In the bedroom chest it was wonderful, and soon the tired lovers fell asleep. They slept soundly and long. Hours passed and the sun rose in the east. But it couldn’t find a way into the cellar to wake the sleepers. And the sun rose higher and higher.
That morning Jolles looked for his friend in vain. He was worried, because he hadn’t seen him the previous evening either. Schlump’s neighbour, too, a young widow, took notice and joined in the hunt.
When the two sleepers woke in the chest, they could hear voices in the cellar next door. They didn’t move and peered in horror through the chinks. ‘I saw monsieur go over yesterday evening, but he can’t have come back for I would have heard him for sure. I don’t sleep well, you see,’ the young widow said. Jolles muttered something under his breath. ‘His slippers are upstairs, next to Mademoiselle Louise’s slippers; they can’t have run away barefoot,’ the young widow added.
All of a sudden Jolles stood face to face with the widow and shouted in her ear, ‘Madame, please don’t go into that corner over there or you’ll get a terrible fright. The two of them have hanged themselves!’ Screaming, the widow fled. Jolles went over to the chest and said, ‘Hurry! I’ll stand guard by the door and make sure no one comes in.’ A stocking poking out from beneath the lid had given good old Jolles the clue.
They hastily got dressed, then climbed over the garden wall that led out into the field, their passage largely concealed by bushes. Schlump hurried into his office, and Louise to her deaf elderly aunt who lived at the other end of the village. A while later Jolles came into the office and laughed so much that tears ran down his face.
That evening Louise returned home as if nothing had happened.
The old boy with the shag pipe must have got wind of it, for he took Schlump aside and implored him to keep quiet like a true gentleman. ‘Because she’s a decent girl, that Louise,’ he said.
From then on Schlump visited Louise every evening. But he waited until the aeroplanes had passed over the town, always on the stroke of midnight, to drop their destructive loads on the station at Busigny, the neighbouring town. This always proved a stern test of his patience.
•
The Germans tried to change their fortune with a variety of offensives, which all had the same outcome. The brave infantrymen gained considerable ground. But back-up was lacking. This major enterprise had been ill thought through, and so innumerable young men met a terrible, horrific death.
Masses and masses of wounded men passed through Bohain – those who could still walk and were only lightly injured. The others had to perish forlornly or die on the way. Prisoners, too, were delivered to Bohain and assembled in large camps. The British and French were kept separate because they couldn’t stand each other. Schlump was summoned to interpret for the French. The town’s inhabitants had collected clothes and linen for their compatriot prisoners, even though they had scarcely enough to cover their own bodies. Schlump’s job was to liaise between the prisoners and the townsfolk to ensure that no espionage took place.
The French soldiers looked just like our men at the Front; they were sick to death of the war and didn’t say very much. They were desperate to go home immediately to earn their daily bread in peaceful ways. But one of them stood out. Dressed in fine clothes, he did all the talking, was clearly well nourished and didn’t appear to have suffered too much exertion. He was the son of a silk manufacturer from Lyon, who had just been bringing a transport of rails to the Front when he’d been caught up in the offensive and taken prisoner. Full of patriotic enthusiasm, he pitied Schlump for clinging to his belief in a German victory. (Schlump was not absolutely convinced by this belief, but he wasn’t going to let the big-mouth know that.) He spoke of the Americans, who were unloading huge volumes of guns, automobiles, munitions and soldiers by the day. ‘They’re in the process of laying a railway in a dead-straight line to the east: eight tracks side by side. You’ll be rolled over in a few weeks,’ he said.
‘Oh, you brave Frenchies,’ Schlump retorted. ‘You have to mobilise the entire world to defeat the lone Germans. What’s more, I think you have a particularly vivid imagination!’
Their argument went on for ages, touching subjects such as who had instigated the war in the first place, and what on earth they were fighting for. Eventually the Frenchman said, ‘Listen, back home we tell a lovely fable that will make the causes and outcome of the war perfectly clear.’ And he launched into his story with great eloquence and gesticulation.
‘Two families of chickens lived on a large farm that belonged to a big landowner. They were separated by a high wire fence to prevent the breeds from getting crossed. One of the cocks lived peacefully with his hens, and would call them over whenever he found some corn. Each time they laid an egg he saluted them by scratching his claws and cackling loudly. The other cockerel was forever running up and down the fence, ruffling his feathers, flapping his wings, stretching out his neck and opening his beak as if he were about to kill off his honest neighbour.
‘One day, when the sunshine was especially bright and pleasant, the wicked cock flew over the fence and attacked his peaceful brother. The ambushed cockerel, who’d just found an earthworm and whose mind was on anything but war, was given a severe beating. His comb was bleeding and one eye had been pecked out, allowing him to see only half of the world. “Right,” he cried out rancorously, “now you’ll see who’s the stronger!” And he went at the invader fearlessly, striking him in the middle of the head and sending him to the ground. Then he put a foot on his body to prevent the vanquished cock from getting up again.
‘After a while the wicked cockerel opened his eyes and said wearily, “Look, brother. Here I am, lying defencelessly in your power, with no strength left to fight. Goodness and love are the most wonderful gifts the Creator endowed us poor animals with to enable us to demonstrate that we are worthy of Him. Surely you’re not going to show your contempt for these divine gifts; surely you will forgive your opponent who lies helplessly at your feet.”
‘ “You’re right,” the victor replied. “Our Lord God gave us reason that we may allow our neighbour to live in peace. But he also gave us spurs and claws to defend ourselves from thieves and robbers.” Whereupon he administered the death blow. “For what guarantee do I have that he won’t attack me again tomorrow if I forgive him today?” ’
The Frenchman looked around in triumph and took a seat.
‘We’re not so skilled at telling tales,’ Schlump said, ‘but there is a story recounted in our country that I think is highly appropriate here. Listen – this is the story of poor Boch.
‘In a village not far from my home town lived three peasants: Boch, Foch and Tim. Boch was a young man who with tireless hard work and great skill had managed to restore the inheritance his father had neglected. So it happened that on Sundays he would ride proudly through the village, cracking his whip perhaps a touch excessively. This annoyed Foch, his neighbour, to distraction, for he was a terribly vain man, and wanted to be the only one who could crack his whip that loudly. But the most noxious of the three was Tim, the rich mill owner. He was a proper crook who would have loved nothing more than to stuff all the peasants in his sack. He went to Foch and got him worked up into a lather over Boch. Boch had long since noticed that the two of them had been putting their heads together and were plotting against him, but he didn’t worry about it.
‘One Sunday, while out enjoying his habitual horse ride, he saw them standing at the entrance to the village. It didn’t escape his attention that each of them had a stone in his hand. They’re going to strike me dead from behind, he thought. To pre-empt them, he struck the nearest one in the face with his whip; the man collapsed in a bloody heap. But that was Foch. Tim, who’d been standing behind him, dropped his stone and ran through the village, shouting his head off. In disgust, he immediately gave an account of the terrible deed that the wicked Boch had done. Then he summoned all the peasants from the village, because each one of them was in debt to him. So
me peasants even hurried over from the neighbouring farm, hoping to benefit from the misfortune. They all attacked poor Boch, who defended himself like a hero, striking in every direction with superhuman strength. But there were too many of them. As he moved back, someone stuck out a leg. He stumbled and fell, and then all of them laid into him, plundering everything save for his shirt. Foch, who by now had recovered, put a foot on poor Boch’s torso and struck a pose. He twirled his moustache and jangled his long spurs, as if trying to say, “I’m the mightiest fellow in the whole world.” But Tim had already shared the spoils.
‘Time passed and Boch was restored to full health. His livestock had been stolen from the stables and all his chests broken into. But once more he started to work tirelessly and with determination. And as he never lost heart, he regained his prosperity and respect within a few years. He no longer rode through the village cracking his whip, but people made way for him and greeted him, for they all harboured massive respect for this man, and every one of them felt somewhat in his debt. It is said that Foch and Tim were deeply ashamed.’
When Schlump had finished, nobody said a word. In the corner sat an old Breton in a tattered uniform, filling his pipe. He carefully gathered up the little crumbs of tobacco that littered his coat tails and trousers, and muttered to himself, ‘What a bunch of liars!’
•
Summer was in full swing again and the cannons were still thundering away. Sometimes Schlump would go for a walk between the fields, past gardens in bloom, and sense the sorrow that weighed down on everyone he met. But he was a young man, and the song of the lark made him blissfully happy, stirring the old longing that had accompanied him from Haumont. He felt as if someone were walking behind him with light footsteps, calling his name softly and tenderly. When he stopped and turned to listen, the voice stopped calling out, but when he turned back he felt the presence behind him again, as if it were trying to play a trick on him. Schlump continued on his way, a faint smile on his lips, stroking the ripe corn with his fingers. He didn’t tell anyone about this, and when he was together with friends he forgot it altogether.
Once on his way back he passed the church, where the door was open. The organ was bellowing out and Schlump stopped. A few children were playing nearby, and the sun warmed the large square. Large flies were sleeping on the white wall beneath the colourful church windows, and behind him the sparrows were bickering. Schlump went inside. It took a while to get used to the darkness. He sat on a small chair beside the alcove and looked around. He was all alone save for the organ booming around the tall interior. A powerful bundle of yellow sunrays slanted diagonally across the chancel, and countless sparks of light played on the shining gilded sword of the Archangel Michael.
On a wide pillar in front of Schlump stood Joan of Arc on a console with her white flag and helmet that bore a sparkling golden lily. Blonde locks flowed on to her shoulders. Schlump looked into her brown eyes and caressed her fine lips, her beautiful arms and her delicate slim fingers. He felt as if he’d seen her before, as if they’d once exchanged words, words from the heart that had deeply stirred his soul. Tired, he leaned his head against the rest of the prie-dieu. Above him the organ droned, filling everything with its earnest and uncanny chords, as if trying to talk to him about death and damnation. Schlump pictured himself back in the trenches, surrounded by dead soldiers in pools of their own blood. Lying on their stomachs, they turned their heads to look at him. As he fled, he came across ever more green faces staring into his eyes. He had to stumble over horrifically mutilated bodies, and everywhere before him the ground crumbled away, exposing mass graves where men rotted and decayed in their thousands. He waded through these bodies, some of which were still moving, having been buried alive. Worms crawled out of others and up his boots. Dying men staggered towards him with terrible injuries and lay down at his feet.
Schlump moaned. He wanted to escape, but the men hung on to him and so he had no choice but to drag them along. Thrashing about, he heard a delicate, soft voice calling out. He looked up. Joan of Arc had climbed down, leaned her flag against the pillar and removed her helmet. Smiling, she offered him her beautiful hand. It was then that he recognised her: Johanna, the girl he’d spoken to so bashfully back at home. ‘I’ve often followed you and called out your name,’ she said, ‘but you’ve never recognised me. Do you remember when war broke out, you kissed me beneath the chestnut trees? But you didn’t want to dance. And do you remember the letter I sent to the hospital? I was terribly worried about you. Do you remember we talked in the street? You see, I’ve been praying for you all the time, to protect you. I’ve often followed you and called out your name, but you’ve never recognised me.’ St Joan leaned towards Schlump and gave him a kiss. Then she took away her hand, put on her helmet and picked up her flag.
And when Schlump woke up, she was standing back on the console. But, as in his dream, there seemed to be the hint of a smile on her lips.
The organ had stopped playing, and the organist came clattering down the stairs in his boots. He was a soldier in a grey uniform with a bandage around his head.
Schlump went outside; the sun had set. He strode home, still half dreaming like a child who’s just been given their Christmas presents. That evening he sat down and wrote a letter to Johanna. He wrote late into the night. Beside him lay a heap of scrunched-up paper. Finally, seeming satisfied, he got up and read through his letter one last time:
Dear Johanna,
I can’t stop thinking about you. Do you remember when we said goodbye to each other in the street, and I was unable to utter a word? If there’s no other man in your life, if you still love me as much as you did when you wrote to me in hospital, dear Johanna, please write me another letter like that, without delay. I am longing to see you again; I can’t stop thinking about you. But if you have another, then don’t write to me for I’ll be desperately unhappy.
With warmest greetings,
Schlump
From now on Schlump went regularly to the church and sat in front of St Joan, who never failed to smile at him with her lovely eyes.
Only a few days later, a letter arrived from his home town, which made him the happiest soldier in the German army.
•
They took turns in manning the office and preparing reports for Imperial Headquarters and writing communiqués to rear-echelon headquarters. It was Schlump’s turn. He was alone in the office, gazing out of the window. The door opened and in stepped a man in the uniform of the reserves, a very tall, scrawny and swarthy individual. His name was Gack; he was twenty-eight, from Schwaben, and a student in civilian life. He’d already studied his way through all the faculties, most recently philosophy, and after the war he wanted to become a priest.
‘You’re a lucky bugger being assigned to us, comrade,’ Schlump said. ‘You won’t find a cushier job anywhere else. No one here has to go for inspection; we’ve all got insurance until the end of the war.’
The soldier looked cross and said, ‘I haven’t come here to take it easy; I’m going to do my duty just like those in the trenches.’
‘The difference being that there’s no gunfire here,’ Schlump said drily. This one’s a right nutter, he thought. He explained the man’s duties and arranged his billet. He’d never come across anything like this in all his time as a soldier. If the man was such a good liar, why was he a mere private? He resolved to get to know the new arrival better. And the opportunity soon presented itself.
One day Schlump was crossing the marketplace when all of a sudden the sirens began wailing. At that moment there was a humming up above, too, and he dived into the nearest house. A loud, blood-curdling whistle pierced the air, followed by a bang. The cellar boomed, they all jumped and the French cried out, ‘Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, seigneur!’ The humming stopped, the sirens fell silent and Schlump went back outside. A crowd of people had gathered in the street. A bomb had fallen in the middle of the marketplace, and a young woman had been hit by the shrapnel. It was the Fre
nch girl who cooked for them; she’d been pregnant. What a horrible sight, impossible to look at. They covered the body and took her away. Schlump went to the office, where Gack was the only one present because it was still quite early. Still agitated, Schlump explained what had happened and cursed the British for pointlessly dropping their bombs on towns and cities. ‘This entire war is nothing but the cruellest, vilest slaughter, and if mankind can put up with such an atrocity for years, or stand by and look on, well, it deserves nothing but contempt. But he who fashioned mankind, he ought to be thoroughly ashamed of himself, for his creation is an utter disgrace!’
Schlump was about to continue his tirade when Gack stood up, rolled his eyes and thundered, ‘Stop right there! What you are saying is blasphemy! I will not tolerate such talk in my presence!’
‘Come on, comrade, don’t get so worked up. I didn’t mean you,’ Schlump said.
The lanky man had sat back down and now continued more calmly. ‘I’m well aware that I’m not the Creator, but I cannot permit you to blaspheme about things you do not understand.’ Then he delivered a long philosophical speech that Schlump only grasped about half of. ‘You see,’ he concluded, ‘one must differentiate between the longer and shorter point of view. From the shorter point of view all the war brings is sorrow, suffering and unbelievable torment. But seen from the longer perspective, one comes to a different conclusion. Just think about how many people have died over the course of the millennia. What do a few million more matter, who represent not even a handful in the endless sea of eternity? Are you trying to tell me that the individual counts for anything? The individual is nothing, he has no intrinsic value, he is just a part of a much larger totality, a nation. The individual has no soul, but a nation does. And the individual only has value when he is of use to his people.
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