The Boxer

by Jurek Becker

“There should be some in the living room.”

  In the living room she finally unwrapped the package, a bottle of cognac. Aron remembered his wish in the club to buy some liquor for himself; he didn’t remember now if he had just thought about it or had said it out loud. Heput the glasses on the table and poured the drinks. Then Paula said this puzzling sentence, “If we wanted to forget everythingelse first, then we would never get around to living.”

  Again, Aron had something to think about. He wanted, he says, totake her words as a familiar noise, as a kind of music, but they had to be decoded — what could Paula have meant? One of the meanings, the somewhat philosophicalaspect of her sentence, was obvious.

  Or should I explain it to you?”

  “No, keep talking,” I say and ask myself why in the world he so often suspects, at precisely the wrong time, that I’m unable to followhis reckoning.

  But Aron racked his brains over the other meaning, the second. Did she want him to understand that it was time to put an end to his past life and start a new one, perhaps with her? Or were her words directed less at him than at herself? Presumably it had also happened to me, says Aron, sometimes one says things that are not intended for other ears but only as a validation. Had Paula wanted to bolster Paula? Had she wanted to gather up some favorable wind, like soldiers do when they storm over a field shouting, “Charge!”? If we wanted to forget everything else first. She was twenty-six. Sure, he says, she wouldn’t have been spared experiences that are best forgotten, from the point of view of continuing to live. Then we would never get around to living. Aron couldn’tfigure out exactly what that meant, and he didn’t like to ask — he drank.

  Suddenly she took his face in her hands and kissed it. Aron’s surprise quickly receded into confused delight and intoxication that the taste of a woman caused him. The bottle fell to the floor, cognac soaked the carpet. Days later, when Aron came back from Bavaria, it still smelled. But Paula didn’t let go. And then she said again a word that must have been jarring to his ears: “Arno …”

  It was the first time that someone called me by that name, especially in a situation like that! At first I thought, She means someone else. No, it wasn’t so tragic, I soon got used to it. Everyone calls me that today, except you, but never again did that name feel so hateful and inappropriate.”

  Why are you doing this?” Aron asked.

  Paula looked at him as if she hadn’t understood his question, then she closed her eyes and kissed him again. He asked no more questions. His renouncing all resistance was made easier by her embrace, which, as he emphasizes several times, was in no way uncomfortable. (A difficulty arises that I will often have to fight against. Aron becomes very hesitant in naming important details; he temporarily changes his method. Instead of describing an event, he finds it sufficient tolist the attendant circumstances.) He was no longer just letting it happen to him, he also kissed her. He was intrigued by how things would proceed. He felt her breasts, she smelled like peppermint. It became dark outside, early for that time of year. Paula stood up and opened the window. She lay down on the couch and said, “Come over here.”

  Aron had never sat or lain on that couch before. He lay down beside her. They embraced and kissed again. According to Aron, when one kisses while lying down it is always with a clearer intention than in any other position. He let himself be captured by the moment, though love had no role, he says, at least not on his side. Rather lust, also vanity and, as he says, control.

  Control?”

  He rolls his eyes and explains reluctantly that he finally had to test if he had, at least in relation to this, survived the camp unscathed. Or would that have been a matter of indifference to me in his position?

  He was soon uncomfortable on the couch. In case of necessity, two adults could easily lie on it, assuming they each lay in an ideal position, but such was not the case. He thought, Well, if if s going to happen, thenwhy not go to the other room with the big, wide bed? Yet he had scruples about making such a suggestion, and Paula didn’t know the apartment, though in a certain way she was playing the host. So they lay and caressed each other on the couch, which was far too small, and only later, when the time had come to sleep, did she follow him into the bedroom.

  Seeing the bed, she stared at him with a mixture of amused amazement and annoyance. Embarrassed, Aron shrugged. They took off their remaining clothes and lay down. He immediately fell asleep.

  To Bavaria.

  The next morning it took a couple of seconds before Aron understood that it was Paula who had woken him up. He was happy about it, and he also foundno sign that she regretted anything. Obediently, she let herself be kissed. All she said was, “You’re going to be late.”

  “For what?”

  “The car. It leaves from the office at eight on the dot.”

  He jumped out of bed; the office was half an hour away and it was already past seven. Paula wasn’t in a rush. While he washed and dressed, she went into the kitchen and prepared something to eat. There was no time left to shave. “You’re not coming with me to the office?” Aron asked.

  “Can’t I stay here a little longer?”

  “As long as you like,” Aron said. “Here’s the duplicate key.”

  He was afraid he’d miss the car, so he decided to eat his breakfast on the way. He took leave of Paula and was sorry they had to part so soon.

  “Do you know how long I’ll be gone?”

  “No.”

  Something quite childish — Aron lifted Paula from the chair and carried her to the bedroom. At the end of the corridor — he almost collapsed on the way, but now he had already committed himself—he laid her down in the bed. He then forgot his breakfast in the kitchen and left.

  Rescue’s office was still closed. Wherever he looked, he couldn’t see a car worth considering. Aron waited in front of the house and was afraid there could have been an accident or, worse still, a misunderstanding. Yet at around half past eight a foreign car pulled up across the street. Aron timidly raised his hand to attract attention. Someone called out the window, “Mister Blank?”

  Aron got into the back next to a bald man who shook his hand, smiling, and introduced himself as Clifford; the driver sat alone up front. Even before they had gone around the first corner, Clifford started talking. Paula must have forgotten to tell him that Aron didn’t understand English. Aron made up for this oversight. Clifford nodded and was silent, even morose, or so it seemed to Aron. Apparently he didn’t care for long, silent journeys. Aron hoped they would find an interpreter at their destination; he had to come to an understanding with Clifford about their return trip. He kept looking out of the window; he preferred the open highway with fields and woods on both sides to towns and cities, which reminded him more of the war that had just ended. The driver hummed merry songs.

  When Aron had seen enough, he started preparing himself for the encounter with Mark. That means he reconfirmed for the hundredth time that he loved him boundlessly and that he couldn’t imagine a greater joy than that of being reunited with him at last. Besides, it was firmly established that he would not be shaken in his love by a wretched sight — for he knew very well what terrible physical changes hunger and illness are capable of causing. He didn’t expect to meet a rosy advertisement kid. And, finally, he was still angry with himself because, even now, he was unable to project Mark onto his closed eyelids. He couldn’t do any more; the road ahead was still long, and a permanent repetition of the aforementioned three lessons wasn’t a very entertaining prospect. Clifford offered him a pack of cigarettes.

  Aron smoked and started to think of the second person who had become important for him in the meantime, of Paula. Of the last question she asked, whether she could stay a little longer, here’s the key, did Paula have the intention of moving in with him? If so, then surely not out of homelessness — Rescue cared for its people, why did she want to live with him? But that was not yet clear; it could just as well be that he would come home to find the second key under th
e mail slot, with a couple of embarrassed lines — Thank you for the nice evening, I don’t know what possessed me, all the best, Paula. This or something similar was more likely than anything else, and Aron admitted to himself that if such were the case he would be disappointed.

  A possible return home — Aron wants to open the door but does not succeed because the second key is in the other side of the lock, he must knock. Paula opens the door smiling, seductively attired or not dressed at all; Aron is wrapped in her arms. The best meal that may lie on the table will detain them only briefly, then the bedroom. The embraces achieve greater enjoyment than the first time, when everything was overshadowed by embarrassment and discomfort. Days like this, only in a longer, more reliable series.

  Aron asked himself if such a plot would suit him, and he came to the conclusion: yes.

  Iwas still a man in the prime of life.”

  I ask him if it was a blurred attraction, like a fever, that comes fast and leaves fast. Caused, for example, by the understandable need for a woman. Or had Paula suddenly appeared in a new light in the car, clearer, and more lovable?

  “That’s hard to say. The truth is that I thought about her for the first time during this journey. And how nice she had seemed since the very first day; you can already tell that it never occurred to me to mistrust her. Otherwise why do you think I left her the key?”

  The contemplation of Paula lasted to the border. (From Aron’s account one can conclude that, when picturing his life with Paula, he had only her in mind, never himself. By this I mean that he imagined, according to his desires, how she would behave in a certain situation and never thought of how he would act.) Then the car stopped for the first time; there were Russian soldiers outside and a barrier. Clifford had fallen asleep. A soldier walked up to the car, the driver rolled down the window and showed him a green paper. Careful looks around the interior of the car, which made Aron uneasy — he had no papers that gave him the right to cross the border, only Paula’s promise to take care of it. Yet the soldier gave a satisfied sign to move forward, the barrier rose, and the journey continued. Not a word was spoken.

  Aron knew this much, that he was now in a different zone, which one, however, he didn’t know. After a bumpy bend, Clifford woke up, rubbed his eyes, and started talking, but he immediately interrupted himself because it occurred to him that Aron didn’t understand. Aron didn’t want to sink any further into his thoughts and wouldn’t be blessed by a nap — he wasn’t tired, merely hungry. All that was left was the landscape. At this stage, he would not have been averse to a little conversation. A chat about God and the world — it would make time pass faster — yet how to communicate with Clifford? German aside, Aron spoke Yiddish and a passable Russian because his mother was born in Petersburg and had taught him the language while he was still an obedient child. It occurred to him that Clifford could be Jewish, a possibility not to be excluded in the case of a Rescue man — perhaps Paula was Jewish? He made an attempt, without success. Clifford smiled at him and didn’t understand, yet now he also appeared to be thinking of a way to establish communication. After a couple of strained seconds he said in Russian, “Do you speak Russian perhaps?”

  At Aron’s amazed expression, Clifford almost died laughing. Aron asked, “Where did you learn Russian?”

  “What do you mean, where? I learned it. And you?”

  They exchanged facts about themselves. Aron discovered that Clifford hadn’t mastered this language by chance; it was because Rescue needed a man who knew Russian. It was inevitable, now and then, to have negotiations and correspondence with Soviet departments. “It can’t hurt at the border either,” Clifford said.

  “We’ve passed it already.”

  Clifford looked out the window, exchanged a couple of words with the driver; they had actually passed the border. After the initial surprise about their knowledge of the language, it turned out that they didn’t really know what to do with it. A flowing conversation did not develop, only single observations thrown in — the scenery, the extent of destruction, the Germans, Clifford complained about his illnesses. The only appreciable advantage for Aron in this new situation was that he was given a box of cookies when he told Clifford that he had skipped his breakfast that morning.

  In the afternoon they left the highway and turned into a forest road. Aron asked if they had arrived. Not yet, Clifford said. On their way to Munich they always had to stop for gas at this place; it was an American garrison. Driving past, Aron saw soldiers sitting in a field, in a circle, with some young women among them. He wouldn’t have noticed the group if the driver hadn’t stuck his head out the window and emitted a loud whistle. Aron asked Clifford, “Are you Jewish?”

  “No, I’m Protestant.”

  “And Paula?”

  “Who’s Paula?”

  “Paula Seltzer.”

  “I don’t know anyone called Paula Seltzer.”

  After a brief inspection, they drove through a gate and halted next to a brightly painted fuel truck. The driver got out and left.

  “Come, let’s stretch our legs,” Clifford said. “It always takes a while.”

  They walked through the camp, stone barracks on sand. The flow of pedestrians was remarkable. Aron was surprised to see so many black soldiers. He started talking about the return trip; Clifford said he would pick Aron up from the children’s home two days later. “So you’ll have the whole day free for your son. We’ll come around ten, but don’t be impatient if we’re a little late.”

  Aron found the garrison miserable; he even thought that most of the soldiers looked depressed. His shoes were full of sand, and with every gust of wind dust clouds whirled through the air. They sat on a bench and waited until Clifford looked at his watch and said that it was time.

  When they arrived at the home at sunset, Clifford wished him good luck. He said, “Day after tomorrow, in the morning.”

  Aron climbed out and watched the car until the rear lights disappeared in a bend in the road. A former concentration camp, now arranged to take care of the children, Paula had said. And somewhere in there, Mark. Aron worried that some sort of authorization might be required from him; he hoped Paula had announced his visit. He shuddered at the idea of having to explain to an official why a Mr. Blank wanted to visit young Mark Berger.

  The iron gate had no inscription and was closed; there was no bell and no guard. Aron called out “hello” several times, but nothing happened. He stood there puzzled, hungry, and tired, he says, alone in Bavaria. After a while he decided to climb over the gate; he figured he could manage it. As he let himself down on the other side, he heard a dog barking. Aron picked up a stone. Still today he has a phobia of dogs; he closes the window every time a dog starts barking. Yet his precaution proved to be exaggerated; the dog who immediately came running up was, as he says, a ridiculously small dachshund. Still, he had to stop himself from kicking it. He refrained only in view of the reasons for his visit; he didn’t want any unnecessary trouble, and kicking a dog almost always led to a fight. He threw away the stone, at which point the dachshund appeared momentarily unsure whether to fetch it or not but then resolved to keep on barking. Suddenly a small, breathless man stood next to Aron in an undershirt and slippers. He reminded Aron immediately of his wooden-legged superintendent. The man grabbed Aron by the sleeve; his eyes revealed that this was a rare catch. He asked excitedly, “What are you doing here?”

  “Let me go,” Aron said.

  The man wanted to let go, but he was nervous, Aron saw, and was waiting for an explanation.

  “There is no bell on the door,” Aron said. “I called for an hour. Take me to the director.”

  “So, you called for an hour? And then you simply broke in?”

  “Listen,” Aron said, “I came from Berlin and I’m tired. Where’s the director?”

  “There’s no director here now. Only tomorrow morning.”

  Aron had an ugly thought. “This is the children’s home?” he asked.

 
The man scrutinized the intruder and didn’t reply, at which point the hostility vanished from his face. With a sigh he invited Aron to come with him. “And you be quiet.”

  They went into a barrack; the man knocked on a door, a woman in a nurse’s uniform sat in the room. The man said that Aron wanted to speak with her, without however mentioning the break-in. She introduced herself as the night nurse, and Aron explained his request. She listened attentively, occasionally nodded understandingly; he didn’t get the impression that his story particularly interested her. When he was finished, she said, “I’m sorry but you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  “Why can’t I see him now?”

  “First of all, I am not authorized to let just anybody in and, second, the children are already asleep.”

  “Couldn’t you wake Mark?” Aron asked. “This is something that doesn’t happen every day.”

  “I don’t know who Mark is,” said the night nurse.

  “We have two hundred children here. Besides, he doesn’t sleep alone. There are at least twenty children in each room, do you want to disturb them all?”

  Disappointed, Aron left, accompanied by the man and the dachshund, which in the meantime had calmed down. On the way, the man laid his hand on Aron’s shoulder and said, “Don’t be angry, that’s just the way it is here. You’ll see him tomorrow.”

  When they reached the gate, he clapped his hands angrily; he had forgotten the key and wanted to fetch it.

  “Never mind,” Aron said, “I know the way.”

  He climbed back over the gate. The man made himself useful by giving directions, at least for the first half of the way.

  “Thanks and good-bye.”

  “See you tomorrow,” the man said.

  Aron went along the asphalt road without knowing where it led. It was half past ten and dark; after a bend he saw the lights of a village set hard against a small mountainside. He walked toward it. Yet the closer he got to the lights, the more he questioned the sense of going to the village. He did have some money with him, even in the form of the alternative currency — which presumably was valid here too — cigarettes. It would certainly be enough for a bed, dinner, and breakfast. But his scruples were of a different kind, he told himself, a village that lies so close to a former concentration camp must be swarming with unbearable people. He came to the conclusion that the annoyance they could cause him would have been greater than the comforts of civilization that, in the best case, such a village could offer. He left the road and stepped into the woods.