I, too, was learning. These children and parents would once have known gardens, hotels, steamboats, mountains, had dreamt of becoming foresters, naturalists, pirates, doctors. Like my new associates, I myself expected little, so gained more.
Stories sufficed to rouse the listless and moribund. Stories of Forest Uncle and Margarita-Who-Grieves, of the Nail in the Sky and Heimdall’s nine mothers, stories of magic pipers and children’s crusades. Nothing sounded extraordinary or incredible to such a class. I ransacked memories for anecdotes, however ludicrous, of Catherine and Potemkin, Hamlet and Gotz von Berlichingen of the Iron Hand. I told them of Pahlen and the crazed Tsar. Old and young enjoyed lurid distortions of the French Revolution: Danton rallying the thousands, Charlotte Corday carefully selecting a knife, the Queen, still young but grey and haggard, trussed in a cart while the crowd screamed insults, and apologizing to the executioner for stumbling on his foot. They were silenced, until some laughed, by Andersen’s tale of the widow boasting that her son would be a king: the boy joined the 1848 revolutionaries invading the palace and was killed, his body lying bleeding on the satin, gold, lilies of the throne of France.
Once Wilfrid joined them, sitting beneath me on the floor, while I struggled to make them feel part of history, in a seamless Europe, linked to Bretons crouching in woods, the unlucky victimized by the Law of Suspects. Terror swirling in narrowing circles, profiteers fatly toasting success.
With Wilfrid I ventured no familiarity, no slang of intimacy. Like the Herr General, he was saviour from the unknowable, though himself seldom lacking words, enjoying questions as if sincerely expecting useful responses. ‘Tell me, Erich, after your French experiences … you made us feel you had witnessed them … Would you say that we, too, are endangered by innocent rogues?’
Inexperienced, gullible, needing a hero, I marvelled at his refusal to be discouraged by disappointments and let-downs, his façade of accepting setbacks as minor pleasantries necessary for experiments unreliable as surgery under siege conditions. I myself was too easily hurt by ruffian contempt, tyro mistakes, accidents, by the constant swindles and cruelties. As if brooding over something more important, Wilfrid would relieve me by suggesting I accompany him to settle a dispute, tend some suppurating gash – a tactful gesture for which I was not always grateful.
His office-bedroom-committee-room had several cupboards filled with books, a folio of Picasso drawings, another of those by himself, of woodland pools, classical streets, a horse, not startling or exceptional but apt. Here suggestions, mishaps, achievements were discussed, inquests held and, thanks to the enigmatic Vello, wine enjoyed. Women were the more talkative, also the more dependable, as we perched or lay under a cracked glass dome, between blotched murals of Riviera beaches, flowery waves, trim bodies, pointillistic sunlight. It was a bright refuge in a shantytown slum. More books were stacked on planks and under the bed, itself set on rough logs. A small granite Bodhisattva sat, rather smug, between bound Beethoven scores. Children contrived to bring dusty sunflowers, plantain leaves, even bundles of grass, which Wilfrid arranged as precisely as he might gifts from Aladdin, reminiscent of Mother receiving exquisite roses, cool lilies, lyrics of hothouse or the most sumptuous Reval florist. I heard that Vello, as though in grudging attempt at humour in riposte to Wilfrid’s own, had once dumped on the table what was a treasure trove here, a large casket of cigarettes, knowing of course that he never smoked. For this token of brigandage two Acrobats had died fighting the van driver. A girl, dirty mouth thick with malice, then told me she had seen my ghost.
After one wearisome day, when I brought him a report of the imminent capture of Berlin, which he heard in disconcerting silence, I lingered, flinching from a return to the stink of urine, famished dogs, illness. As if from the air, he produced a dusty bottle, nodded as if I had consented to join him, handed me a full glass, pouring himself another, though giving it only an occasional sip, to keep me in countenance. Reaching for a book, he read me, ‘A thrice-wise speech sleeps in a foolish ear’, looking across at me for criticism that of course did not come. ‘Would you not say, Erich, that, in whatever disguise, Dionysus has driven us here, tempting us beyond ourselves. From ecstatic delirium down to literal earth? But, in our own sort of freedom, unappetizing save to philosophers of an unenviable school and to self-wounding poets, we should surely give ear to the opportunities offered by poor, unimaginative, suffering Pentheus.’
That I did not recognize the allusion he affected not to notice, and at once refilled my glass, which I had hurriedly emptied through nervousness.
‘As you know, the Chinese respect the concept of sha, a current of destructive energy invading human affairs, a cousin, sometimes closer, of feng-shui. It roams at will, upsetting our plans, relationships, pride. It need not, I suppose, always travel far to do so.’ His small smile suggested a joke withheld only to titillate. ‘Sha is fallible …’ Pale, one eyebrow raised, oblivious to the outside rowdiness, he lifted his glass, laid it down. ‘It must move only straight forward. Like Romans, like the Little Caesars around us, engineering their own collapse. The Chinese, you remember, were more imaginative, building in criss-crosses, very crookedly, to avoid the unexpected. The irregular and sensitive could thus outwit the vigorous but undeviating sha.’
Was any of this true, or mere intellectual fooling, so often, the Herr General had said, the play of the second-rate? I could not decide but would always associate serenity with the complex simplicity of Chinese art. I would have thought Wilfrid’s personality sublime, had not Father once said that this word was usually followed by something foolish. I easily saw him in a kimono, fondling porcelain, examining the methodical entanglement within a Hangchow carpet, writing tiny odes to chrysanthemums and cassia trees, on ivory-coloured parchment, while, unobtrusively, governing a province. Physically, too, he had the near transparency of delicate jade, giving and receiving light. He could scarcely be impervious to suffering and fear but had, at whatever cost, relinquished his natural talents, themselves opaque and, from grotesque experiences, developed what he called ataraxia, emotional tranquillity. Reserved, he was never aloof, he delighted in the unforeseen: Vello’s cigarettes, a notoriously unpleasant child offering to walk with him, a girl, deeply withdrawn, possibly autistic, starting to dance, frantic, joyless but eager for attention.
Nodding at the squat, smiling figurine, he said, ‘That fellow would say that whoever fails to discriminate might as well be dead.’
A spade recalled Greg’s gritty farm, then the White Rose. Had Wilfrid heard of it? Unsurprised, he looked serious, then explaining that a White Rose was the emblem of Munich students, executed for attempting to rouse their fellows, who betrayed them, against the war.
Of the Herr General, I said nothing. Confused by loyalties, obligations, ignorance, I felt a risk in confiding these to anyone. Nor, for the moment, did this matter, as the Reich, in titanic explosions, reeled towards nowhere and the Gutter King poisoned his dog, his wife, then himself.
Amongst the Meinnenberg horde, this evoked no hysteria, only a stillness prolonged for hours, until from a tinny gramophone pre-war dance music began, weirdly shattering the uncanny hush.
Passen Sei, Mai auf, O Donna Clara,
Ich küsse, Ihre Hand, Madame,
Blume von Hawaii.
By evening, under the few oil-lamps, people collected in small, murmuring groups, some in pitiful attempt at ‘best clothes’, broken shoes replacing clouts, a frayed hat, several very soiled velvet jackets. They moved slowly, often halting, posing as if in a studio, their exchanges quiet, often incoherent. They were already having to confront the unknown but also, the Polish doctor maintained, quailing at homelessness, official inquiries, debt, nothingness. Freedom could renew not Terror but private terrors. The Führer had piped his children into the mountain, transformed them to rats, sent them home, where adults waited with axe and knife.
Throughout Germany, fallen gauleiters must be attempting to render themselves invisible or, like
Fouquier-Tinvilles, pleading blamelessness, begging to join the victors.
At Meinnenberg, a few signatures, some formal ceremonies for the moment ended nothing. Disease, scuffles, whimpers, rumours continued. In the haze of uncertainty and foreboding, some derelicts, though actually standing, appeared to be crouching. A number, indeed, had knelt in prayer, clutching wispy hopes. Vello loomed for an instant, angered by his own indecision, incapable of assessing the prevailing mood, then stalking back to his Wolf’s Lair.
Wilfrid displayed neither elation nor alarm, remaining the young-old Baldur with pale blue eyes, small smiles running in and out of a face smooth, as if polished. ‘So the one-legged no longer leads the dance. He, too, is at rest, if not, perhaps, at peace.’ His smile was complemented by ‘perhaps’, a favourite word.
Through a crackling transistor we all heard the new Führer, Grand Admiral Dönitz, appealing for national cohesion. No mention of the Reichsmarschall.
By the following week an order had arrived, crusted with unexplained initials, ordering us to await instructions. A general cleansing began, not for peace celebrations but for a wedding. On the day two dazed-looking Balts emerged, no longer youthful whatever their age, in tinsel finery, behaving to each other like strangers, a priest of unknown or no denomination officiating in a black overcoat too large for him. The groom had volunteered for the triumphant Wehrmacht, deserting when victories ceased. A drab procession formed, the bride mimed tears and protests, like an untidy puppet, attendants emitted calls in what Wilfrid considered Mordvin speech, which we were not ready to query, some gleeful, others ribald or as if warning. People desultorily waved rags dyed red, green, white, a carpenter interpreting these as traditional symbols of marriage. The priest mumbled, a hymn began, its melody famous throughout Europe, so that most responded, in a medley of tongues. Women placated the bride, rearranged her hair-ribbons, waved a small cross as if repelling unseen dangers. Wilfrid was invited to hand over gifts piled on a table: a tarnished brooch, a heap of potatoes, a broken comb, a purse, probably empty, a glass stopper, painted box, bronze oak-leaf, tattered, last-century fan, a bicycle saddle. With a fortitude I admired without envying, he kissed the lumpish bride, then shook hands with her man, presented a small parcel, while the pair were raucously acclaimed ‘Your Brilliances’. A mouth-organ began, then dancing, the performers jumping rather than gliding, as if soil had become too hot. Unwilling to suffer embarrassment, I did not join them, while noting that Wilfrid, competently though without fervour or jumping, passed a few steps with the bride, then bowed over her hand and was gone, a stage illusionist completing his act by vanishing into darkened air. The night was reported ending with the couple leaping naked over tongs laid between two fires, a ritual that might have reduced Wilfrid’s serenity to the sublime.
Expectations rapidly worsened. More refugees discovered us, bringing tales of Russians raping the very slaves they had liberated before storming Berlin. In the telepathy of drama we heard of abducted children killed, then sold on the black market as veal, unnerving me with hopes that Mother had died before being abandoned by friends who so amused her. The Herr General must have long perished at the Eastern Front.
Meinnenberg was in abeyance, ignored by the Russians, by Dönitz, and presumably unknown to the Allies. Newcomers were inclining more to Vello and his food supplies than to Wilfrid’s busybody committee. The Acrobats paraded their virile attractions and bribed more children to steal and spy. One woman howled that they had stolen her daughter, Friedl, bawling at those asserting that she had needed no compulsion. All agreed, however, that she had disappeared into Wolf’s Lair.What should be done?
I was more agitated by what might be done to myself. Nothing gracious could be expected from Russians to a German Balt, but Mother’s name might help me with the British, said to have reached Leipzig and Erfurt. The Estonian revolt, proclaiming independence, had been bloodily crushed by the Russians.
There was now, I thought, alarming likelihood of three victorious powers conflicting over Berlin. As for Friedl, I knew her slightly. She had once wandered into my class, giving me only a suggestive wink then only ostentatious yawns, daring me to rebuke or swear, though I was more tempted to strangle her.
In the inevitable discussions, we were nervy and quarrelsome. Some argued that she was a vicious young whore, best left to her natural associates. Others blamed the mother. I myself kept silent, though uncomfortable. An Austrian engineer, man of action, proposed a mass assault on Wolf’s Lair, which, incidentally rescuing Friedl, would, by eliminating a violent and irresponsible faction, ingratiate us with the Red Cross and any eventual liberators. A nurse objected that Friedl would be the first to suffer and that, more righteously, we should parley with Vello, flatter him into at least some compromise, the nature of which she did not reveal. Tacitly, I felt that in such an assault I myself, not the wretched Friedl, might be the first to suffer.
Midway down the table, Wilfrid also had not spoken, always disliking to appear managerial, usurping what was best left to others, an attitude condemned by his detractors as unctuously hypocritical. When at last appealed to, he was not indecisive but irritatingly reflective, thus evasive, though inducing a welcome quiet.
‘Assault? The war, has it not, made us, civilized Europeans that we are, ponder the extent to which government can be trusted with force. Quite a number of us, by now, are questioning the validity of authority itself. We are not unique in facing a moral dilemma that has perplexed the greatest minds, whether to behave badly on behalf of the greater good. Plato, Goethe, gave answers, some of them unpleasing.’
He made a wry half-shrug, acknowledging allusions pedagogic, in poor taste. Few of us had actually perceived a moral dilemma, though a practical solution was imperative. The brutal and barely sane deserved scant sympathy, Friedl only a mite more.
We might yet be stalled here many weeks, at the mercy of the Acrobats and weathercock Vello. Wilfrid said no more, majority vote opted for surrender of the girl in return for – nobody was quite sure. A handwritten testimonial of Vello’s uprightness, for presentation to officialdom? A feast to honour the Acrobats, though, as someone observed, they themselves must provide the food? Even Vello’s portrait to be undertaken by a decorator who was also an effective artist, a projection less absurd than it might appear. Such as Vello could be susceptible to an appeal to vanity, as they were to tunes, dancing, liquor.
Wilfrid did not vote, and we dispersed, conscious of having manufactured a formula, liberal but unlikely to achieve anything. He, I suspected, thought the same, while gazing as if into himself.
Next day I escaped a growing clamour and found him contemplating a crucifix of corded twigs given him by a querulous old woman, in reproach, reverence or as a talisman to repel devils. It made me feel both impatient and vaguely guilty. Seeing this, Wilfrid looked surprised, as though I had doubted the validity, not of government but of the alphabet or magnetism.
‘I tend to think Christianity is best honed down to three words, in, I think, St John: God is Spirit. Exactly. Though …’ he changed from austere commandant to teasing Hermes, ‘you may care to remind me of much the same uttered rather earlier, I seem to remember, by Xenophanes. Spirit is not, on evidence, all-powerful. Not God Almighty, but God Patient. It does not need praise or worship, only human co-operation. Even here, it flickers, never quite vanishes, is visible at work, on the dying, a croak attempting to be a song …’
His smile barely a twitch, he handled the crucifix as he might rare porcelain, his voice now fatigued, like his pallor and drooping shoulders.
‘One sees, of course, people praying, but too often this is wheedling, a trespass on human dignity. In Hebrew, you remember,’ – a trace of amusement showed he knew that I did not – ‘prayer is better understood not as a plea but as self-ramification, relating one’s needs to one’s deserts and, I suppose, to those of others. So, not useless hesitations but techniques to restore self-assurance, which, if not overcoming hell, at least softening
its impact.’
Rebelliously, I thought of Friedl, sacrificed in Wolf’s Lair and lost his next remark, until recalled by his sudden emphasis. ‘We, or at least I, know little of Jesus. A few months recalled with doubtful accuracy. Much is surely mythical, but in that, would you not say, is its credibility. Myth distils the essence, refines attitudes, sheds the topical or makes topical the past. Patterns standing the test of time. Therein lies not eternal life, for myself, if not, perhaps, for you, but life eternal, spirit eternal.’
He spread hands, apparently bored with propositions he considered drearily platitudinous. ‘Jesus’ comments may be cryptic, playful, paradoxical, untranslatable, sometimes mischievous … I see him as something of a comedian … at times bleak. But they linger. His opinion of our trouble over this girl might have sounded sardonic, indifferent, even callous. Or very simple, the wisdom of the wise booby, mystical ignoramus. The Saviour who outwits Attila and outlives Tamerlane, forgets the world is round and stands it on its head, reverses the rules, mocks the merely possible.’
He had resumed the playfulness ascribed to Jesus. ‘Meister Eckhart defines the mystic as one who, having stared into the heart of the sun, sees the sun in everything.’
As usual, he qualified any suggestion of the sententious by self-deprecation, equivalent of a wink. ‘Not everyone would agree. If they did, there would be less politics. And, dear Lord, fewer potatoes!’
Almost intimate, we moved to the window, and, for the first time, I realized myself the taller. I had always, in so many ways, looked up to him. Soon an old creature with alligator teeth loped past, using his stick as a crutch. Creakily, he bowed to Wilfrid in a way conforming to Wilfrid’s conception of Jesus, sardonic, mischievous, antagonistic to rules and suggestions. Other figures shuffled after him, and a woman’s voice called angrily to a child.
Secret Protocols Page 7