The Collected Stories of Heinrich Böll

by Heinrich Böll

  Night jottings

  Strange dream, very strange: I was walking through a forest of monuments, straight rows of them; in little clearings there were miniature parks, each with a monument in the center; all the monuments were alike, hundreds, thousands of them: a man standing “at ease,” an officer to judge by the creases in his soft boots, yet the chest, face and pedestal of each monument were covered with a cloth—suddenly all the monuments were unveiled simultaneously, and I realized, without any particular surprise, that I was the man standing on the pedestal; I shifted my position on the pedestal, smiled, and now that the covering had dropped off I could read my name thousands of times over: Erich von Machorka-Muff. I laughed, and the laugh echoed back to me a thousand times from my own mouth.

  Tuesday

  Filled with a deep sense of happiness, I fell asleep again, woke refreshed, and laughed as I looked at myself in the mirror: it is only here in the capital that one has dreams like that. Before I had finished shaving, the first call from Inna. (That’s what I call my old friend Inniga von Schekel-Pehnunz, a member of the new nobility but an old family: her father, Ernst von Schekel, was raised to the aristocracy by Wilhelm II only two days before the latter abdicated, but I have no qualms about regarding Inna as a friend of equal rank.)

  On the phone Inna was—as always—sweet, managed to squeeze in some gossip and in her own way gave me to understand that the project which was the main reason for my visit to the capital was coming along very well. “The corn is ripe,” she said softly, and then, barely pausing: “The baby’s being christened today.” She hung up quickly, to prevent me from asking questions in my impatience. Deep in thought I went down to the breakfast room: had she really meant the laying of the foundation stone? My frank, forthright soldierly nature still has difficulty understanding Inna’s cryptic remarks.

  Again in the breakfast room this abundance of virile faces, most of them well-bred: I passed the time by imagining which man would be suitable for which post, an old habit of mine; before I had even shelled my egg I had already found first-rate material for two regimental staffs and one divisional staff, and there were still some candidates left over for the general staff; playing games in my head, so to speak—just the thing for a veteran observer of human nature like myself. The memory of my dream enhanced my pleasant mood: strange, to walk through a forest of monuments and to see oneself on every pedestal. I wonder whether the psychologists have really plumbed all the depths of the self?

  I ordered my coffee to be brought to the lobby, smoked a cigar and observed the time with a smile: 0956 hours—would Heffling be punctual? I had not seen him for six years, we had corresponded occasionally (the usual exchange of post cards one has with inferiors in the ranks).

  I actually found myself feeling nervous about Heffling’s punctuality; the trouble with me is, I am inclined to regard everything as symptomatic: Heffling’s punctuality became for me the punctuality per se of the ranks. I remembered with a touch of emotion what my old divisional chief, Welk von Schnomm, used to say: “Macho, you are and always will be an idealist.” (Memo: renew the standing order for upkeep of Schnomm’s grave.)

  Am I an idealist? I fell into a reverie, until Heffling’s voice roused me: I looked first at the time—two minutes after ten (I have always allowed him this microscopic reserve of privilege)—then at him: how fat the fellow’s got, grossly fat around the neck, hair getting thin, but still that phallic sparkle in his eyes, and his “Present, Colonel!” sounded just like old times. “Heffling!” I cried, slapping him on the shoulder and ordering a double schnapps for him. He stood at attention as he took the drink from the waiter’s tray; I drew him by the sleeve over to the corner, and we were soon deep in reminiscences: “Remember the time at Schwichi-Schwaloche, the ninth …?”

  It is heart-warming to observe how powerless the vagaries of fashion are to corrode the wholesome spirit of the people: the homespun virtues, the hearty male laugh, and the never-failing readiness to share a good dirty story, are still to be found. While Heffling was telling me some variations of the familiar subject in an undertone, I noticed Murcks-Maloche had entered the lobby and—without speaking to me, as arranged—had disappeared into the rear of the restaurant. By a glance at my wristwatch I indicated to Heffling that I was pressed for time, and with the sound instincts of the simple man he understood immediately that he had to leave. “Come and see us some time, Colonel, my wife would be delighted.” Laughing and joking we walked side by side to the porter’s desk, and I promised Heffling I would come and see him. Perhaps an opportunity would offer for a little adventure with his wife; every now and again I feel the urge to partake of the husky eroticism of the lower classes, and one never knows what arrows Cupid may be holding in store in his quiver.

  I sat down beside Murcks, ordered some Hennessy and, as soon as the waiter had gone, said in my straightforward fashion:

  “Well, fire away.”

  “Yes, we’ve made it.” He laid his hand on mine and whispered: “I’m so glad, Macho, so glad.”

  “I’m pleased too,” I said warmly, “that one of the dreams of my youth has come to pass. And in a democracy too.”

  “A democracy in which we have the majority of Parliament on our side is a great deal better than a dictatorship.”

  I felt constrained to stand up; I was filled with solemn pride; historic moments have always moved me deeply.

  “Murcks,” I said, choking back the tears, “is it really true then?”

  “It’s true, Macho,” he said.

  “It’s all settled?”

  “It’s all settled—you’re to give the dedication address today. The first course of instruction is starting right away. Those enrolled are still being put up in hotels, till the project can be officially declared open.”

  “Will the public—will it swallow it?”

  “It’ll swallow it—the public will swallow anything,” said Murcks.

  “On your feet, Murcks,” I said, “let’s drink a toast, let’s drink to the spirit to which this building is dedicated: to the spirit of military memories.”

  We clinked glasses and drank.

  I was too moved to undertake any serious business that morning; I went restlessly up to my room, from there to the lobby, wandered through this enchanting city, after Murcks had driven off to the Ministry. Although I was in civilians, I had the impression of a sword dangling at my side; there are some sensations which are really only appropriate when one is in uniform. Once again, while I was strolling through the city, looking forward to my tête-à-tête with Inna, uplifted by the certainty that my plan had become reality—once again I had every reason to recall one of Schnomm’s expressions: “Macho, Macho,” he used to say, “you’ve always got your head in the clouds.” He had said it when there were only thirteen men left in my regiment and I had four of those men shot for mutiny.

  In honor of the occasion I permitted myself an apéritif at a café not far from the station; I looked through some newspapers, glanced at a few editorials on defense policy, and tried to imagine what Schnomm—if he were still alive—would have said had he read the articles. “Those Christians—” he would have said, “who would have thought it of them!”

  At last it was time to go to the hotel and change for my rendezvous with Inna: her signal on the car horn—a Beethoven motif—made me look out of the window; she waved up at me from her lemon-yellow car: lemon-yellow hair, lemon-yellow dress, black gloves. With a sigh, after blowing her a kiss, I went to the mirror, tied my tie, and went downstairs; Inna would be the right wife for me, but she has been divorced seven times and, not unnaturally, is skeptical about the institution of marriage; besides, we are separated by a deep gulf in background and outlook: she comes from a strict Protestant family, I from a strict Catholic one—all the same, numbers link us together symbolically: she has been divorced seven times, I have been wounded seven times. Inna!! I still can’t quite get used to being kissed on the street.…

  Inna woke me
at 1617 hours: she had some strong tea and ginger biscuits ready, and we quickly went once more through the files on Hürlanger-Hiss, the unforgotten field marshal to whose memory we planned to dedicate the building.

  While I was examining the Hürlanger files once more, my arm around Inna’s shoulder, lost in daydreams of her gift of love, I heard the band music: melancholy overtook me, for, like all the other experiences of this day, to listen to this music in civilian clothes was truly an ordeal.

  The band music and Inna’s nearness diverted my attention from the files; however, Inna had filled me in verbally so that I was fully equipped to give my speech. The doorbell rang as Inna was pouring out my second cup of tea; I jumped, but Inna smiled reassuringly. “An important guest,” she said, returning from the hall, “a guest whom we cannot possibly receive in here.” There was a twinkle in her eye as she gestured toward the rumpled bed in all its delightful disarray of love. “Come along,” she said. I got out of bed, followed her in a kind of daze, and was genuinely surprised to find myself face to face in her living room with the Minister of Defense. His frank, rugged countenance was shining. “General von Machorka-Muff,” he said, with a beaming smile, “welcome to the capital!”

  I could not believe my ears. With a twinkle in his eye the Minister handed me my commission.

  I think, looking back, I must have swayed for a moment and suppressed a few tears; but actually I am not quite sure what was going on inside me; all I remember is hearing myself say: “But Your Excellency—the uniform—half an hour before the ceremony starts….” With a twinkle in his eye—what an admirable man he is, what sterling qualities!—he glanced at Inna, Inna twinkled back at him, drew aside a chintz curtain dividing off one corner of the room, and there it was, there hung my uniform, with all my decorations on it.… Events, emotions followed so thick and fast that looking back all I can do is give their sequence in note-form:

  We offered the Minister some refreshment and he had a glass of beer while I changed in Inna’s room.

  Drive to the building site, which I was viewing for the first time: I was extraordinarily moved by the sight of this piece of land on which my pet project is to become reality: the Academy for Military Memoirs, where every veteran from the rank of major up is to be given the opportunity of committing his reminiscences to paper, through conversations with old comrades and cooperation with the Ministry’s Department of Military History; my own feeling is that a six-week course should suffice, but Parliament is willing to subsidize a three-month course. I was also thinking of having a few healthy working-class girls housed in a special wing, to sweeten the evening leisure hours of the comrades who are plagued with memories. I have gone to a great deal of trouble to find appropriate inscriptions. The main wing is to bear in gold lettering the inscription: MEMORIA DEXTERA EST; while over the girls’ wing, which will also contain the bathrooms, will be the words: BALNEUM ET AMOR MARTIS DECOR. However, on the way there the Minister hinted that I should not mention this part of my plan just yet; he was afraid—perhaps rightly so—of opposition from some of his fellow members of Parliament, although—as he put it with a chuckle—no one could complain of lack of liberalization!

  There were flags all around the building site, the band was playing: I used to have a comrade, as I walked beside the Minister toward the platform. Since with his usual modesty the Minister declined to open proceedings, I stepped up at once onto the dais, surveyed the row of assembled comrades, and, encouraged by a wink from Inna, began to speak:

  “Your Excellency, comrades! This building, which is to bear the name Hürlanger-Hiss Academy for Military Memoirs, needs no justification. But a justification is required for the name Hürlanger-Hiss, a name which for many years—to this very day, I would say—has been regarded as dishonored. You all know the disgrace attaching to this name: when the army of Field Marshal Emil von Hürlanger-Hiss was obliged to retreat at Schwichi-Schwaloche, Hürlanger-Hiss could report a loss of only 8,500 men. According to the calculations of Tapir’s specialists in retreat—Tapir, as you know, was our private name for Hitler—his army should, with the proper fighting spirit, have had a loss of 12,300 men. You are also aware, Your Excellency and comrades, of the insulting treatment to which Hürlanger-Hiss was subjected: he was transferred in disgrace to Biarritz, where he died of lobster poisoning. For years—a total of fourteen years—this dishonor has attached to his name. All the data on Hürlanger’s army fell into the hands of Tapir’s underlings, later into the hands of the Allies, but today, today,” I cried, pausing so as to let my next words sink in, “today it can be taken as a proven fact, and I am prepared to make the material public, it can be taken as proven fact that our great Field Marshal’s army suffered losses at Schwichi-Schwaloche of a total of 14,700 men: it can therefore be assumed beyond any doubt that his army fought with unexampled courage, and his name is now cleared of all blemish.”

  While I let the deafening applause pour over me and modestly diverted the ovation from myself to the Minister, I had a chance to observe from the faces of my comrades that they too were surprised by this information; how discreetly Inna had carried on her research!

  To the strains of See’st thou the dawn in eastern skies I took the trowel and stone from the mason and set the cornerstone in place; it contained a photograph of Hürlanger-Hiss together with one of his shoulder-straps.

  At the head of my comrades I marched from the building site to the villa, “The Golden Shekel,” which Inna’s family has put at our disposal until the academy has been completed. Here we had a brisk round of drinks, a word of thanks from the Minister, and a telegram from the Chancellor was read out, before the social hour began.

  The social hour was opened by a concerto for seven drums, played by seven former generals; with the consent of the composer, a captain with musical aspirations, it was announced that it would be known as the Hürlanger-Hiss Memorial Septet. The social hour was an unqualified success: songs were sung, stories told, confidences exchanged, old quarrels forgotten.

  Wednesday

  We had just an hour to get ready for the church service; in relaxed marching order we made our way just before 0730 hours to the cathedral. Inna stood beside me in church, and I felt encouraged when she whispered that she recognized a colonel as her second husband, a lieutenant-colonel as her fifth, and a captain as her sixth. “And your eighth,” I whispered in her ear, “will be a general.” My mind was made up; Inna blushed; she did not hesitate when after it was over I took her into the vestry to introduce her to the prelate who had conducted the service. “Indeed, my dear child,” the priest said, after we had discussed the church’s position, “since none of your former marriages was solemnized in church, there is no obstacle to you and General von Machorka-Muff having a church wedding.”

  It was under these auspices that we had breakfast, in a gay mood, à deux; Inna was elated, I had never seen her quite like that. “I always feel like this,” she said, “when I am a bride.” I ordered champagne.

  We decided to keep our engagement a secret for the time being, but as a little celebration we drove up to the Petersberg, a lovely hill a few miles outside Bonn, where Inna’s cousin, whose maiden name was Pelf, had invited us for lunch. Inna’s cousin was adorable.

  The afternoon and evening were devoted entirely to love, the night to sleep.

  Thursday

  I still can’t quite get used to the idea that I am living and working here; it must be a dream! Gave my first lecture this morning: “Reminiscence as a Historical Duty.”

  Annoying interlude at midday. Murcks-Maloche came to see me at the villa on behalf of the Minister to report that the opposition had expressed itself dissatisfied with our academy project.

  “Opposition?” I asked, “what’s that?”

  Murcks enlightened me. I was astounded. “Let’s get this straight,” I said impatiently, “do we have the majority or don’t we?”

  “We do,” said Murcks.

  “Well then,” I said. Opposition�
��a strange word, I don’t like it at all; it is such a grim reminder of times that I thought were over and done with.

  Inna, when I told her at teatime about my annoyance, consoled me.

  “Erich,” she said, putting her little hand on my arm, “no one has ever opposed our family.”

  ACTION WILL BE TAKEN

  An Action-Packed Story

  Probably one of the strangest interludes in my life was the time I spent as an employee in Alfred Wunsiedel’s factory. By nature I am inclined more to pensiveness and inactivity than to work, but now and again prolonged financial difficulties compel me—for pensiveness is no more profitable than inactivity—to take on a so-called job. Finding myself once again at a low ebb of this kind, I put myself in the hands of the employment office and was sent with seven other fellow-sufferers to Wunsiedel’s factory, where we were to undergo an aptitude test.

  The exterior of the factory was enough to arouse my suspicions: the factory was built entirely of glass brick, and my aversion to well-lit buildings and well-lit rooms is as strong as my aversion to work. I became even more suspicious when we were immediately served breakfast in the well-lit, cheerful coffee shop: pretty waitresses brought us eggs, coffee and toast, orange juice was served in tastefully designed jugs, goldfish pressed their bored faces against the sides of pale-green aquariums. The waitresses were so cheerful that they appeared to be bursting with good cheer. Only a strong effort of will—so it seemed to me—restrained them from singing away all day long. They were as crammed with unsung songs as chickens with unlaid eggs.

  Right away I realized something that my fellow-sufferers evidently failed to realize: that this breakfast was already part of the test; so I chewed away reverently, with the full appreciation of a person who knows he is supplying his body with valuable elements. I did something which normally no power on earth can make me do: I drank orange juice on an empty stomach, left the coffee and egg untouched, as well as most of the toast, got up, and paced up and down in the coffee shop, pregnant with action.