The Last Bell

by Johannes Urzidil

  “What do you mean, had?”

  “She’s probably still got it. But not here.”

  “Is that allowed? I mean the thing with the dresses and underwear?”

  “Actually, it’s not allowed. But I’m allowed. And so you’re allowed too. You wouldn’t believe how things are changing. If it weren’t the way it were, it wouldn’t be half bad. But the way it is, it makes my stomach churn. So get undressed and make yourself comfy. I bought a plum cake to go with the coffee. If I’d baked it myself it would have been better. But if you’re rich you have to take it easy and try to be content.”

  “What, are you rich? Are you ill?”

  “Not a trace, of one or the other. But I take it easy now, like the rich folks. They take it easy even if there’s nothing the matter with them. Our sort has to learn that kind of thing. It’s sweltering and they put on a cardigan. That’s what they call refined. When our Missus came back from the theater and I asked her, ‘So how was it?’ she always answered: ‘Nothing special.’ People like us are happy if they can go to the pictures and cry over rich people falling in and out of love. But if you’re refined you say, ‘Nothing special.’ If you can’t get into the habit of that, you’ll never amount to much in this world. Say you go out with some fellow and he blows his whole week’s wages on one evening, including petty cash, and he asks you, ‘Did you have a good time?’ You have to answer: ‘Nice enough, but not all that special.’ Even if he roughs you up like a prizefighter in bed, you still have to say: ‘Nothing special.’”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “Experience, my dear, experience. I’ve acted like an ordinary girl long enough, with my ‘terrific, splendid, wonderful.’ The Pyramids of Egypt? Nothing special. Here’s the plum cake. I like to sprinkle grated almonds and minced lemon peel on mine. But what can you expect from people nowadays in exchange for your hard-earned money? First they leave out the lemon peel, then the grated almonds, then the plums, and eventually the flour. If they had it their way, they’d sell you baked air. I’ve finally found a decent coffee again with roasted chicory in it. My Mister and Missus always wanted pure bean coffee. They must have wanted to poison themselves.”

  Sleep, sleep in, as long as you want, stretch your arms and legs as far as they reach. Leave the clock alone if it stops. We don’t need hours or time. It’s all the same if we have breakfast at ten or eleven or twelve or twelve-thirty. The telephone’s there still but doesn’t ring, ’cause no one calls anymore. The doorbell hardly rings now either. Who would come? The things here are all in retirement. Let the dust gather, who cares. They belong to me now and the way you can tell is that I decide when to dust them. I’m in command now.

  The reason I had Joška come was to have someone to boss around. It’s hard to command when you’re all alone. Do this, do that, and while you’re at it that too. “You’re worse than a mistress,” says Joška. “Don’t forget: You’ve never lived like this before, so free and easy,” I say, “you can run around all day in your underwear. It’s paradise.” And she makes the most of it. The maintenance man came yesterday to do something on the water pipes, and the way she pranced around him was disgraceful. He took three times as long as he needed. But I gave her a piece of my mind. “That’s no way to carry on with someone from the building, you cow. Now you have to let him have his fun so you’ve got him wrapped around your finger. If you don’t, he’ll tell everyone you’re a whore. You really could try to be a little more mature.”

  I bought a dozen jazz records to keep us entertained. I can’t listen to the old ones anymore. “Classical music,” the Mister used to call it. I don’t even know what that means. But I do know music should be good. And music is only good if, first of all, it makes you weep, second, if it makes you die laughing, and third, if it gets your legs and arms, your bosom and rear end moving and whirls you through the room like a maniac. The classical stuff just puts you to sleep. I love to watch when Joška dances like a savage to the gramophone. She says she learned it from the lady-help where she worked. Swinging around with your legs splayed, grimacing all the time, and making sure it all jiggles to your best advantage. I nearly die laughing. But then I give her a good smack in the face. A veritable Sodom and Gomorrah. “But it’s the end of the world anyway,” says Joška in her defense. The lady-help was a refined kind of girl, she could have gone to college. And she said, “If the world’s about to end, you can do whatever strikes your fancy.”

  II

  This afternoon at Wenceslas Square, one of the invaders in uniform suddenly stopped right in front of me. He saluted, clicked his heels with a bang, and said: “Excuse me, madam, may I humbly ask if you perchance have a command of the German language?” No one ever approached me so politely, and never with so many words. So I answer, even though he’s one of the invaders: “You mean if I speak German? Yes, I do, if there’s no way around it.”

  “In that case, may I respectfully request your counsel?”

  “Request all you want, as long as it’s respectful.”

  “I humbly beg you not to misunderstand me. But I’d like to buy some ladies’ undergarments to send back home, to Chemnitz, I mean, and wanted to ask, if I may, where I could purchase them at a reasonable price.”

  I felt a little giddy from all the “humblys” and “respectfullys” and “may I’s.” When somebody’s that polite, you have to wonder why. And he was an invader on top of it all. Which is why I wanted to get rid of him, fast, so I said: “Right around the corner, at Ohrenstein and Koppelmann’s. You can find all sizes and colors there, for a beanpole or an elephant.”

  “Many thanks for the useful particulars,” he says. “But may I hazard a second request? If madam would have just a few moments to assist me in making my selections. I don’t know much about these things, and frankly I’d be too bashful on my own.”

  Is this some newfangled way of picking up girls, I wonder. But no, the man really did look helpless and anxious. Kind of strange, if you think about it. A soldier, who’s supposed to kill people when the time comes. But he gets all embarrassed when he has to buy women’s underwear. So I tell myself: Go along, what could possibly go wrong, he spoke in such an educated way, and I can always tell him off if I have to.

  “All right, what kind of figure does the lady have?”

  “Oh, if you’ll permit me to say so, almost like you, madam, which is why I took the liberty of addressing you.”

  His speech is so inflated, I think to myself, but I have to admit I like it. “Is it for your wife?” I ask, and bite my tongue as soon as I say it. What business is it of mine if it’s for his wife or some other girl?

  “Yes, ma’am! Zu Befehl!” he says.

  “Did she give you orders?”

  “No, ma’am, not at all. On the contrary. It’s meant to be a surprise.”

  “Then why do you say it was an order—zu Befehl?”

  “Oh, that’s just a phrase, it doesn’t mean anything, really. We Germans are always saying things like that. It just slips out involuntarily.”

  “But it’s got to slip out from somewhere,” I say. On the escalator at Ohrenstein and Koppelmann’s he brushes my arm, but I saw right away it was unintentional, as far as a thing like that can be unintentional at all, because I don’t really believe in chance or clumsiness. But he said, “Pardon me, I’m terribly sorry.” “Why terribly?” I say, “normal sorry is enough.” I was almost tempted to ask him: “Do you say ‘I’m terribly sorry’ before you shoot somebody?” I could imagine him doing it. Strange breed of people, these invaders. We go to the stall with ladies’ undergarments and I help him choose. He likes all the stuff with transparent lace and pink ribbons and bows.

  “Don’t write to your wife and tell her you bought all this with me. She might get the wrong idea.” At the same time I think to myself: You’re a fine one! You’ve got the wrong idea yourself.

  “Count on my discretion,” he assures me, and says his name: Peter Something-or-Other, I didn’t catch the
whole thing, but Peter’s enough, though I don’t really know what that means: Enough for what? Then he goes and repeats his last name. His name is Gerstengranne—“barley awn”! I laugh a little, but then I think: It’s better than “barley corn,” and, anyway, what business is it of mine?

  But it should be my business. Because he says we should meet next Sunday. Maybe for a walk in the Baumgarten, he’s heard about our arboretum, and then (also a maybe) we can drop by a dance hall called the “Quelle,” he’s heard of that one too, supposedly they speak German there. So when and where can he hope to meet me on Sunday, he wants to know. I say “maybe” and “only if my sister comes along” and a few other things, ’cause you always have to kick up a fuss, but in the end we agreed to meet at the entrance to Stromovka, the arboretum, even though it’s not the best season for walks. You walk through it and past Císařský mlýn, Kaisermühle, up to Bubeneč till you get to the “Quelle” dance hall. Now I’ve gone and done it. A rendezvous with an invader: I’ll be a disgrace to everyone with character.

  Sure enough, Joška turns up her nose when I tell her. But I bought her a new dress for her to wear on our outing. I bought two for myself, and anyway the ones that the Missus left behind have been on their hangers a little too long. But she can help herself to the costume jewelry, it’s from Weblová’s shop; the Missus probably left it behind because it looks too real. She’s dolled up like a bride, but it’s me who’s the invader’s type. I noticed that when we were picking out the underwear.

  Joška comes along in the end, but something inside her balks. Gerstengranne is already waiting at the entrance to the arboretum, at the last tram stop. The buttons on his uniform are polished to perfection, he salutes with a crack of the heels, and is quick to answer Joška’s grumpy “Guten Tag” with an “Ah, Fräulein has an excellent command of German.”

  I answer for Joška. “By nature we always speak Czech, but where we come from, near Znojmo, if you speak German there then you kind of do it like a Vayner.”

  “Humbly beg your pardon, what’s vejna? I’m not too proficient in Slavic dialects.”

  “You know, the Vayner. Never heard of the imperial capital, Vayn?”

  “Ah, Wien—Vienna. I see. Of course,” he exclaims, “Viennese Blood, Vienna, Vienna You Alone, The Blue Danube, Wine, Woman and Song…”

  “Now, now, let’s not overdo it, and don’t talk so loud. The folks here aren’t too fond of that.” And so we go for a walk. The trees have no idea yet what’s going on in Prague. No need to be bashful in front of them. But maybe the trees have an inkling after all. What do we know about trees? Yesterday they came for the professor on the fifth floor. The Swastika lady with the loathsome little boy knew that he’d insulted the Führer. She was probably the one who reported him. He supposedly said that the Führer can kiss his… Colossal insult! But times are changing, I guess. You can say all you want about God these days, but Heaven forbid you should knock the Führer. They took the professor to the basement of Petschek Palace, I heard, and things are supposed to be pretty bad there. I think about this while we go for a stroll with Gerstengranne. I don’t talk about it, that’s for sure. Anyway, it’s not his fault. Or is it? The trees and shrubs pretend that everything’s like it always is. But what do they know. It’s not spring yet. They’ve yet to awaken. There are still no butterflies and beetles. Who knows if there’ll be any this year?

  Gerstengranne is a corporal, but I call him sergeant ’cause it sounds a little more powerful. Gerstengranne doesn’t walk, he marches. People stare at us with this look in their faces as if we were God knows what. Probably pretty stupid, what I’ve gotten myself into. But it’s the kind of thing you blunder into, without really knowing how it happened. Before you know it, you’re in the thick of it. Uncle Peter, the first one to do it with me—but why am I telling that story again, I’ve heard it enough—anyway, he said back then: You have to move with the times. And he was no dummy, Uncle Peter. Gerstengranne is called Peter too. Joška is walking a ways behind us, and seems to be sulking.

  Luckily the arboretum is pretty empty. The only thing running around here is uniformed invaders or those in brown or black. The sergeant tries to explain the difference to me, but I’m not listening. I ask him about his wife instead, and if he has kids. But he’s not listening to me either. Which is fine with me. What business is it of mine? We pass the old Kaisermühle and he asks: “Why do they call it that?”

  “Probably because some Kaiser stopped there to eat once, or because the owner’s name is Kaiser. Anyhow, they always eat Olmützer Quargel here now, that and coffee to go along with it.”

  “May I humbly ask what the word Quargel means?”

  And these people want to conquer the world? “It’s a kind of stinky cheese from the town of Olomouc, best when it gets a little runny.”

  “I see,” he says, pensively. Then he adds: “The Kaisers, we’ve done away with them too.”

  The sign above the garden entrance to the “Quelle” has been repainted. The previous name, in Czech, “U Pramene,” has been painted over and it now says “Zur Quelle.” Could be worse, I suppose. Besides, they always got drunk here in German anyway. I never used to come here, but only because nobody brought me. I wouldn’t treat myself alone. And anxiously waiting for someone to approach me and foot the bill, that wouldn’t be my style. Of course, my pocketbook’s full now, and I could order two portions of roast goose if I wanted to. I’ve also got a Gerstengranne taking me out. Unto every one that hath shall be given. Surely it won’t last long. But a guy like this, who’s finally away from his wife, he needs a pleasant change for one thing, and also a girl he can show off in front of. In any case, it’s definitely good to have some dough in your own pocket. That way you can set the pace a little. It’s more fun to do it gradually. Not like with Uncle Peter, who wanted to go all the way right from the get-go. Joška told me in the tub today that he was the same with her. He’s dead now, so at least it’ll stay in the family.

  The sergeant takes a table near the window, in the hall where the music is playing. Joška plays coy, and says she’d rather walk some more. She’s furious with this Gerstengranne. Actually she just wants to go to the john, and she looks at me to see if I’ll come along. Go on your own. You don’t do everything else in pairs. “I’ll keep a seat reserved for madam,” the sergeant says with a bow. Joška disappears. But two other seats at the table are unoccupied, and sure enough, while she’s gone, two of these guys in black uniforms and jackboots come and say, “May we, madam?” Here we go. They’re friendly, anyway, these murderers. Maybe they haven’t murdered anyone here yet, but it’s better to call them murderers right from the start so you don’t have to correct yourself later. The sergeant doesn’t look too happy about this, but what can he do? The two men introduce themselves. “Huber.”—“Flaschenknopf.” A decent fellow is called Hruška or Havlíček, like our Uncle Peter. Maybe he wasn’t too decent, but at least he was Czech. Joška comes back and the two jump up like jack-in-the-boxes, holler “Huber” and “Flaschenknopf” again, then bang their boot heels together. I can tell the musicians are Czech by what they’re playing, because every now and then they weave in a few of our old folk songs and dances. The Germans sitting here don’t even notice.

  Oh Kolín, oh Kolín,

  You lie in a plain so green,

  And there pours a darling fine,

  Pours me fair and lovely wine,

  My sweetheart only mine.

  The waiter comes to take our order. Gerstengranne proposes: “Perhaps we’ll start with coffee and Napfkuchen?” I don’t know what he means by Napfkuchen. We don’t have a cake by that name here. He begins to explain it to me. But I don’t like to be confused when it comes to food, so I just say, “Bring me a doughnut.” Joška is brazen and says, “For me a fancy sandwich first.”

  “But Joška, that’s a whole meal.”

  “I don’t care, I’m hungry.”

  “Please, be my guest,” Gerstengranne is quick to respon
d, and suggests a small glass of beer to go along with it.

  “No, a large Pilsner,” says Joška, and the sergeant resigns himself to his fate. He orders a Smichover for himself, takes a big gulp, leaving a foamy white mustache on his upper lip, and comments: “Boy, these Bohemian beers sure pack a punch.”

  Huber, one of the men in black, claims that Löwenbräu is much more drinkable. Flaschenknopf prefers Pschorr. Gerstengranne’s for Pilsner, and Bohemian beers in general. He’s tried them all since the invasion. “Well, in that case the Sudeten German ones,” says Flaschenknopf, and mentions Leitmeritzer Bürgerbräu. “I don’t know Leitmeritzer,” Gerstengranne answers, “but I do know Gross-Popowitzer Bock.”

  “That’s a Czech beer,” explains Flaschenknopf, adding: “But what do the Saxons know about beer?”

  “Nothing, that’s what,” Huber chimes in, “but they know how to make a weak coffee.”

  The atmosphere is tense. And when Gerstengranne makes an innocent remark: “In Chemnitz we like wheat beer with a dash of syrup,” the two in black laugh so hard that the table starts to shake, and in the end a good-humored Gerstengranne even laughs along with them. And since the musicians are now playing “Tales from the Vienna Woods,” things relax a little. The waiter brings Joška’s open-faced sandwich, with ham, Hungarian salami, Swiss cheese, a deviled egg, a sardine and a dollop of Liptauer cheese spread, from which a mustard pickle protrudes between two sprigs of parsley and two capers. “A fine meal,” says Gerstengranne. “Meal?” inquires Joška, “I’d call it a snack, ’cause later I’m gonna have roast beef in onions and gravy.” At which point Gerstengranne falls silent, and the two in black order sandwiches like Joška’s.