Now he couldn’t see them at all, just their white smocks at the periphery of his vision. He heard exactly what they were saying.
“So you don’t think it has anything to do with this injury?”
“Definitely not,” said the ward MO; he opened the medical history again, papers rustled. “Definitely not. It’s only a trifling scalp wound—very minor. Healed in five days. Nothing—not a trace of the usual symptoms of concussion, not a thing. I can only assume it was shock—or …” He broke off.
“What were you going to say?”
“I’m not going to stick my neck out.”
“Go on—tell me.”
It was annoying that both the doctors should remain silent, they seemed to be exchanging some kind of signals—then the younger one burst out laughing. Bressen hadn’t heard a word spoken. Then both doctors laughed. He was glad when the two soldiers came in accompanied by a third with his arm in a sling.
“Feinhals,” the ward medical officer told him, “take the briefcase out to the ambulance. The heavy bags will be sent on later,” he called to the stretcher bearers.
“Are you serious?” asked the other doctor.
“Absolutely.”
Bressen felt himself being lifted up and carried off; the picture of the Virgin slipped away to his left, the wall came closer, then the window frame outside in the corridor, again he was swung—he looked into the long corridor, one more swing, and he closed his eyes: outside the sun was dazzlingly bright. He was relieved when the ambulance door closed behind him.
III
There were a great many sergeants in the German army—with enough stars to decorate the sky of some thick-witted underworld—and a great many sergeants called Schneider, and of these quite a number who had been christened Alois, but at this particular time only one of these sergeants called Alois Schneider was stationed in the Hungarian village of Szokarhely; Szokarhely was a compact little place, half village, half resort. It was summer.
Schneider’s office was a narrow room papered in yellow; on the door outside hung a pink cardboard sign on which was printed in black India ink: DISCHARGES, SGT. SCHNEIDER.
The desk was so placed that Schneider sat with his back to the window, and when he had nothing to do he would get up, turn around, and look out onto the narrow dusty road leading on the left to the village, and on the right, between cornfields and apricot orchards, out into the puszta.
Schneider had almost nothing to do. Only a few seriously wounded men still remained in the hospital; all those fit to be moved had been loaded into ambulances and taken away—and the rest, the walking wounded, had been discharged, loaded onto trucks, and taken to the redeployment center at the front. Schneider could look out of the window for hours on end: outside, the air was close, muggy, and the best remedy for this climate was pale-yellow apricot schnapps mixed with soda water. The schnapps was mildly tart, as well as cheap, pure, and good, and it was very pleasant to sit by the window, look out at the sky or onto the road, and get drunk. Intoxication was a long time coming, Schneider had to fight hard for it; it was necessary—even in the morning—to consume a considerable quantity of schnapps in order to reach a state in which boredom and futility became bearable. Schneider had a system: in the first glass he took only a dash of schnapps, in the second a bit more, the third was 50:50, the fourth he drank neat, the fifth 50:50 again, the sixth was as strong as the second, and the seventh as weak as the first. He drank only seven glasses—by about ten-thirty he was through with this ritual and had reached a state he called raging soberness, a cold fire consumed him, and he was armed to cope with the boredom and futility of the day. The first discharge cases usually turned up shortly before eleven, most of them around eleven-fifteen, and that still gave him almost an hour to look out onto the road, where from time to time a cart, drawn by lean horses and churning up a lot of dust, would race past on its way to the village; or he could catch flies, conduct ingenious dialogues with imaginary superiors—sarcastic, terse—or maybe sort out the rubber stamps on his desk, straighten the papers.
About this time—around ten-thirty—Schmitz was standing in the room containing the two patients on whom he had operated that morning: on the left, Lieutenant Moll, aged twenty-one, looking like an old woman, his peaked face seemed to be grinning under the anesthetic. Clouds of flies swarmed over the bandages on his hands, squatted drowsily on the blood-soaked gauze around his head. Schmitz fanned them away—it was hopeless, he shook his head and drew the white sheet as far as he could over the sleeping man’s head. He began pulling on the clean white smock he wore on his rounds, buttoned it slowly, and looked at the other patient, Captain Bauer, who seemed to be gradually coming out of the anesthetic, mumbling indistinctly, his eyes closed; he tried to move but couldn’t, he was strapped down, even his head had been firmly tied to the bars at the head of the bed—only his lips moved, and now and again it looked for a moment as if he were about to open his eyelids—and he would start mumbling again. Schmitz dug his hands into the pockets of his smock and waited—the room was shadowy, the air fetid, there was a slight smell of cow dung, and even with closed doors and windows there were swarms of flies; at one time cattle had been kept in the basement beneath.
The captain’s sporadic, inarticulate mumbling appeared to be taking shape; now he was opening his mouth at regular intervals and seemed to be uttering one single word, which Schmitz could not understand—an oddly fascinating mixture of E and O and throaty sounds—then all of a sudden the captain opened his eyes. “Bauer,” cried Schmitz, but he knew it was no use. He stepped closer and waved his hands in front of the captain’s eyes—there was no reflex. Schmitz held his hand close to the captain’s eyes, so close that he could feel the man’s eyebrows on his palm: nothing—the captain merely went on repeating his incomprehensible word at regular intervals. He was looking inside himself, and no one knew what was inside. Suddenly he uttered the word very distinctly, sharply articulated as if he had learned it by heart—then again. Schmitz held his ear close to the captain’s mouth. “Byelyogorshe,” said the captain. Schmitz listened intently, he had never heard the word and had no idea what it meant, but he liked the sound of it, it was beautiful, he thought—mysterious and beautiful. Outside all was quiet—he could hear the captain’s breathing, he looked into his eyes and with bated breath waited each time for the word: “Byelyogorshe.” Schmitz looked at his watch, following the second hand—how slowly that tiny finger seemed to crawl across the watch face—fifty seconds: “Byelyogorshe.” It seemed to take forever for the next fifty seconds to pass. Outside, trucks were driving into the courtyard. Someone called out in the corridor. Schmitz remembered that the senior MO had sent a message asking him to do his rounds for him, another truck drove into the yard. “Byelyogorshe,” said the captain; Schmitz waited once more—the door opened, a sergeant appeared, Schmitz signaled impatiently to him to keep quiet, stared at the little second hand, and sighed as it touched the thirty. “Byelyogorshe,” said the captain.
“What is it?” Schmitz asked the sergeant.
“Time to make the rounds,” said the sergeant.
“I’m coming,” said Schmitz. He pulled his sleeve down over his watch when the second hand came to twenty and the captain’s lips had just closed—he stared at the man’s mouth, waited, and drew back his sleeve when the lips began to move. “Byelyogorshe”: the second hand stood exactly at ten.
Schmitz walked slowly out of the room.
That day there were no discharge cases. Schneider waited until eleven-fifteen, then went out to get some cigarettes. In the corridor he stopped by the window. Outside, the senior MO’s car was being washed. Thursday, Schneider thought. Thursday was the day for washing the senior MO’s car.
The building was in the form of a square open toward the rear, toward the railway. In the north wing was Surgery, in the center Administration and X-ray, in the south wing kitchen and staff quarters, and at the far end a suite of six rooms occupied by the administrator. This compl
ex had once housed an agricultural college. At the rear, in the large grounds running straight across the open side, were shower rooms, stables, and model plantations, neatly defined beds containing all kinds of plants. The grounds and orchards went all the way down to the railway, and sometimes the administrator’s wife could be seen riding there with her small son, a six-year-old straddling a pony and yelling. The administrator’s wife was young and pretty, and whenever she had been playing with her son at the end of the grounds she would call in at the administration office and complain about the unexploded shell lying down there by the cesspool, in her view extremely dangerous. She was invariably assured that something would be done about it, but nothing ever was.
Schneider stood by the window watching the senior MO’s driver painstakingly performing his duties; although he had been driving and looking after this car for two years, he was obeying the rules and had spread the lube chart out on a crate, had put on his fatigues, and stood surrounded by pails and oilcans. The senior MO’s car was upholstered in red leather, and very low-slung. Thursday, thought Schneider, Thursday again. In the calendar of routines, Thursday was the day for washing the senior MO’s car. He greeted the fair-haired nurse hurrying past him and walked a few steps to the canteen door, but the door was locked.
Two trucks drove into the yard and parked well away from the MO’s car. Schneider continued to look out of the window: at that moment the girl who brought the fruit drove into the yard. She held the reins herself, seated on an upturned crate, and drove her little cart carefully between the vehicles toward the kitchen. Her name was Szarka, and every Wednesday she brought fruit and vegetables from one of the nearby villages. People came with fruit and vegetables every day, the paymaster had a number of suppliers, but on Wednesdays only Szarka came. Schneider was quite sure about this: many a time he had interrupted his work on a Wednesday about ten-thirty, gone over to the window, and stood there waiting until the dust cloud stirred up by her little cart at the side of the avenue leading to the station came in sight, and he always waited until she came closer, until he could make out the little horse through the dust cloud, then the cartwheels, and finally the girl with the pretty oval face and the smile around her mouth. Schneider lighted his last cigarette and sat down on the windowsill. Today I’m going to speak to her, he thought, and at the same instant he thought of how every Wednesday he thought, Today I’m going to speak to her, and that he never had. But today he would for sure. There was something about Szarka that he had felt only in the women here, in these girls from the puszta, girls who were always shown in movies as hot-blooded, capering ninnies. Szarka was cool, cool and of an almost impalpable tenderness; she behaved tenderly toward her horse, toward the fruit in her baskets: apricots and tomatoes, plums and pears, cucumbers and paprikas. Her gaily painted little cart slipped in between the greasy oilcans and crates, stopped at the kitchen, and she tapped her whip on the window.
Generally at this hour of the day all was quiet indoors. The MO was making his rounds, spreading a mood of anxious solemnity, everything was tidy, and an indefinable tension could be felt in the corridors. But today there was a restless hubbub, everywhere doors were being banged, people were calling out. Schneider was somehow aware of this at the edge of his consciousness; he smoked his last cigarette and watched Szarka negotiating with the mess sergeant. Normally she negotiated with the paymaster, who tried to pinch her behind—but Pratzki, the mess sergeant, was a slightly built, practical fellow, a bit high-strung, who was an excellent cook and reputed to have no use for women. Szarka seemed to be urging him, gesticulating, mostly the gesture for paying, but the cook merely shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the main building, to the very spot where Schneider was sitting. The girl turned and looked almost straight at Schneider; he jumped off the windowsill and heard his name being called in the corridor: “Schneider, Schneider!” There was a moment’s silence, and again someone shouted, “Sergeant Schneider!” Schneider gave one more glance outside: Szarka took her little horse by the bridle and led it toward the main building; the MO’s driver was standing in a large puddle folding up his lube chart. Schneider walked slowly toward the office, thinking of many things before he reached it: that he must speak to the girl today, whatever happened, that the MO’s car couldn’t be washed on a Wednesday—and that it was out of the question for Szarka to come on a Thursday.
He was met by the retinue accompanying the medical officer on his rounds. It emerged from the big ward, now almost empty; white smocks, a few nurses, the ward sergeant, the orderlies, a mute procession led not by the senior MO but by Schmitz, a noncommissioned medical officer, a man who was seldom heard to speak. Schmitz was short and plump and nondescript-looking, but his eyes were cool and gray, and sometimes, when he lowered the lids for an instant, he seemed about to say something, but he never did. The retinue dispersed as Schneider reached the office; he saw Schmitz approaching, held open the door for him, and the two men walked into the room together.
The sergeant major had his ear to the receiver. His broad face wore a look of annoyance. He was just saying, “No, sir,” then the senior MO’s voice was audible through the receiver, the sergeant major looked at Schneider and the noncommissioned MO, gestured to the latter to take a seat, and smiled as he looked at Schneider. Then he said, “Yes, sir; very well, sir,” and replaced the receiver.
“What’s up?” asked Schmitz. “I take it we’re getting out of here.” He opened the newspaper lying in front of him, flipped it shut again immediately, and looked over the shoulder of Feinhals, who was sitting beside him. Schmitz regarded the sergeant major coolly. He had seen that Feinhals was preparing a map of the surrounding area. SZOKARHELY BASE was printed across the top.
“Yes,” said the sergeant major, “we’ve orders to redeploy.” He was trying to remain calm, but there was a nasty glint in his eyes as he looked at Schneider. And his hands were trembling. He glanced at the crates, painted army-gray, stacked along the walls; with their lids open they could be used as lockers or desks. He still did not offer Schneider a chair.
“Give me a cigarette, Feinhals, till I can get some more,” said Schneider. Feinhals got up, opened the blue pack, and held it out to Schneider. Schmitz took one too. Schneider stood leaning against the wall, smoking.
“I know,” he said into the silence. “I’ll be with the rear unit. It used to be the advance unit.”
The sergeant major flushed. The sound of a typewriter came from the next room. The telephone rang, the sergeant major lifted the receiver, gave his name, and said, “Very well, sir—I’ll have them sent over for signature.”
He replaced the receiver. “Feinhals,” he said, “go over and see if the order of the day is ready.” Schmitz and Schneider exchanged glances. Schmitz looked at the desk and opened the newspaper again. HIGH TREASON TRIAL BEGINS, he read. He flipped the paper shut again immediately.
Feinhals returned with the clerk from the next room. The clerk was a pale, fair-haired noncom with fingers stained from smoking.
“Otten,” Schneider called out to him, “will you be opening up the canteen again?”
“Just a moment, if you don’t mind,” said the sergeant major, furious. “I’ve got more important things to do right now.” He drummed on the desk with his fingers while the clerk sorted the sets of paper. He turned the typed sheets facedown and pulled out the carbons. There were three sets, each consisting of two typed pages and four carbon copies. The typed sheets appeared to contain nothing but names. Schneider thought about the girl. Probably she was with the paymaster now, getting her money. He stepped closer to the window to get a better view of the gate.
“Don’t forget,” he said to Otten, “to leave us some cigarettes.”
“Shut up!” shouted the sergeant major.
He handed the papers to Feinhals, saying, “Take these over to the senior MO for signature.” Feinhals clipped them together and left the room.
The sergeant major turned to Schmitz and Schneider, but Schneider w
as looking out of the window. It was almost noon, and the road was empty; opposite was a large field where a market was held on Wednesdays: the littered stalls stood abandoned in the sunshine. So it is Wednesday, he thought, turning toward the sergeant major, who had a carbon copy of the order of the day in his hand. Feinhals had returned and was standing by the door.
“… will remain here,” the sergeant major was saying. “Feinhals has a sketch map of the place. This time everything’s to be done in battle order. A formality, as you know, Schneider,” he added. “You’d better round up a few men and have the weapons brought in from the infectious ward. The other wards have already been notified.”
“Weapons?” asked Schneider. “Is that a formality too?”
The sergeant major flushed again. Schmitz took another cigarette from Feinhals’s pack. “I’d like to see the list of wounded. Will the senior MO be leading the advance unit?”
“Yes,” said the sergeant major, “he’s the one that drew up the list.”
“I’d like to see it,” said Schmitz.
Once more the sergeant major flushed. Then he reached into the drawer and handed Schmitz the list. Schmitz read it through carefully, saying each name quietly over to himself; there was silence in the room, no one said anything, they were all looking at the man reading the list. Outside in the corridor there was a commotion. They all jumped as Schmitz suddenly cried out, “Lieutenant Moll and Captain Bauer, for Christ’s sake!” He flung the list onto the desk and looked at the sergeant major. “Any medical student knows that no patient is fit to travel an hour and a half after a serious operation.” He picked up the list from the desk and rapped the paper with his fingers. “I might just as well put a bullet through their heads as load them into an ambulance.” He looked at Schneider, then at Feinhals, then at the sergeant major and Otten. “They must have known yesterday that we were clearing out today—why wasn’t the operation postponed, eh?”
The Collected Stories of Heinrich Böll Page 21