Dutch Treatment

by D. E. Fredd

  “Great art does that to me sometimes. It also happened once in Florence at the Uffizi gallery when I saw an altarpiece by Cimabue. Just ignore me.”

  After the concert we chatted on the trek back. We decided the Netherlands work was ahead of schedule, and DRG could move on to Belgium tomorrow if we could schedule it. The client was the Victor Buyck Steel Company located in Eeclo in Flanders, a Dutch speaking area lending itself to her linguistic expertise. We could stay in Bruges, which Gretchen declared to be a delightful step back into the 16th Century.

  Some blocks from the hotel she suggested that we try a “smoking” coffee shop where we could sample some local “skunk” or hash. It might be something to counter the sagas of sin Greg and Ron would surely report. I was game but afraid of initiating an asthma attack which often happens when I’m around too much smoke. We settled for a pub and drank a round of oude jenever with beer chasers before we both began to lose the jet lag battle.

  In front of the hotel she stopped me. “I want to thank you for one of the best evenings of my life, to say nothing of a very exciting day. I know it was you who lobbied for me, but I’m happy that Greg and Ron respect me.” She gave me a real hug this time. I bent down and kissed her.

  “Was that supposed to mean something?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When do you think you’ll ‘know?’”

  Her tiny room was on the fourth floor, the door barely clearing the bed as we entered. The eaves angled in so severely there was only an eight foot space where you could stand upright. For a few minutes we made clumsy jokes about the size of the place, and what Greg and Ron might say if they had to stay in it for a week. Then she came to the side of the bed and kissed me.

  “I want to freshen up in the bathroom. Don’t fall asleep on me.”

  I sat on the bed, slowly got undressed, and then went to the window to check out the peaceful canal view. When I heard the water shut off, I slipped into bed and pulled the sheet up to my stomach. The bathroom door opened and she stood naked in the doorway. The light was behind her. She was sensual in profile. She glided towards the bed then halted.

  “Maybe I should enhance the mood by tossing a scarf over the lamp, add some atmosphere?”

  “That would be great.”

  She turned and bent over to rummage through her carry on bag. And there it was—the Moby Dick of all derrières, the dark side of the moon revealed at last. The size was imposing enough; I mean there is something aesthetically pleasing about looking at the Arctic tundra, a desert wasteland or even an atomic bomb-induced, mushroom-shaped cloud. What I hadn’t counted on was the cellulite. Like a smallpox epidemic it had begun to ravage the vast, naked whiteness with small craters, even invading the backs of her thighs with darkish spots like those on overripe pears. She found a kerchief, held it up, and then did a pirouette with an accompanying “ta-da” for my approval. I nodded that it was fine. She draped it over the lamp. Immediately the room took on a soft, rosy glow, and the reflected lights from the canal created a Christmas tree effect on the ceiling. She stepped back from the lampshade as if she had just sculpted a masterpiece, flashed an enticing smile and held her palms up questioningly as a gesture for me to render my opinion of her handiwork. She was beautiful again.

  “Beautiful,” I said.

  STEINER REQUESTS HIS HOLE BE DUG IN POLAND

  The Border—April 1939

  Ah, Poland! The giant, blundering cow lolling about her pasture mindless of the fact that progress is barking at her heels. Poland—breathing in the dust of the past now ground so fine that it barely grits the teeth, yet when one stands still long enough to catch a breath—there it is, visible in a thin coating over the entire land. Who knows? Perhaps she’ll benefit from some good German housekeeping.

  Any Hole: A general plan

  The deeper the better. Level off the perimeter to reduce muddening. Keep the sides smooth. (Nothing stirs the soul more than the smell of freshly dug earth.) Calculate the hole in relation to the size of an average man. If he is German, place him feet first so as to allow him the privilege of speculation. If he is Polish, it matters little which end is where.

  The Beginning of the End as Far as Steiner Was Concerned

  A truck pulled itself up the hill to the edge of the trees then stopped. There was a slight breeze. Hauptmann got out of the cab and turned towards the rear. From the back Endlich was the first out, then B., then Meyer. Some feel that Steiner was already in the woods, but who could be certain in that twilight. Hauptmann gave instructions to his men—short and to the point. B. broke from the small formation, headed back to the cab and shook hands with the driver. A signal was given; the truck reversed itself then teetered down the hill as the four started into the forest. It was just seven. Suddenly shots were heard.

  Four Germans were dead in ambush and poor, bewildered Steiner was being held at bay by the Poles. So simple yet so complex.

  Steiner Tries to Explain the Entire Incident to All of Poland

  —I am Steiner. I wandered into your territory by accident.

  —You were found two kilometers inside the border.

  —I had no idea where I was. I am a musician. I know nothing of politics. (These Poles are all fools as concerns interrogation. Belinski, in this case, in particular.)

  —Your name again?

  —Steiner. I am a musician, violin.

  —And the others?

  —I know none of the soldiers. I was on a picnic. My companion left to answer a call of nature and was overdue. I began a search. I swear it before All Mighty God. (That’s it Steiner, swear. Test the breeze. Stand upwind from a Pole. Fart something divine. A Pole will smell it, then salivate his trust in return.)

  Back to Those Shots in the Forest

  The first—a quick, unsuspecting sound which had it not been so sudden and come during such a haphazard period of silence might well have acted as a warning to the second already breaking through the underbrush and pummeling into the still crumpling body of Hauptmann. Then came the third and fourth—still distinct enough to be counted and B. running from the rear, trying to keep low and to the side of the narrow trail and just getting up to the bend before the fifth shot rang out and then he also halted, freezing in mid- air until the sixth was heard and then he too slumped forward, a slight maroon circle visible beneath his side.

  When it’s all over and done with and when “this” seems to be the choice between “this” or “that,” there may not be a man there to write it down and record it the way it was, and that makes it all the more tragic, you see.

  The Interrogation—1

  Each morning Steiner is asked two questions. They are pushed beneath the slotted door with his first meal in a neatly printed envelope. He feels obligated to answer each question, as it would require little more than a word or two and would be no trouble whatsoever to take care of the task preemptory to beginning his breakfast, such as it is. The questions concern objective information and, despite their simplicity, unhappily, they do not relate to him at present or to anything in his past. He would be quite happy to oblige, but they might as well be asking him the weather in the Sudetenland a year from now. This evidently angers them.

  Because of grey white always has so much more

  Interrogation—2

  From a medium distance one might think Belinski handsome, but his eyes, as one closes the gap, are set too close together and his chin angles into his neck much too quickly. This causes him to breathe through the mouth. He has developed the habit of muttering to himself. It’s as if his brain were incapable of thinking inside itself. He reflects that punishment, to be effective, must occur soon after the offense. Yet torture often yields nothing more than a bastard version of the truth. The task then becomes sorting out the few strands of veracity within the fabric of any lie. It would take a brilliant mind to do that and Belinski is certainly not that; however, one must commend him for being aware of his limitations. He suspects that torture would only further c
ement this German’s elaborate hoax. A decent beating, just for appearance sake, wouldn’t ruffle any feathers. Therefore Steiner will remain a violinist, at least for the present.

  They come each hour to thank him very much for making the best of things until they decide about the sun for just because it’s April is no excuse for May in these trying times.

  Holes Again—Some Speculation

  The basic difference between the German mind and the Polish may by typified by the way the two nations viewed fornication in 1939. For the Germans such an act is a highly effective and thoroughly proven method for producing more Germans. In fact their scientists did research into various aspects of the act as it might affect the resultant offspring. Unfortunately the statistical evidence is incomplete with respect to any correlation as concerns the following factors:

  —position used

  —temperature of the room or immediate area

  —time of day or night

  —food consumed before, during or after the occasion

  —location of the respective genital organs

  —occupation of the participants

  —ability to quote Goethe or Schiller from memory

  This is not to say that any of the above factors are to be ruled out, but it does mean that they are not to be given as much weight as they once were.

  For a Pole fornication is an act the upper class may dabble in when time can be found for such a thing; something the middle class, God willing, may do between confessions, and, lastly, something by which the lower echelons sustain themselves because it would appear there is little reason for the poor Poles’ existence once they have spent themselves in bed than to rearrange the bedclothes and proceed again as best they can. This probably accounts for the fact that time passes by much more quickly for Poland than Germany.

  It Is a Very Pleasant Day So Far. The Sky Is Filled with Bundled Cloudlings Which Edge Down to Extra-Hear Steiner Being Questioned

  —Are you married?

  —Yes, to Frau Bremmer. I am her second husband.

  —Her address?

  —She is on a concert tour. England at present, I believe.

  —What were you doing on our border?

  —I was on an outing with a friend; I wandered.

  —Who was this friend?

  —A young woman. We became separated before the shooting. I would appreciate your discretion in any report you might make.

  There Is No Telling in What Situation a Man Can Find Himself These Days

  Steiner is sitting in a chair. Belinski stands before him, the light from the swinging bulb gently pushing both shadows up the wall. Steiner remains firm. He is a violinist. Nothing can sway him from this point. Belinski has found a violinist two kilometers inside the Polish border. A violinist who claims he was about to ask four Germans if they had seen his mistress wander by. Steiner smiles faintly. A concert master’s position awaits him in Gorlitz. Up to now the easy life—fame, modest fortune, success, marriage to the famous Frau Bremmer—now this! An impulsive outing, a needless flirtation with a concert hall usheress from Dresden who, as naked as Eve, suddenly sprints into the bushes clutching her skirts to her uncovered breasts. Other garments are tossed aside to mark a trail of seduction. An ageing violinist stumbles after her who, having tasted of the young grape, now wishes the wine. Then shots interrupt the romp. Men break past him before toppling in death. A dog bares its teeth and an out of breath violinist surrenders to both his passion and a Polish patrol.

  No one can predict what a nose will think of its face

  What of Belinski?

  Belinski is vacillating. Surely he has felt sexual urges before and, at times, they are well worth crossing a border. They are also worth being shot at but never the trouble of being hit. Steiner is either a fool or a German infiltrator. If he is a fool then only the fear of god need be used. If he is a spy then he must be killed as an object lesson to all those looking on from the west. That is the conundrum. Free of the present situation, a fool will soon expose himself. All Belinski need do is release Steiner to prove this. But Germans are wise enough to disguise such matters so it would do no good to release him as nothing would be proven. It does no good to imprison him; what lesson could that serve? Belinski is at a loss. He looks again at poor Steiner for an answer, but he has now assumed a position of some comfort. His head is bowed to shade the glare, arms folded across his chest and his legs are crossed in an almost feminine fashion. He does not expect nor fear any more retribution because he is an artist. He has seen women weep at the very music he creates. A man who, in certain respects, is above other men, an Ubermench—gifted, respected, loved.

  The Author Interrupts the Narrative to Insert Some Extraneous Material Relating to Holes in Various Countries and the Role, if any, Ascribed to Each

  Ireland

  The soil in this area is extremely rocky and coarse. One cannot sink a spade into the ground without hearing a sharp clank, the reverberation of which sends the entire body spinning. In accordance with this, there are few holes and the people generally live above ground. This accounts for the high rate of pubs and step dancing with torsos as rigid as a papal bull.

  Russia

  These holes, taking precedence from their literature are modeled, after a fashion, from the French. (It has been said, sarcastically, that Russian holes are really French holes dug by Russian parvenus.) They are not as deep as those in Germany and much narrower, yet several individuals are placed in the same hole without regard to sex or station in life. (This is certainly not the case in Great Britain.) Those in the holes are given little to sustain their lives and next to nothing in the way of comfort. It is considered honor enough to be in the bosom of Mother Russia. Occasional musical programs are planned and performed some distance from the aperture. Curiously, this has a soothing effect upon those involved especially where a balalaika is used and therefore the uproar and populous revolutions are not nearly as strident as those of their French counterparts.

  Switzerland

  As strange as it may seem, there are no holes in this nation. This is because all individuals living in this location who have the need to dig a hole do so in a foreign country, bringing only the excess soil from such a hole back to their native land. Over the eons this behavior has led to the formation of a large mountain chain, the Alps, to which the Swiss attribute most of their fame and a majority of their culture. Few countries have taken note of this object lesson but unless one enjoys rocky, snowcapped mounds of foreign soil there is little reason to do so.

  The Narrative Resumes Only to Find That Steiner’s Situation Has Grown

  Desperate

  Steiner is escorted down a long dark hall into a small room. He is forced to strip. His large buttocks are reddened from the long sit. He is indignant but reserved. Sensitive but not shy. He has rarely exposed himself to men and his hands show a concern for his condition. He is made to bend forward, inhale deeply, then probed. He protests but the search continues. A guard explores his genital area, and he vacillates between embarrassment and humiliation. Then, the search complete, he is placed in a cell adjoining the room under the careful eye of two guards. There is a cigarette from one of them. A simple gesture between human beings. Then Belinski enters and Steiner is stripped again and beaten. A length of rubber tubing is used. The neck, back and soles of the feet are targets. Steiner is rendered unconscious. Belinski orders the abuse stopped leaving Steiner naked and, for the moment, alive.

  The main supposition here is that life is somehow historical

  That Forest Again

  The woods are quiet. It rained a few hours before, nothing much, just enough to ease the spades as they turn the earth. Belinski has selected the spot himself. A soldier informs him that all is ready and salutes smartly. Four bodies are placed in blankets, wrapped snugly and secured with leather thongs. Leather takes four years to rot; blankets are never the same after three months. The bodies are placed in the shallow, roughly hewn graves. Reverence for t
he human being is still upheld—Belinski sees to that. There is a moment of silence. Belinski clears his throat to break it and the deaths are now officially over. All evidence must be suppressed so leaves are spread over the site lest the Germans discover their dead. Revenge is inherent in their kind and whatever qualities they lack as humans beings they more than compensate for by the tenacity to which they avenge injury to their kind. Hence Belinski takes part in the cover up, smoothing the soil by hand as a child playing in a schoolyard.

  In 1939 even the very little ones looked so much smaller

  What About Belinski?

  Belinski spent his lifetime in pursuit of success and fortune. Only a fool would attempt this in a bureaucracy but, nevertheless, Belinski has tried. In the early years he dispensed useful information from behind a small desk in Warsaw: lavatory directions, transportation schedules, the location of various offices, that sort of thing. He did this menial job in such a way as to be noticed. He never nodded a perfunctory direction and never gave way to anger by the many redundancies of the day’s inquires. No, Belinski was quite polite; his manner friendly and extremely efficient. A train schedule always included the wish for a pleasant journey. Each day’s weather carried with it a certain conversational uniqueness which Belinski was quick to seize upon to anyone who passed by. As might be expected, important officials noticed his attitude.

  From that obscure information desk it was to the licensing bureau and from there to the censor’s office where, after a short stay, he was attached to Colonel V., the minister of the frontier. Yet Belinski was never a creative thinker. His main asset was that of plasticity, and with Colonel V. being the brute of a man he was, Belinski soon molded himself into a brute as well. Violators of V. (the famous July Papers called them traitors) were tortured and their signed confessions brought to V. by Belinski personally, further creating a bond between the two. Then V. abruptly left the scene for another post and in his place came Gervitz, a former professor of literature. Belinski then read poetry. Volumes of Dryden and Keats were left clumsily on his desk and Gervitz, noting this, soon took Belinski into his trust.