by Uwe Johnson
In October 1938, Hermann Liedtke complained to Cresspahl that he’d found his lunch nibbled at, as if by a cat, more than once. He had started bringing in sandwiches from home, preferring to take the money than eat at Cresspahl’s table. Cresspahl nailed the cat flap in the workshop door shut, but Liedtke could still show him bite marks in the bread, and they really did look like a cat’s. Cresspahl was on the point of handing out padlocks for the clothes lockers—some kind of fight among the workers was more likely than a cat, he thought—until one day he ran into the child in the empty workshop. She had pushed her chair back from the breakfast table, had seen Liedtke leave, and was now standing by his locker, gnawing carefully on his bread, so scared of being found out that she folded the wax paper back together with both hands after every miniscule bite. She was barely over three feet tall then, and she started in terror when she looked up and saw Cresspahl there. She held the little packet out to him, which was too awkward for her fingers, and said cringingly, sighing, eyes downcast: I didn mean to.
Lisbeth looked kindly at the child, who had been so ashamed to confess; but Lisbeth didn’t want to discuss it further. Cresspahl sent the child out of the room; Lisbeth didn’t want to discuss it. Looked him straight in the eye, undaunted, head held high, with the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth, as if Cresspahl wouldn’t understand her anyway, where she now was. He could have gotten it out of her by force: I’ve been fasting too, Cresspahl. He didn’t try to use force.
This time the silent treatment came from Cresspahl and lasted more than a week; he started taking the child with him to go shopping, or to the airfield, and when they ate at home the child would sit next to him, in Lisbeth’s place. He was deeply embarrassed when he held out food to the child and was given a shamelessly grateful look in return. In Jerichow people started talking about how he wanted to take the child away from Our Lisbeth, and after only three days Lisbeth asked him to leave the child with her, promised him “whatever you want, Heinrich,” but now Cresspahl liked having the child with him all day, especially liked talking to her, explaining his work to her. He went ahead and added locks to the lockers, and Hermann Liedtke had one more cat story to tell and never suspected the child, who now spent half the day patiently waiting under the workshop awning until the machines were turned off or Cresspahl stepped outside. Cresspahl kept the child with him, even though by that point he believed Lisbeth’s promises; later, he admitted he’d wanted revenge and said he wished he’d given in this time too.
Thank you, daughter
There’s nothing to thank me for.
Yes there is. For not telling Marie. Its almost like you can forgive me now I forgive you. I forgive you! I forgive you!
February 9, 1968 Friday
Sold out! Closed! Done for the day! Mrs. O’Brady says, bent down behind her counter and knowing only that she has another customer, not which one.
– Out of matches?
– No! Oh, it’s you, Gesine. Those goddamn pictures!: Mrs. O’Brady says, her coarse vigorous face flushed and pounding with blood, and mad about that too.
– No. Never filtered.
– Here! Here you go, something that can be damaging to your health! It was like the issues were going up in smoke—people were tearing them out of my hand!
– You can tell me, Mrs. O’Brady.
– Time magazine, Gesine! With the photos! That’s how some people get their kicks!
– Do you have the Time, Mrs. Williams, Amanda?
– Here’s the Time, Gee-sign! It’s unbelievable!: Amanda announces, so worked up that she slams rather than places the magazine on the table. She too is red in the face, talking in a higher pitch than usual, and faster too. But these aren’t naughty pictures, they are several pages of color photographs taken after the Vietcong attack on the American embassy in Saigon. Dick Swanson, working for Life, caught the moment when Ambassador Bunker in front of his bunker, a dignified white-haired gentleman with his hand in his pocket, was inspecting the enemy dead with his soldiers and staff. On his lawn lay two locals, one on his back looking almost relaxed, the other contorted, in a blood-soaked shirt, blood over his whole face too, not as red as the band on his right arm. Blood has flowed out onto the low round wall of the gigantic planter, a lush stain, with spatters at the edges. It’s a typical war photo, but Amanda can’t recover. – It’s against all good taste!: she says.
– It certainly is, Amanda.
– Isn’t it? Everything in its place, the war over there and home over here! If I’d seen that over breakfast I’d have spat out my food!
– Shouldn’t we know what the war is like, Amanda? Not just in black and white?
– That’s what you have to say, Gee-sign? You? I’ve known you for years, Mrs. Cresspahl, and I’ve never once heard you say something tasteless! You’re all about tact and reserve, it’s almost English, and now you’re telling me this?
– Not so loud, Amanda. The others will think we’re having a fight.
– We are! Imagine a woman with a son in Vietnam seeing that! Mrs. Agnolo seeing that! She’d practically collapse! And you’re all for it! Gee-sign!
– It’s calculated precisely!: says David Guarani, a proofreader, the elegant gentleman of his department, not much older than twenty-five but so confident in his technical knowledge of banking and in his inevitable promotion that he wasn’t even taken aback when de Rosny walked through his department and realized with utter amazement that Employee Guarani was comfortably draped over one and a half chairs reading his magazine while a man kneeled in front of him, salving his ankle boots. But even Guarani isn’t interested in discussing the fact that Barclays and Lloyds banks in London are planning a merger, perhaps tired of the war between their posters in the Underground, which would be a proper topic for an expert like himself. Martins Bank is involved too. No, Mr. Guarani has adopted his thinking posture, left hand behind a head held high, eyes veiled with relentless analyzing and classifying, right hand as though ready to write out the results.
– You think it’s innocent, Mrs. Cresspahl: he says charitably.
– I don’t think it’s innocent at all, David.
– Precisely. You hear me? Precisely. If these photographs are being published in this layout at just this moment, it means something!
– Selling more copies.
– No. Yes. Well. But. If dead Government Issues are being stacked on the tailgate of an armored vehicle in the middle of Saigon, all tangled together, arms and legs sticking out, heads hanging down, with the blood on them black as ink—
– Does that mean more than what it already is?
– That’s what I’m trying to say, Mrs. Cresspahl! It means that all the money behind Time magazine doesn’t believe what the government is saying about victory!
– It means that the Tet Offensive was a victory?
– And not just a psychological one, like the military commanders are saying! It means we’re not going to win this war, Mrs. Cresspahl.
– That would mean support for Kennedy then. That’s what he could run on.
– What do you mean, Kennedy. Our Kennedy? Robert Francis? Bugs Bunny of New York?
– Our senator from New York. Yesterday in Chicago he denied “any prospect” of a military victory.
– I didn’t know that.
– New York Times. Front page. Article on page 12.
– I guess I should read the politics section sometimes: says Mr. Guarani, finance expert. He says goodbye distractedly, remarking that it’s strange how much farther and faster your thoughts can go when you talk things out.
– If anything of the sort happens again . . . !: Mr. Shuldiner says in a threatening tone of voice. Today he cares even less about how Gustafsson’s fish salad tastes. He holds up his loaded fork for a minute at a time, contemplating, observing its cargo from various angles, until the whole of his next sentence finally comes to him.
– I do think it’s useful: he says.
– Sorry, Mr. Shuldin
er?
– Well, this poor dog of a GI hasn’t even realized he’s dead, his hand is still clutching his gun, and his two buddies are dragging him by the legs to the ambulance tank, without turning him over, his face is scraping through the sand and the rubble, and all this right in the middle of Saigon, at Tansonnhut Airport, where civilian airlines land too, you know. You just need a visa, Mrs. Cresspahl, and now you get out of the plane. . . .
– True, Mr. Shuldiner.
– This Mr. Guarani, this colleague of yours you told me about, isn’t he due for a tour in Vietnam?
– Half orphan. Only child.
– Ha!
– Weren’t you glad to serve in the army, Mr. Shuldiner?
– Only now do I realize how glad, Mrs. Cresspahl. Because I served my time when we were at peace. Or let’s say, half peace.
– And if anything of the sort happens again, Mr. Shuldiner?
– Ah. Sorry. I have days when I’m very confused, especially since the engagement.
– Maybe it wasn’t that important.
– Yes, it was. Do you know what I’d do then?
– No.
– That’s what I always say is so European about you, Mrs. Cresspahl. You pay such close attention to people’s words. It’s funny too.
– You “think it’s useful”?
– Yes. Now whoever wants to dodge the draft will take this issue of Time into the courtroom and enter these pictures as Exhibit A for the defense. And, if anything of the sort happens again, I’ll sell my war bonds, believe you me!
– You buy war bonds, Mr. Shuldiner?
– No. My fiancée is getting half of her dowry in war bonds. My new in-laws are very patriotic Jews.
– Doesn’t bother me: says Sam. His restaurant is almost empty by now, and he has time to chat with a fat, sour-faced guy in a leather jacket; they treat each other with such familiarity that they must be friends. The new issue of Time is sitting under the customer’s elbow, opened to the color pages, already heavily crumpled. Sam doesn’t like that John Stewart depicted a Government Issue who’d been shot, a black MP built like a bull, kneeling like a gorilla, glaring dully “at the enemy” from under his pink blood-soaked headband. He’s glaring at the camera, isn’t he, Sam points out. And instead of waiting out the seconds until the man keeled over dead, John Stewart could have been shooting with something other than his camera, now couldn’t he.
– If you’re going to do something then do it: the other man says. He seems extremely talented at keeping a conversation going without actually saying anything. It sounded like he was agreeing, but he could easily deny it.
– And anyway it’s fake: Sam says. He half pulls the magazine out from under the other man’s elbow, looks at the pictures, then puts them down. He gazes blearily, kindheartedly, at his bald friend, the gray wrinkles in his brow even closer together than usual, and says: The colors aren’t right. Ever seen a color photo with natural colors?
– Nah: the other man says. – Well, everyone’s got their own idea of what’s natural: he says.
– That’s right.
– Could still be true maybe.
– But it’s just one vivid second of the truth.
– And a vivid second of the truth is not just marketable property—
– it’s hot property: Sam says, clearly pleased that one of their pings was yet again answered with a pong. Then he notices Mrs. Cresspahl, who has come to pick up her afternoon tea, and he gently, affectionately, starts heaping abuse on her. The solitary customer buttons up his shabby leather jacket and, without turning around, slides off of his stool and heads out to the street.
– Seeya, Sam: he says.
– Take care: Sam calls after him; and now here it comes: I can’t believe you didn’t say anything, you turkey! Just stood around waiting till we were done gabbing! If I don’t notice you, gimme a good smack in the head! Thems the rules! Starting now! Tea, with lemon. Twenty cents! Thank you, Gesine. What a day, today.
– These Fridays.
– Right, Gesine. And now you go back to your cube, sit right down, and don’t do another thing. You’ve had enough for today too.
– Sleep well this weekend, Sam.
– You too.
– Hello?
– Mrs. Williams, Foreign Sales.
– Oh, I thought this was Cresspahl’s number.
– One moment, I’ll connect you.
– Hello?
– Yes?
– It’s Eileen.
– Eileen?
– See? You’ve been buying your damned cigarettes from me for two years and you still don’t know my first name. Eileen O’Brady.
– I didn’t want to intrude, Eileen.
– Quite all right, Gee-sign. Listen, I called around and got a new batch of Time. Should I set one aside for you?
– No thanks, Eileen, it’s all right. Wait! Eileen! Actually yes. Please do.
February 10, 1968 Saturday, South Ferry day
Eugene J. McCarthy, the Democratic senator from Minnesota who plans to run against the sitting president this fall, has been rebuked by the White House and the Pentagon for claiming that the military sought nuclear weapons for use in Vietnam.
Mr. McCarthy denies he said that; at most he said that it wouldn’t surprise him if some generals had been asking for nuclear weapons for use in Vietnam. A tape of his Boston TV interview includes these words: “Well, I expected that there would be a demand for the use of tactical nuclear weapons by someone. [Pause] As a matter of fact, there have been some demands for their use already.”
George Christian, the White House press secretary, was asked whether President Johnson had received a request from the Joint Chiefs of Staff to authorize the use of nuclear weapons if it became necessary.
Mr. Christian said that Mr. Johnson had considered no such decision.
Senator J. W. Fulbright, the Arkansas Democrat, asked Secretary of State Dean Rusk if he had any information about a report that a specialist in tactical nuclear weapons traveled to South Vietnam last weekend.
A spokesman responded that there was no substance to the report.
The St. Louis Post-Dispatch described reports that the United States has stockpiled tactical nuclear weapons in South Vietnam for use if the Communists threaten to overrun the allied forces at Khesanh.
High-ranking United States military officials said that the United States stockpiling nuclear weapons in such an unstable environment as Vietnam would be ridiculous and utterly foolish. If the United States ever did want to use atomic weapons, these officials said, the devices could be brought in with little delay.
On October 26, 1938, a Wednesday, the Luftwaffe took over Jerichow-North.
This time Johannes Schmidt of Johs. Schmidt Musikhaus did not request reimbursement for costs. He blared the rules and regulations for the day through town at his own expense, from a van specially fitted with loudspeakers. He wanted this to be seen as his contribution to the national honor. He spent all afternoon Tuesday driving up and down the streets in person, out into the villages too, proclaiming in his clumsy High German that all houses were to be beflagged, and that the thing would initiate at ten a.m.
At ten a.m. the number of people standing in Jerichow’s Market Square exceeded the town’s population. In the middle was a long rectangle of blinding white flagpoles wound around with garlands of fir. A police delegation from Gneez held back the throng from a weak fence, but old Creutz kept squirming through to admire his handiwork once again. Even right before the celebration began, he tied a loose garland back in place, openly cursing at the lunkheads who’d tried to damage his craftsmanly reputation. By which he meant the policemen, who hadn’t been all that careful, and since they were less carried away than he was, they reacted with smiles instead of a warning.
The Luftwaffe troops didn’t take the train all the way to Jerichow. Jansen had decided that Station Street was too narrow for an entrance of properly thundering magnificence; the soldiers
got off unobtrusively in Knesebeck, a station a mile or two outside of town, so that they could arrive as though out of nowhere. When they got to the brickworks, the band struck up the first march, “Der Hohenfriedberger.” There, where a path met the road, a man of about fifty was standing, holding a child’s hand, observing the newcomers without much excitement, with disdain if anything. Spurs on boot heels crashed and flashed on the surface of Town Street, and already local boys behind the parade were hunting for ones that had come off in the cobblestones. Girls in BDM uniforms were throwing flowers at the soldiers from the sidewalks. Papenbrock’s maid Edith craned her neck and sometimes tried to jump; she was laughing and cheering wildly and kept grabbing Stellmann’s arm. – No! No!: she cried, ruining two of his photographs. Behind the troops the windows slammed shut and the townsfolk came running out onto the street, to the market square, leaving the neighborhood deserted.
At thirty seconds to ten, the Blues arrived on Market Square in a square formation with the SA, the National Socialist Reich Veterans Association, and the Naval Storm Troopers. Friedrich Jansen, on the flag-draped dais, was the only one who knew why he was opening his mouth as if to give a speech, then shutting it, then opening it again. He had suddenly realized that Pastor Brüshaver actually dared to not ring the bells of St. Peter’s Church. In his fury, Friedrich Jansen pulled himself together and got a first word out of his mouth, though what it was remained unknown, for now the Catholics were pulling at their bell rope. However laborious it sounded, the effort produced little more than a tinkle that stopped at once, as if shocked. In just a few sentences Jansen worked himself into a frenzy. He spoke (measured; firm) of the happiness felt by the town at having its own garrison. How in the past they’d had to beg for soldiers (full of self-pity; threatening)! Now, though, the Führer, foreseeing—no, knowing—the wishes of his people, had bestowed them as a gift (preacherly, humble). When Jansen quoted from the National Prize winner Heinkel’s Rostock speech, he misspoke in his sacred awe and gave the current maximum possible airspeed as 900 kilometers per hour when Heinkel had said 700. – An next time a cowardly foe tries to take up arms agains’ the German people (pitying). – We wont turn a hair (Grand Hotel). – Dont give a fig about (university man, down to earth). – Then we’ll just say: Down, boy! (dog owner with Graves’ disease). – Sit! Stay! Silence!: he cried. Whenever he expelled the word “Luftwaffe,” spittle poured inexhaustibly forth, and he himself didn’t know what he was saying. When the time came for Georg Swantenius from Gneez, somewhat bittersweet with envy, to thank the Führer for this proud day in the name of the local party branch and district leadership, Jansen was still red in the face and panting. The next day, Stellmann sold more photographs showing Jansen in this condition than of any other subject.