And then, early one morning, at five o’clock, came the order that anyone who could walk should get dressed, as a hospital train was coming with space for a few men. Schlump fetched his louse-ridden and filthy clothes from the closet; they had turned completely stiff from all the dirt and blood. The right sleeve was also missing from his jacket. But he didn’t care any more. They fell in, around twenty men with bandaged heads and hands, clutching sticks and crutches, and marched to the station. There was no sign of the hospital train with the big red cross, however. They settled on the platform and waited, waited patiently, with gleaming eyes, for all of them could already see home. But the train didn’t arrive. Noon came and went, but no large red crosses. Some of the soldiers had collapsed, and were taken to the station guard house, from where they were brought back to the hospital. They would not be permitted to see the Promised Land.
The afternoon passed. Finally, at six o’clock in the evening – they’d been waiting for twelve hours – the train arrived. But it was already full. They squeezed themselves on as best they could, and trembled whenever a medical orderly came past, for they didn’t want to be thrown off again. The night orderlies cursed at them and threatened to call the chief doctor; the wounded soldiers begged, coaxed and cajoled. Then the locomotive whistled and the train rolled slowly out of the station, on its way home. It stopped frequently in the open countryside, then went on again, thundering over the Rhine, back to Westphalia, to the Weserbergland. There they were unloaded and billeted in a school. Schlump was desperate to see his mother and father again. He begged the doctor, he wrote petitions, he gave the clerk money to be transferred to a hospital in his home town. And after four weeks, four eternally long weeks, success was his. He was handed his wages, one day’s rations, and a railway ticket. Brimming with delight, he left and travelled home. As he got off the train and walked out of the station, his mother ran up and embraced him in the middle of the street. Then she walked proudly beside her son, with his arm in a sling, firing thousands of concerned questions at the boy, often without even listening to the answers.
They went up the steps and the door opened. A pale, tall, lanky girl of twelve offered him her hand. ‘Who’s this?’ Schlump asked in surprise. ‘This is Dorothee,’ his mother said. And then he remembered that his mother had written to him about Dorothee. She was the daughter of his mother’s sister, whose husband had been killed. A fortnight ago the child’s mother had died too, of worry and starvation. All alone, the child had been taken in by Schlump’s parents. While caring for her mother, the unfortunate girl had had to watch how hard it was for a woman to die and leave a child behind in the world. Schlump gave poor Dorothee his hand and said some friendly words to her.
When his father came back in the evening, Schlump was horrified by how old he’d grown. He walked with a stoop and had to stop frequently and hold on to the banister when climbing the stairs, because all his strength had gone. Schlump’s mother was upset that she couldn’t give her son meat or bread to celebrate his return. And she didn’t mention that it had been a long time since they’d had enough potatoes to fill themselves up. But she set the table all the same, and brought him a small bowl of cauliflower that she’d put aside from her own meals. At that moment, however, Schlump took out the bread and tinned meat he’d been given, and they all sat at the table and dined.
•
The very next day Schlump had to report to the local military hospital. The medical orderly gave him a patient gown and slippers, and took away his uniform. Thus began his dull, unchanging existence in hospital. All day long they sat on the wall surrounding the place and watched the girls. They smoked and played games, but they could never banish the persistent torment of hunger. For all they were given was watery soup, and occasionally a few slices of bread, which were so thin you could see the moon shine through them. And the jam they spread on the bread was particularly tart. Schlump’s healthy reddish-brown colour soon faded, and he lost weight at an alarming rate. He was desperate for a speedy discharge from the hospital. But his arm remained stiff and hurt whenever he moved it.
He was seldom granted leave to see his parents. The picture at home was a sad one. At lunch they ate swedes without any meat or fat, and in the evenings potatoes doused with black coffee. His mother was distressed that she couldn’t give her son anything, that Dorothee was getting paler by the day, and that her husband was in rapid decline. She became a ghost of her former self, a very old woman. One day Schlump’s father couldn’t get out of bed. His anxious mother called for the doctor, who diagnosed typhus, hunger typhus. There was nothing they could give him to revitalise his weak body, and thus his condition worsened by the day. One morning Dorothee came to see Schlump at the military hospital with tears gushing down her face. His father had died. Schlump went to the funeral. He had to support his mother, who sobbed continually without being able to cry tears. Then the three of them went back home, sadly and in silence. That evening Schlump had to return to the hospital.
His wound was now fully healed, and they began to massage it to make the skin, flesh and muscle supple. Then they clamped him in a steel apparatus and let his arm swing free to make it flexible again. It was crucial he recover quickly; soldiers were needed in the trenches and the war was becoming ever nastier. But the swinging of his arm was a lengthy and painful process. His mother, at any rate, was glad to see her son stay in hospital rather than go to face the enemy again. She had suffered too much already, and doubted she could survive a third helping of worry. This would leave the two children on their own in the world, in this cruel world. Schlump had to promise her that he’d never return to the Front. There were plenty of others who were yet to risk their lives: all those hospital inspectors, paymasters and other plump gentlemen with officer insignia on their epaulettes. Schlump made the promise in order to comfort her, but of course it was not in his power to keep such a promise.
One morning Schlump woke early in his bed. He could hear someone cursing beside him. Opening his eyes very slightly, he squinted over. Someone was sitting on his neighbour’s bed, talking excitedly. Schlump closed his eyes and listened.
‘Yes,’ said the man on the bed, ‘I pretend to be out of my mind. If the doctor starts getting funny with me, I rant and rave, foam at the mouth, and smash everything to bits. And if anyone gets in my way, I try to punch their lights out. To begin with I was in the garrison hospital, and there I knocked the doctor flat. They transferred me here for observation. Christ, they’re not going to get me back to the Front. Before they do that they’ll have to round up all those overfed types who are still running around. You only have to wander through town, anywhere you like.’
‘You’re right,’ said the man in bed. ‘I’m playing a different game. I’m pretending I’ve got a grumbling appendix.’
‘Really? How do you do that?’
‘Well, it’s not that simple. You need to have had a problem with your appendix in the past, because then you know precisely where it is. And you’ve got to make it feel hard beneath the skin, which isn’t so difficult. And you need a temperature, but not too high. You know how to do that, don’t you?’
‘Yes. You rub the thermometer under your armpit.’
‘That’s right. But my game only lasts for about eight weeks.’
‘So what’ll you do afterwards?’
‘Afterwards I’ll be sent back to the garrison company, the home guard. I’ll stay there a couple of weeks until things get unpleasant. You know, when the death-sentence committees start doing their rounds. Then I get shell shock. You know how to do that, don’t you? The key is to get your heart pumping faster, which is perfectly feasible too. You need to concentrate on it the whole time, then the heart starts pounding of its own accord.’
‘That’s all well and good, but there’s a snag. When a comrade of mine played the shell-shock card they sent him to Schkeuditz, which is somewhere near Leipzig. There’s one in Homburg too, I believe, a torture chamber. They torture you by passing stron
g electrical currents through your body! Christ, it must be horrible! My comrade screamed the place down, he said; he begged the attendants not to strap him up. But they’re butchers, that lot, and strong as oxen. They’re entirely lacking in pity. If they ever thought of sending me somewhere like that, I’d rather kill someone and get locked up in prison.’
The two men fell silent and parted company. Schlump had heard every word they said, and their conversation lingered long in his mind.
•
Schlump was bored. He was sitting on the wall with his neighbour in the hospital, watching the girls.
‘Fancy joining me in a little expedition?’ his neighbour said. ‘I’m going to slip out tonight. I know a really nice pub where there are women and food. All you’ve got to do is get your smarts this afternoon and hide them in the skittle alley.’
Schlump had his own uniform – his ‘smarts’, as the soldiers said – which his father had tailored for him while he was still a recruit. Schlump readily agreed to the plan and they discussed the necessary arrangements. It was Wednesday and he had leave to go into town. The corporal gave him his fatigues and Schlump went home. There he put on his smart trousers and coat beneath his fatigues, and smuggled them into the hospital. He got undressed by his bed, returned his fatigues to the corporal, and hid his smarts in the skittle alley.
That evening they went to bed as normal and waited until everyone was asleep. It took for ever. Eventually the other man gave the sign, and Schlump crept quietly and unnoticed to the lavatory. The other man, who was already there, pulled himself up and climbed through the ventilation window with a helping hand from Schlump. Once outside, he was able to balance on an iron railing and haul up Schlump, who could only hold on with one arm. Schlump had great difficulty squeezing through the window, but at last they were both out. In the skittle alley they removed their nightshirts and put on their uniforms and shoes (Schlump had long since learned how to knot his tie and do up his laces with one hand). Then they leapt over the wall, which was not without its risks, as Schlump had difficulty jumping down. But he managed, and wiped the sweat from his brow.
They sneaked through the park, through narrow lanes where somnolent gas lamps cast their yellow glow into the blue night. Dense shrubs hung drowsily over crooked walls, behind which houses slept. And the wind that was resting in the trees occasionally thrashed around in its dreams. They stole quietly along the walls, all the while listening out for the footsteps of patrols. For they had no exeat passes, nor any kind of identification on them. They crossed narrow bridges and climbed steep steps lined with iron railings that had been polished to a shine by all the hands using them in the daytime. Finally they turned into a particularly narrow alley and came to a square surrounded by low old houses. In the centre of this square was an ancient fountain between two lime trees, and on one side sat a squat tower that had once belonged to a church. But a pub now stood where the church had been. The windows were shut tight, with only a meagre amount of light slanting through a narrow crack. They stumbled over the bumpy ground and went inside.
In the thick smoke that greeted them, Schlump couldn’t make out anything. Gradually he identified a powerful chap with infantry trousers and a sailor’s blouse, who with his hoarse voice was drunkenly singing a song unsuitable for sensitive ears. At the tables sat broad, thickset men with raffish expressions. Some were wearing sailors’ jackets and some field-grey coats. It was impossible to be sure whether they were soldiers or not.
Schlump’s comrade guided him through the bar into a tiny room into which they’d squeezed a table. They’d even managed to put a sofa behind it, and accommodate a few stools and a gramophone besides. The two of them sat down and ordered some wine and fried rabbit. The door to the main bar had been taken off its hinges, and they could watch everything that was happening in there. Between the men sat women, a few of whom Schlump knew. Their husbands had all died or were fighting in the war. He was particularly struck by a strong, gorgeous-looking girl with rosy cheeks and beautiful arms. ‘The landlord’s daughter,’ his comrade said. ‘She’s pregnant, as you can see. Her sweetheart is either in gaol or in a penal division. I don’t know why. Beside her is the inspector from the vice unit. His job is to keep an eye on all the women here. But there’s no need to worry; they’re all in cahoots. My God, the man lives like a sultan here. He’d like to have his way with that pretty Katherine, too, but she’s having none of it; she’s staying faithful to her man, a rough, unruly type who’s forever beating her. All the same, she remains as true to him as a girl could be. Him and the inspector, well they can’t stand the sight of each other. But what do we care? The main thing is that we get something to eat.’ And they ate like bears. There were potatoes on the side.
Someone started playing the gramophone, but it wasn’t long before he’d broken it. Having finished his dinner, Schlump sat on the table and played the squeezebox he’d seen on the windowsill. He’d learned it as a boy, in the same way he’d learned the piano, by ear rather than reading music, having been given basic instruction by the foreman who lived below them. The people in the bar were delighted and started to dance. The inspector danced with the landlord’s pretty daughter. Out of gratitude for Schlump’s playing, the men bought him schnapps and the women looked at him with curiosity and lust in their eyes. It was Schlump’s turn to be delighted and he responded with a livelier tune.
The door to the kitchen opened and in came a person who could have been a young woman or a child – it was impossible to tell. She stood on the threshold and didn’t move. Her body already had the shape of a woman, but her mouth didn’t look as if it had enjoyed many kisses. Her eyes half closed, she brushed her raven hair from her forehead with the back of her hand. Her gaze shot from between long eyelashes, touching everyone in the bar, especially the men. She watched the girl dance with the inspector, but her gaze moved on indifferently. It stopped at Schlump; she opened her eyes fully – a pair of large jet-black eyes – and glanced at him briefly. By chance Schlump looked over at her and caught the glance, but her lids soon closed again to a narrow slit, and her whole body remained perfectly still as it stood there. Schlump got the feeling that she was watching him; he felt her stare run down the length of his body, as if she were trying to caress him with her senses. This fired him up, and he started playing something else, allowing those in the bar no peace. He kept looking past the girl, all the while thinking about her. Suddenly she left her place by the door and moved behind him – he was now standing in front of the table, half in the main bar – brushing him faintly with her dress and, he thought, her fingers too. Then she vanished and wasn’t to be seen again for the rest of the evening.
Schlump kept playing for ages. He suspected the girl must be the sister of the landlord’s beautiful daughter, but he didn’t ask. He didn’t say a single word as they stole back to their hospital beds.
•
The following day, Schlump went around like a man under a spell. Those black eyes followed him everywhere. And all the time he sensed that she was near him, within touching distance, or it felt as if she’d just wandered through the room and caressed him with the waft of her dress and hair. He often stood brooding in the same place for a while, before looking up in the expectation that she’d be standing there. Walking up the steps that led to the reading room, he stopped halfway and listened. It was as if she’d called his name. He waited there for an age, then turned around with excitement. He’d had the distinct feeling that she’d brushed past him. Then he leaned on the rail, pressing his cheek to the cool wood, before scurrying to the top of the stairs. He sat for a long time in the reading room, thinking of the pub, and unable to wait for evening to come back round. For he had it in mind to slip out again and return to the pub with the tower. His comrade didn’t want to go, so Schlump would have to make the trip on his own.
It took a gargantuan effort to climb through the window. He ran through the night-time streets and played the squeezebox as he had the evening before.
It continued like this for weeks, and it was a miracle that the corporal didn’t get wind of it. By now they all knew Schlump in the pub. They’d got hold of a better squeezebox, and promised to pay his bill if he played. He didn’t refuse, for he could play the instrument really well, and in return he enjoyed wine and fried rabbit. Whenever young Margret showed her face he was in ecstasy and played like the devil. She often came up close to watch him play, swaying her body in time to the music while fixing her gaze on him with her narrowed enchanting eyes. This drove him wild. Placing her slender hands on her hips, she moved like a gypsy girl. Several times Schlump was on the verge of tossing away the squeezebox and grabbing hold of her. But on each occasion she made a face of such indifference and mild disdain that he lost his nerve.
After evenings like that he snuck back to the hospital a very happy man. But his sorrow knew no limits if she failed to show up. The following day would seem an eternity to him, and he felt utterly helpless. He tried playing chess, but his absent-mindedness always spoiled the game for his opponent. He sat in the reading room, puffing away on cigarettes that the daughter of the hospital shopkeeper used to give him. She was a good, honest girl who he flirted with as a distraction. She pandered to his every wish, but usually he forgot to thank her.
One Saturday evening he went back to the pub with the tower. He picked up the squeezebox and started to play. Over in the main bar every seat was taken. They were talking excitedly with raised voices and seemed to have little appetite for dancing. The sturdy Katherine had two men sitting next to her: on one side the vice inspector, on the other a handsome, slim fellow with an energetic face. He wore his cap high up on his head, his hands were in his trouser pockets and he was smoking a cigarette. He was looking terribly angry, and had his back turned to the girl. The others were calling his name. He was her sweetheart, the handsome Max who’d just come out of prison. Katherine stroked him and served him food and drink, but he didn’t budge. From the other tables, the rest of the crowd gave the three of them furtive looks. Schlump played and at last they did start to dance.
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