The Rules of Perspective

by Adam Thorpe

  Now it all promised to be over, and it was a shock to realise this!

  He stood before the janitor’s door, with its office times in faded ink, feeling faintly embarrassed about disturbing Herr Wolmer again, so soon after fetching the candles. Not even an hour ago! Ridiculous, that he felt embarrassed. They were under bombardment and about to be conquered, like something out of Herodotus or Livy. It was only natural he should check on things.

  Laying his hand upon the door’s handle, he felt as if everything in life might be repeated in an endless circle of actions, which he was sure was a Far Eastern belief, just as it was a Far Eastern practice to return to the same painting over months or even years, applying a single stroke until the work was complete.

  Ah, it was good being alone with one’s thoughts. It made one feel more solid and true, did a few moments of solitude.

  If only you would return. I am waiting and waiting. Yesterday was my eighteenth birthday, but nobody knew. I have passed three birthdays on my own. Nobody remembered, because nobody knew.

  34

  Parry thought of human history as a nickel-in-the-slot phonograph with just two records: War and Peace. The Peace record was clean and fresh and the War record was dusty and scratched because it was so goddamn popular. He needed a beer.

  ‘You lose a war you lose a war,’ he said to the dame, who was shuddering a little against him. It was between a hiccup and a shudder. It meant she was still grieving. He reckoned it was Germany she was grieving for. If it had been America in this fine state, he might have been grieving too. Like the Brits grieved over their cuppas for London, Coventry, Portsmouth, you name it. Exeter Cathedral. With millions of dollars of coloured glass on the sidewalk and the lawns. Maybe hundreds of thousands of dollars. Anyway, people were crying because the goddamn glass was a thousand years old, almost. Five times at least as old as the United States of America. Not as old as the Indian America, which they did not call America. Maybe the goddamn Indians like his grandmother’s father grieved like this woman and some had their innards cut out and stretched over the saddle of at least one Methodist minister’s horse and that was not even war but sheer conquest. He was a divided man. Some said they were stretched vaginas but this sounded unlikely from a medical point of view. Maybe not. Maybe they were like stretched mouths. Screams on a pommel.

  It might just be a story. As the wholesale massacre of the Jews of Europe might just be a story. They had been told to watch out for that particular shadow. To case suspicious factory joints, to not think of a beautiful meadow as a beautiful meadow when it might just be a mass burial ground. And the political niggers among them had said, ‘Nobody watched out for us while we was being lynched.’

  He still thought he might open a hatch in the ground and out would flood some millions of living Jews, blinking in the light. Clarksburg had a dozen or so Jew shops and they were damn good. He would be a hero, then. They told some good jokes and you could run on credit.

  He did not wonder even for one moment why the woman, Frau Hoffer as she called herself, was clinging to him so because he could understand it as he lay there, cradling her. He could understand it very well. However, she was beginning to disturb him like an ache. Most of them, although they were starving or had nothing, they did not cling to you like this. Maybe it was simply and truly because he’d taken her goddamn hair in his mouth!

  The warmth was very nice, though.

  The old, thin one came up today and comforted me. He gave me an apple. When he went, I felt I had no meaning [Sinn].

  35

  Herr Wolmer was reading the newspaper!

  He was sitting at his desk, in his burnished spiked helmet and trench greatcoat, reading the newspaper as if nothing had happened – an old newspaper, months old, as no proper newspapers had been produced in Lohenfelde this year, since the January air raids.

  He hardly looked up as the door opened: Herr Wolmer was still the janitor, rather slow and dour and difficult, but without whom everyone would be lost. Effectively, while the world had changed, Herr Wolmer had not. The sampler above the door – Ein’ feste Burg 1st unser Gott – had apparently been embroidered by his great-grandmother and was dated 1831, while a very flowery sign on the wall near the sink declared Mein Feld 1st die Welt, as if the janitor was a world traveller; in a funny sort of way, it was true, because all the world might be concentrated here in this stuffy box of a room. Herr Wolmer’s table only just fitted between the sink, the broom-cupboard and the crooked stove with its copper pot; while the spare wooden chair, with its cushion covered in Caspar Friedrich’s hairs, meant that one had either to step aside on entering or sit down straight away, awkwardly: but Herr Hoffer liked this room almost more than any other in the museum.

  It was, in Herr Kirschenbaum’s long-ago humorous description, ‘a still life of the naturalistic school’.

  By that he meant that it was solid and substantial and that it never altered. Even the rich smell – of coffee, tobacco and scrubbed draining boards – was unique. There was no longer any real coffee, only a watery substitute, but the smell lingered. Herr Wolmer himself may have been dour, but he was rarely disagreeable. One had to make no effort: the janitor was always the same. The view through the yellowed lace curtains, with their embroidered scenes of peasant country life, was of the open area in front of the museum and the beginning of Fritz-Todt-Strasse – the tree-lined avenue on the other side of the modest museum garden with its iron benches. So very familiar – but familiarity turned into somewhere else and of a different time: Herr Hoffer sometimes imagined that this is how Lohenfelde must appear to a worker or a peasant. He liked to sit there every now and again, sipping from one of Herr Wolmer’s chipped cups, talking about guttering or hot-water pipes or the electricals. The little room had never been any other way, obviously. The museum had been built around it, as Herr Kirschenbaum would joke, long ago: it was everyone’s homeland. All one needed was a clay pipe.

  Ein’feste Burg 1st unser Gott.

  ‘You back again, Herr Hoffer?’

  ‘My dear Herr Wolmer,’ he said, settling himself in the chair, ‘I admire your courage.’

  ‘What courage?’

  ‘That’s exactly it. I have done the rounds, by the way. I came up to see if you are alright.’

  ‘Have you done the attics?’

  ‘Ah, no. Would that be a good idea?’

  ‘Incendiaries. They’re using incendiaries and phosphorus, the bastards. One exploded in the street. I saw it bounce. You never know, one might have lodged itself in the attics.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it might.’

  Herr Wolmer folded the newspaper and placed it on the table before him like a precious relic.

  ‘Don’t worry, Herr Hoffer, I’ll check the attics myself, in a little bit. It’s a long way up, and you can’t be in two places at once.’ He adjusted his spiked helmet, which was a little big for him. ‘No need for you to go.’

  ‘Your place is here, Herr Wolmer.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Herr Hoffer, I’ll do the attics.’

  Herr Hoffer’s heart sank. He would have to check the attics himself, he couldn’t let Herr Wolmer limp all that way up and abandon his post. The museum had three distinct portions, in its architectural clutter, where the roof sloped steeply and encased a veritable kingdom of attics – lofty beamed attics in the tradition of the Swabian farmhouse (the architect hailed from Swabia) – as if hay might one day be stored in them. The glass-roofed Long Gallery was a converted attic, in fact: the others, higher by a floor, were dark and dusty and full of mice and spiders. No paintings had ever been stored in them. The thought of an incendiary bursting into flame between all that dry tinder gave Herr Hoffer the shivers.

  ‘Would we have heard a shell coming in through the roof?’

  ‘Of course not. Would’ve gone through the tiles like a knife through butter.’

  ‘Don’t mention butter, Herr Wolmer. I give our weekly thimbleful to the girls.’

  ‘That’s good o
f you, Herr Hoffer.’

  ‘Do you think they’ve stopped shelling us, Herr Wolmer? It seems to be quieter. It seems to be further off. Maybe it was a false alarm and they’re not –’

  ‘That’s where the SS boys are, I reckon,’ Herr Wolmer interrupted, cocking an ear. ‘They wouldn’t waste their shells on civilians. What they don’t know,’ he added with a chuckle, ‘is that here’s the Wehrmacht, ready to die for the Fatherland.’

  Herr Wolmer was jabbing a finger at Herr Hoffer, who nodded lamely.

  ‘I don’t think that’ll be enough excuse to shell us, Herr Wolmer. You see, I don’t want the museum to be hit.’

  ‘Of course not, Herr Hoffer.’

  ‘We need the museum for future generations. I know it’s got very little left in it, but it’s still the museum, and it’s a marvellous place.’

  ‘That goes without saying, Herr Hoffer.’

  ‘A really marvellous place. So if the worst comes to the worst, it might be sensible to put out a white flag and surrender, for the sake of the museum, Herr Wolmer.’

  Herr Wolmer stared at the Acting Acting Director from behind the large, old-fashioned Kaiser moustache. It was not a friendly stare. Then he rose stiffly and opened the door of the broom-cupboard and took out a rifle. He placed it on the table next to the folded newspaper, almost knocking Herr Hoffer’s nose with the muzzle. It was an old rifle, Herr Hoffer saw that straight away. But it was still a rifle. Even an old rifle could kill. Even an old rifle in the hands of an elderly man could kill. The Americans wouldn’t think twice. Everyone knew the rules: anything put to defensive uses becomes a legitimate target. Churches, schools, museums. Even hospitals, in certain cases. Orphanages. He wasn’t sure where the likes of Dresden fitted into all this, but no doubt there was some brutal military justification. The metal gleamed with grease and the wooden stock shone with oil.

  ‘That’s very impressive, Herr Wolmer. But as the person in charge of the museum, with responsibility for the building, I must forbid you to show any armed resistance to the invader. The gesture would be futile and possibly disastrous for the establishment in my charge. Think of Strasbourg Cathedral in 1870. We only bombed it because the French erected an observatory for artillery officers on the tower –’

  ‘What rank are you, Herr Hoffer?’

  ‘What rank?’

  The janitor tapped his own Volkssturm armband. It was a fetching yellow and orange, the eagle and the letters stitched very neatly by Frau Wolmer, a professional seamstress. In terms of quality of armband, Herr Wolmer ranked higher.

  Herr Hoffer sighed.

  ‘I am a private,’ he said, ‘not even first-class. But I can’t take that seriously. I’m not a member of the Wehrmacht, I’m a private citizen wearing a silly armband. That’s the truth, Herr Wolmer. Do with it what you will.’

  Herr Hoffer pulled off the armband, wincing when it passed over his injured hand, and tossed it onto the table.

  ‘It’s meaningless,’ he said. ‘Here all that counts is my position within the museum, and in that position I am asking you, Herr Wolmer, not to commit suicide.’

  Herr Wolmer, a large man when standing up, seemed to expand even further, filling one side of his room. His face was turning red.

  ‘I’ve had enough of bloody armbands,’ Herr Hoffer went on, warming to his theme over the pounding of his heart. ‘I’ve had enough of armbands and uniforms and badges. Look where they’ve got us. Without these ridiculous bits of cloth, National Socialism would have gone nowhere. That’s what’s led to this catastrophe, Herr Wolmer – bloody bits of ornamental cloth! The dressing-up box!’

  He actually thumped the table. He didn’t know why he was talking like this. It was Herr Wolmer’s room: this little, cosy room made him inspired. He couldn’t bear to see Herr Wolmer ruining it all out of stupidity and pride and misplaced patriotism. The rifle lay between them, neither on one side nor the other. It looked light, but Herr Hoffer knew it was heavy. It smelt of oil, naturally. It could kill a man. Such things couldn’t be wished away. He dared to look the janitor in the eye. The janitor was crying. At least, his face was crumpled up behind the big moustache and the eyes were shiny with moisture. This astonished Herr Hoffer. He didn’t know what to say, now, but felt pleased that his speech had moved Herr Wolmer to that extent.

  Then Herr Wolmer said, ‘Herr Hoffer, you’re a traitor. A traitor to your country. You do not wish to defend the Fatherland against the foreigners. I don’t care a fuck for those tin-assed jumped-up pricks as went and emptied this place of its valuables, Herr Hoffer, but I do care for my country. I never thought to hear a man say what you’ve just said, Herr Hoffer. Even in the trenches, in the muck and filth and cold, never did I hear such a terrible thing as what you’ve just said to me, Herr Hoffer.’

  Herr Hoffer felt his whole body go cold and then hot. His face was on fire. It was a flush of shame, beyond the control of his mind. This was dreadful. He got up to leave, incapable of any coherent reply, but Herr Wolmer snatched up the rifle.

  ‘Herr Wolmer,’ came a faint voice that Herr Hoffer recognised was his own, ‘what are you doing?’

  ‘Running you in.’

  ‘Please, stop pointing that gun at me.’

  ‘You’re a deserter,’ said Herr Wolmer, nodding at the crumpled armband on the table. ‘Untrue to the colours. A capital offence. I’m only doing my duty.’

  ‘The Americans have thrashed us all the way from France to Lohenfelde, Herr Wolmer. I am not armed. I don’t have a uniform. They have tanks, machine-guns, grenades, bazookas, shells. My commanding officer was last seen pedalling off on his bicycle. I do not wish to commit suicide. Now I am going to do my duty and inspect the attics.’

  The gun wavered. It could so easily go off, thought Herr Hoffer. It was pointing at his stomach. In the silence, his stomach made a squealing, digestive noise. If the gun were to go off, his entrails would splash the whole room with red and brown and perhaps pink. Herr Wolmer’s hands were not steady. His gnarled finger was on the trigger. This would be a truly terrible way to go. There was a sudden gunshot and Herr Hoffer hit his head on the table as he fell.

  I am reading Rilke. The one who shows his tongue brought it to me. ‘If I shrieked out in pain, who would hear me from amongst the angels?’

  36

  He had to find someone in the unit like Harry Scholl, who could speak Heini, or maybe a German who could translate into English – but he didn’t want another person around just now.

  Cut it out, he thought. Every fucking honest Joe looted stuff like beer and cognac and eggs or enemy equipment for souvenirs, but only the Muscovites were criminal and stole antique paintings or whatever because they were no better than the Fascists. That was punishable, stealing works of art. It was not what a modern infantryman did. Hyena of the battlefield. He could see the court martial, the ranked officers of the tribunal, as if it had already been decided. There were art experts with the advance units, apparently, who would testify that he, Corporal Parry, had not consulted them over his find. He didn’t give a shit for those art experts, who had not exactly made their presence known but were probably, as a Brit would say, cosy base wallahs. They did not deserve to be cradling any woman or climbing out of any vaults with what seven months of fighting had brought him as a slim reward. They had no doubt kept their smooth thoughts smooth and spoke like schoolgirls with a lisp, but he had not. He had been roughened to the point where –

  She was looking at him. Then she hid her face in his chest again.

  Brother, I need to think. First, I need to get that nice salvage wrapped up and in my pack and out of sight. If I am hit and wounded or worse, then maybe things will get complicated, but I guess I’ll have other priorities in that kind of situation.

  She was quieter now in his arms, and he felt like he was cheating on the dead husband with the spectacles only because the weight of her against his body was exciting him. Her hip was positioned on his crotch and it was getting agreeable. If only the air ev
erywhere didn’t smell of sewage.

  She was melting into him and she was relaxing. Her breasts were company, they were crushed against his upper ribs, he could see even in the darkness how the buttons on the front of her dress were undone far enough that her low undergarment was showing. He only had to place a hand there and feel the firmness, the nub of the nipple through the thin white cotton. He had wasted so much time, before Maureen had come along. He had been in this position of intent so many times and then Sophie McConnell would appear with her messed-up face and glowing eyes and he had felt dry hair deep in his throat and turned numb and retreated. So much time had he wasted and he was never sure how much time was even left and he had his mouth open now.

  She must be able to feel his surprise right now, he thought. That’s what Maureen called it. They had borrowed her friend’s Studebaker one evening and driven out beyond Water Street to the first clean woods and because it was cold they had stayed in the car and there were dog hairs on the rear seat and she lay face downwards out of modesty and she said, when she felt it under her skirts, that it was a helluva surprise. That was afterwards she had said that, when she was refashioning her lipstick mouth.

  Now his surprise was pressing against another woman’s bone of the hip, but she didn’t move. She was breathing deeply, but he saw with a kind of shock how her eyes were open – the glow from the far-off fire was enough to see her eyes and they were gleaming with wetness. Her fingers were over her mouth, like an infant sucking on its knuckles.

  He felt bad, now, about his sexual excitement.

  The animal in him was struggling against the sympathetic human being. He’d read a book about it recently: the way our brains are divided between the old ape or caveman part and the more sophisticated section on the top. There was this perpetual struggle going on since the dawn of humankind. He guessed Hitler and the Nazis had brains that were mainly given over to the ape or caveman part. Maybe it was because Europe had the cavemen way before America, who only had the Indians; even his own Apache forebears were way more recent than the first Europeans.