him do what he wanted with me. I still felt pretty bashful though, most of all for feeling bashful. Uncle Peter noticed and said, “You little hussy.” He was killed later on in some brawl. We were having dinner when the news arrived. Joška bawled her eyes out, but not me; I kept on eating my favorite pudding. Mother asked, “Don’t you feel the least bit sorry?”—“No,” I said, and she slapped me. So this waiter looked like Uncle Peter. I didn’t hold it against him though. The apple tart went straight back to the kitchen too. You should always show that you’re used to better. That’s how you act if you want to be a lady.
I wonder what the Mister and Missus are up to right about now? I hope they didn’t nab them. The better sort always seem to find a way out. Mine were pretty decent folks, but only because they weren’t too rich. Stasi, who works for the Bockenhauers, told me about their fancy parties, and how at the end they’re all completely soused. A real live bank official even followed her up to her room. Who knows all the things he did with her. He gave her a five-crown tip in the hall when he left, and thanked Frau Bockenhauer. “Küss die Hand, gnä’ Frau—good day, madam, ’twas a splendid evening.”
Two plain-clothes Gestapo men came today. I nearly told them: No need to wear those Party badges, gentlemen. I can recognize your mugs a thousand feet away. But I held my tongue. “Where are the Mister and Missus?”
“What do I know? Maybe in the Bohemian Forest. That’s where they usually go.”
“This time of year?”
“There’s no accounting for tastes.”
“You might want to lower your voice,” one of them snarled, rummaging through the books. “Not a single decent German book here.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, “there’s nothing but German books here.”
“What do you know about books. Are you a Volksdeutsche—an ethnic German?”
“Not that I know of. I’m from Moravia. They speak German there too. But mostly Czech. I speak mostly Czech. If I have to, I can speak German though.”
“We’ll make a good German out of you,” said the other one, patting me on the behind.
“You keep your hands to yourself, mister, or I might get nasty.”
“Humbly beg your pardon. All in the line of duty. We’re studying the body politic. Are you free on Sunday?”
I came up with a quick lie. “My father’s coming to visit.” My father’s been dead for years, but he’s good enough to serve as an excuse.
“Fine. We’ll come back another time then. By then your mister and missus should be back. And maybe then you’ll be a little more gentle and German.” They chugged what was left of a bottle of brandy just to be on the safe side, but not without saying “With your permission” and “To your health” and “Pupille—little doll, apple of our eye,” probably to show what well-bred specimens of humanity they are. I thought: Just come back and try it, and I’ll chop off something in your sleep. Not your head, but something you value much more. That’ll put an end to your funny business.
I saw the whole lousy crew pull up in their motorcar. It was pretty early in the morning, and the first snow was falling. I don’t know how the snow wasn’t ashamed to fall on a day like that. But maybe it was ashamed and we just didn’t notice. They were pointing their guns all over the place, at the buildings and the people in the street. The ground didn’t open and swallow them up. Not yet, anyway. Give it some time. I know that for sure. But either way it really gave me the willies. Like most people around here. They say they’re only after the Jews and political ones for now. But they won’t stop at that. I don’t know why I know that. My Mister and Missus, in any case, have up and left, and I’m stuck here with their money. It’s just too crazy, it can’t possibly end well. The two Gestapo men didn’t even ask me about money, come to think of it.
I’m guessing they’re dumb as the night is dark. And that’ll be their downfall. People with badges, who sway their hips and gawk like turkey-cocks, can only be morons. That’s our best hope. Below us, on the fourth floor, the woman with the little boy stopped and approached me on the stairs. “Are you going up to Hradschin Castle to greet the Führer? I’m going with Karli. An opportunity like this doesn’t come twice in a lifetime.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I said, “for Karli, that…”—and I wanted to say: that rotten knock-kneed milksop, but I said—“that bright little child of yours. But I’ve got spring-cleaning to do.” I couldn’t get myself to say “unfortunately.”
“That they keep you busy with that on such a festive day,” she says. She doesn’t know that my Mister and Missus are long gone. You have to be careful with her.
“It’s been planned for weeks,” I say, “and I can’t very well put it off now. You know how it is.”
She doesn’t know shit. But if you want to cut somebody off, you say: You know how it is. Of course I could have put on my new green polka-dot dress and gone up to Hradčany Castle. Maybe some guy would’ve approached me, and I would have snapped right back at him: “Where are your manners!” After all, I’m not a whore. Especially not for those guys, ’cause it’s going to be nothing but Germans up there. And the worst sort. Not the kind like our Mister. Our Missus was actually Jewish. It took me three years to realize it, and only because she said so herself; then I forgot all about it. My mother always said: The Jews, they’re not human. But first of all, what didn’t she say; and second, she once had an affair with a Jew before he dumped her. That was before my father was around, and I know it from Uncle Peter. My father died not long afterwards. So he, too, dumped her in a way. A manure cart fell on top of him. I asked her once: “Would you rather the dung cart had fallen on the Jew? Would that have made him a saint?” She smacked me one and called me a dirty little turd, which
only goes to show that her head was full of crap.
Joška arrived today, from Šumperk. Her vulcanized-fiber suitcase had burst open and she tied it together with a piece of clothes line. I took a taxi from the station, to show her right off the bat who I am. I’d never splurged on one before. I probably gave too big of a tip, ’cause the driver said, “Thank you, ladies,” and carried the broken suitcase to the door. Joška looked at me as if I were some kind of lunatic. “You’re right,” I said, “but I’m entitled.” The lift was broken so we dragged the suitcase by the clothes line, all the way up to the sixth floor. The dame with the pathetic God-have-mercy son was standing in the doorway on the fourth floor, gaping.
“A pity you missed it.”
“What?”
“What do you mean, what? The Führer, obviously.”
All I said was: “The things I’ve missed in my life, you can’t imagine.” We continued lugging, and Joška asked, “Who on earth was that?” But we were already at the door, so all I said was, “A vicious cow,” and dragged Joška into the apartment. “This is the Mister’s room. But you’ll sleep in the Missus’s room. Here’s the balcony. Check out the view. When you’re down below there’s a giant cemetery staring right at you, but from up here it looks like a garden. Makes you feel like the Good Lord himself, up so high that the whole shitty world seems like sheer splendor. The cemetery’s huge, but you don’t even notice there are dead people in it. And anyway, there’s dead people in the ground all over. Way over there you can even see forests off in the distance. And to the left—you have to look down—that’s Hradčany Castle. Yes, down there; we’re higher up, so we have a bird’s eye view. There’s nowhere else like it in the entire city. Let me go make some coffee, then we’ll unpack.”
“And when are the master and mistress coming back?”
“Probably never. Don’t worry about it, and keep your mouth shut. I’m in charge here now. You’ll be sleeping in the Missus’s room. I’ve got the Mister’s bed. You have a fantastic sleeper ottoman, a wardrobe, table, chair, dresser and rugs—like a princess. Bet you never dreamed that your big sis could put you up like this, huh? Just look at what you’re wearing! Grab a dress from the wardrobe and something for underneath from the dresser. She had a figure almost like yours.”
The Last Bell Page 2