A Necessary Action

by Per Wahlöö

  When he had about an inch left of his cigarette, he extinguished it carefully in the ash-tray and folded the stub in the middle. Then he yawned again, pulled out a drawer in the desk and got out a tube of simpatinas. He shook two of the small white tablets into his hand and looked at them for a moment before grasping the earthenware jug behind his chair and swallowing them with a gulp of water.

  Then he got up and walked round the table, the jug still in his hand.

  Willi Mohr opened his eyes. His face was wet and he saw the shiny black of boot legs a few inches away from his nose.

  Sergeant Tornilla had not bent down, but was standing upright with the water-jug in his hand, apparently looking down at him from a preposterous height.

  As Willi Mohr began to get up and was leaning on his elbow, Tornilla put the water-jug down on the wooden bench and walked back to his seat on the other side of the desk.

  ‘Get up and sit up,’ he said.

  Willi Mohr obeyed. He sat down on the bench, picked up the jug and brought it up to his mouth. He drank for a long time, with deep gurgling gulps.

  Sergeant Tornilla sat at his desk, in exactly the same position as before, watching. After a while, he said: ‘Well? From whom did you get all that money?’

  Willi Mohr felt more confident now, despite his recent collapse and the fact that his head was still empty and whirling. The telephone had evidently remained dumb, but similarly nothing unexpected had happened and he had not been the one to break the silence. He glanced down at his watch and saw that it was already a quarter-past two. The previous silence had lasted more than two hours then. The present one lasted only a minute or so.

  ‘From Ramon Alemany.’

  ‘So he gave you at least twenty thousand pesetas then? I must say, that’s a considerable sum.’

  ‘No. I stole it.’

  His reply seemed to overwhelm or surprise the man in the armchair in some way. But he asked immediately: ‘Didn’t you find it strange that a poor fisherman like Ramon Alemany should have so much money on him, to steal?’

  There was a brief pause before the word steal, very brief, but quite noticeable.

  ‘Yes,’ said Willi Mohr.

  Sergeant Tornilla smiled kindly and put his hand in his pocket.

  ‘You asked me for a light,’ he said. ‘Here you are.’

  Willi Mohr took out one of his yellow poor-man’s cigarettes and began to smoke.

  ‘My German isn’t good enough for me to give you a perfect translation of the text on that portrait, but naturally I shall make an attempt. Let me see now, it would run roughly like this: General Franco, our undefeated Leader, beneath whose invincible sword the National Army is covered in glory, General Franco, who at the head of the Salvation Movement defends and vindicates before the whole world our beloved Spain and her sacred name, in a manner that arouses a universal wave of rapture, respect and admiration, the Leader of Spain, by the Grace of God. That’s it, roughly.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Unfortunately I cannot give you a translation which gives the words their full meaning. Much of the beauty is lost. Your language is a powerful one, but it lacks poetry and greatness. I hope I have succeeded in making the content clear. Those words were true when they were written and are to a great extent still true. Here and for us. But you haven’t been here long enough to realize that.’

  Willi Mohr stared at him with tired astonishment.

  ‘Every word is not taken literally, of course, like certain parts of the Bible,’ said Sergeant Tornilla.

  Willi Mohr’s jaw-muscles twitched. For the first time for years, he almost burst out laughing.

  Tornilla looked at him searchingly and then with a sleepwalker’s certainty, he picked up one of his papers.

  ‘There’s one detail missing in your personal file,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Your faith isn’t down here.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I presume you’re not a Catholic?’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Protestant then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What religion do you belong to then?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘What do you mean by at all?’

  ‘Exactly what I say. I was baptized, purely routinely, into the Lutheran Church, but I left it seven years ago. I’ve even got a receipt to prove it.’

  ‘When you lived in East Germany, was it? Obligatory?’

  ‘Not at all. So far as I could make out, you could pray to whatever god you liked, Buddha or God or thunder or anything. I had a workmate who wore both the Communist Party badge and some Catholic emblem on his lapel.’

  ‘Not even a bad Catholic can be a Communist.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And you yourself? Don’t you believe in God?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’

  ‘Again, just what I say. The question does not interest me. So far as I can see, it doesn’t make any difference if there is one god or a thousand or none at all. Anyhow, not while one’s alive.’

  ‘And what if you should die suddenly?’

  ‘I hope I do die suddenly.’

  ‘Unprepared and without even being honourably buried?’

  ‘My father died seven years ago, unfortunately not particularly suddenly. A friend of his, who knew him well, officiated at the funeral. He was a guard on the railways. I don’t think any priest could have done it better.’

  Sergeant Tornilla offered him a cigarette and lit it.

  ‘Are you very unhappy?’

  ‘No.’

  Willi Mohr glanced at the portrait and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Anyhow, not for that reason,’ he said.

  ‘And so you went from Gotenhafen to Flensburg?’

  Tornilla plunged into the subject with no kind of transition whatsoever and at least thirty seconds went by before Willi Mohr was able to say:

  ‘Yes, via Kiel.’

  ‘And how long did you stay there?’

  ‘Until the end of the war.’

  ‘Went on with your training?’

  ‘Yes, at the Torpedo School. We were even having a lecture on the morning the British came.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Went home.’

  ‘To Thüringen?’

  ‘Yes. The Americans had gone from there by then. They exchanged it for a bit of Berlin instead.’

  ‘How did you get there?’

  ‘By goods-train to a place somewhere south of Hanover. It was very slow and we were standing packed in open wagons. Then I walked the last bit.’

  ‘Was your home-town very changed?’

  ‘No. The Russians had nailed up a huge wooden construction in the middle of the square. When I saw it I thought it was some kind of apparatus to execute people in, but it turned out to be a gong they used when the soldiers were to eat.’

  ‘And your home? Had it been destroyed?’

  ‘No, not at all. The town wasn’t in the battle-line and had hardly even had a raid.’

  ‘And your parents were still alive?’

  ‘Yes, but my father was ill and never really recovered.’

  ‘Did you suffer much?’

  ‘The first winter there was a shortage of food, but then things got a little better.’

  ‘Did you join the Communist party?’

  ‘No, I told you I wasn’t interested in politics.’

  ‘Yes, you said that before. Did you manage to get work?’

  ‘Yes, with a firm of decorators in Jena. I painted signs and placards.’

  ‘How long did you work there?’

  ‘Five years.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘I fell out with the owner.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He maintained that I sabotaged his work and behaved in a manner hostile to the state. He even reported me to the police.
’

  ‘Was he a Communist?’

  ‘Quite the opposite, and he was afraid that someone might discover it.’

  ‘How did you fall out with him?’

  ‘It was a crazy business. The man was an idiot and a coward too. The President, Pieck was his name, was going to make a speech in Jena, and we had got the order for a large placard with his portrait on it. I made it in the usual way, stuck up a litho on a board, and the picture didn’t cover the whole surface, so I drew a few lines with a brush from the portrait out towards the edges. I thought it’d look like a halo or rays of the sun or something like that and it’d look all right. My boss was away and didn’t see the placard until it was put up. I had painted with a round brush and there was a circle at the end of each line. He decided that they looked like gun-barrels pointing out from the President and that we’d all be sent to Siberia. He’d got Siberia on the brain. So he hurried off to report me to the police.’

  ‘And what did the police do?’

  ‘Laughed.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I decided to go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t want to stay in a country where people, rightly or wrongly, were so riddled with fear that they made fools of themselves in public. Things weren’t up to much there, and I thought I’d be able to earn much better money in the British Zone.’

  ‘Didn’t you then?’

  ‘Yes, when I got work. The money was more usable too. Otherwise everything seemed even more meaningless.’

  ‘Where did you work?’

  ‘With a travelling ice-show, a sort of circus, which performed all the year round. In Germany and France and Luxembourg.’

  ‘What did you do there?’

  ‘Drove a truck, and helped put up and take down the tents and seating. It was nothing special, just heavy manual labour.’

  ‘But you earned money?’

  ‘Not all that much, but I had practically no expenses so I could save my wages.’

  ‘Were you saving for any particular purpose?’

  ‘To come here and paint.’

  ‘Did you dream of becoming an artist?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you wanted to paint?’

  ‘No, I didn’t want anything.’

  ‘Are you painting now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why are you here then?’

  Willi Mohr raised his head and his eyes met the friendly, steady gaze from the other side of the desk.

  ‘I don’t know any longer,’ he said.

  ‘One must believe in and want something,’ said Sergeant Tornilla, shaking his head slightly.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Willi Mohr.

  He sat in silence for a while, looking absently at Tornilla. He had stopped regarding him as his tormentor and had given up longing for the interrogation to end. On the contrary, he had begun to feel a strange sense of communion with this room and this terrible smiling man, who never perspired and never lost control. He was very tired and his thoughts were undisciplined and muddled. Suddenly he began to talk again.

  ‘It’s stupid to believe and want things, but sometimes one envies those who do. There, in Jena, I knew a girl who was in the Party. She was an editor of a paper which dealt with tractors and she ordered placards from us. I talked to her, and we met quite often. She was very enthusiastic and always talked about all sorts of things and had views on everything. It was laughable.’

  ‘Was she your … er … girl?’

  ‘No, she was shy about things like that and got confused when you touched her, talking twice as fast about everything, mostly about collective agriculture and production increases. Nothing ever came of it. Once it looked as if it might, but she got no further than taking off her dress. Then she began to sweat all over and look as if she wanted to run away and hide. I didn’t know what to do and then I laughed at her and she cried. But she really was enthusiastic. I remember she had newspapers from West Germany and looked at the advertisements for clothes, nylons and that sort of thing, and she was always talking about how much she’d like to have such things. That was when I’d already decided to go and I said it was quite simple for her to get all those blouses and stockings she wanted. All she had to do was to go to Berlin and then cross the border. But she said that we already had something much more important and in time we’d get everything else too. She said she had time to wait. Why are we talking German, by the way?’

  ‘Because you’re tired,’ said Sergeant Tornilla.

  Willi Mohr sat in silence for a moment and then said, as if to himself: ‘I’ve been wondering these last few days whether I ought not to go back and find her again. But that’s too late of course, that too. She’s probably met someone who’s less clumsy than I am. One should be able to find another like her, I suppose, though most of them are probably different. If I ever get away from here.’

  ‘Exactly, if you ever get away from here,’ said Sergeant Tornilla.

  He shook his head seriously and offered yet another Bisonte.

  ‘You really have gone astray,’ he said.

  After he had lit the cigarette, he sat for a moment with the lighter in his hand, looking at the flickering flame. Then he blew it out and said as if in passing: ‘There are a number of things you haven’t told me. I suggest you do that now.’

  Willi Mohr shook his head stubbornly.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  Tornilla smiled regretfully and opened up one of his files.

  ‘People who are led astray are at least sometimes guiltless,’ he said. ‘And yet they do irreparable damage and they themselves are the ones to suffer most. The real criminal is the one who leads others astray and provokes people into actions against their common sense, their instinct for self-preservation and their innermost wishes. I’ll give you a few concrete examples of what I mean. The disturbances at the zinc mine in Santa Margarita a year ago. You know about them, but perhaps you don’t know so much about the practical consequences.’

  He had taken out a thick report and was leafing absently through it.

  ‘There should be some figures here,’ he said. ‘Yes, here they are. Ten people murdered, three engineers massacred by the mob, and one civil guard, one man from the Policia Armada and five soldiers all killed while trying to restore order. The civil guard and three of the soldiers were from the town here. The guard left a widow and three fatherless children behind him, the soldiers were young recruits with their parents alive, and at least one of them was the only son in the family. A million pesetas worth of damage was done. Can you tell me what the point was of all this?’

  He paused briefly and looked seriously at the man on the bench.

  ‘None at all, of course. Who is to blame? Well, those who provoked these crimes and put weapons in the hands of simple, ignorant creatures who do not know how or at what moment arms should be used. Earlier I mentioned that there were still a few exceptions amongst us. There are not many, but they must be eliminated. In addition, there are foreign provocateurs, who abuse our hospitality. They are the ones who are to blame.’

  Willi Mohr slowly stubbed out his cigarette-end in the ash-tray and tried to concentrate on what the other man was saying. He had never heard about the disturbances in Santa Margarita before, but he was aware that he had at last got hold of the end of a thread which was leading somewhere, though where he did not know.

  ‘Well now, all this happened before I came here,’ said Sergeant Tornilla, ‘but as you lived here already, I thought perhaps the matter might interest you. It happened on the night of the third of December, while you were amusing yourself bathing naked with that Norwegian woman, if I remember rightly.’

  He put the report back in the file.

  ‘How many of those … who were led astray lost their lives?’ said Willi Mohr.

  He did not want to let the subject go just yet.

  ‘Oh, quite a number. I don’t remember the figure exactly. They also died unnecessarily, of course. The whole thing was
quite pointless. No one could have gained anything from the affair, not even the Communists, who started it. A few hundred workers striking for a couple of hours. Then the strike’s over.’

  ‘But if sufficiently many do it at the same time in sufficiently many places?’

  ‘There won’t be any more strikes,’ said Sergeant Tornilla, ‘anyhow not in this district. I suppose you know strikes are illegal.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They are illegal because they’re pointless, because they do nothing but harm. They’re quite simply outbreaks of ignorance. Before, during the dark years before 1936, there were always strikes. The country was impoverished, it was impossible to keep order, everything was chaotic and confused, poisoned by foreign lies and criminal ideas.’

  He put the file aside and added: ‘Nothing like that will ever be repeated again.’

  For the first time for some hours, a few scattered sounds from outside began to penetrate the door’s dark-brown panels. Nailed boots and butts of carbines scraped against the concrete floor in the porch, and a few remarks could also be heard, sharp and brief, like words of command. Evidently some kind of parade.

  In the interrogation room, a new and alien sound had also begun to make itself heard, rhythmical and creaking.

  The man in the armchair was winding up his watch. He wore it on his left wrist with the wide gold band half hidden by his cuff, and Willi Mohr had never seen him look at it.

  ‘Changing the guard,’ said Sergeant Tornilla. ‘That means the siesta is over. We haven’t had much sleep during it today, have we? Oh well, we’ll have to catch up on it another time.’

  He pulled his cuff to rights without checking on the time. His watch was broad and strong and had extra buttons for a stopwatch and automatic timing. He listened to the guard stamping away in the porch and then said absently: ‘During those weeks on the yacht, you must have got to know Ramon Alemany pretty well. Did you like him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Rather primitive.’

  ‘Your opinion seems to fall in line with what I’ve been told. I myself have not had the pleasure of meeting him.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘No loss, perhaps. He was physically strong, wasn’t he?’