The Collected Stories of Heinrich Böll

by Heinrich Böll

  “I sat beside him for a long time, making sure no one disturbed him. When he awoke he demanded something of me, but fell silent at my look. Then I spoke to him. He was as stunned as a heathen by what I told him. He left early that morning. He visited me often, wanting to hear more about Christ. He hasn’t been here for the past four months. He’s ashamed of something. I felt it the last time he was here. He wanted to tell me something, but was too ashamed. I know his name, but not his address. I’d like to visit him.”

  When she finished speaking, she seemed to collapse, sinking down on the table and covering her face with both hands, weeping. Heinrich bent over her. The pain of his love was forgotten; he wanted only to help. “I’ll find him, I promise, I … I …” She straightened up and looked at him with a burning, tear-filled gaze. “I think you … you … may have misunderstood me …” She looked at him so strangely that he suddenly knew with utmost clarity that she loved him, not the runaway he had offered to find. He bent down to the weeping girl and whispered: “Don’t cry, be happy; help me celebrate the new life I’ve been granted. I’ll serve you, I’ll love you more than life itself, please don’t cry. We’ll leave this squalor and begin a Christian life of poverty. We …” He felt such joy that words failed him. Language, the most awkward of human mediators, was incapable of expressing what his soul felt. He sank down and kissed the girl’s hands. She trembled with joy as he lifted her up and took her in his arms.

  That same evening Susanne left her “job.” Heinrich sought a place for her to live in the city. She rented a small, clean room where they sat late into the night gazing at each other, but speaking little. They decided to visit Benedikt Tauster, the only person Susanne had managed to save in the torment of her stay at the brothel. Benedikt Tauster was eighteen years old when he first drew public attention. He wrote the infamous essay “Was Napoleon an Erotic Genius as Well?!” subtitled “Meditations on the Well-Known Charmer from Corsica.” Even the exclamation mark after the question enraged some readers, although their rage no longer boiled but had now been distilled as steam. Heinrich heard about Benedikt Tauster from one of those readers who had disliked the article. He read his essay and found that its scorn and mockery were directed with almost satanic intelligence against the present situation, for although the text discussed Napoleon’s erotic life, it dealt primarily with the contemporary world. The political and social parallels were often so clever that Heinrich laughed till he cried. What impressed him most, however, was the fervent tone that permeated the essay, a wild, intense rapture, which fascinated precisely because it was coupled with irony. The tract concluded like a child apologizing for some naughty deed: “It’s too bad that I, Benedikt Tauster, am such a hopeless cripple.”

  Heinrich discovered Benedikt’s whereabouts indirectly, by way of a famous man of letters who had a reputation as a brilliant literary critic. This man had once stated, “Dostoyevsky’s greatness lies in the fact that he was a truly gifted disciple of Goethe.” As a result of this pronouncement, three shots were fired at his laurel-laden head. Heinrich learned about him through a prison guard. While paying a pedagogical visit to the man who had made the attempt on his estimable life, the critic whispered in the prison guard’s ear: “Unless I’m greatly mistaken—and I doubt that I am—you’ll probably be seeing this fellow Benedikt Tauster before long, too.” The prison guard, who knew Heinrich, told him about Benedikt Tauster, since he knew that Heinrich had “literary” interests.

  Heinrich found Benedikt living in a run-down garret in a bad part of town. He was tall and very thin, with a pale, tormented face. When Heinrich introduced himself as Susanne’s fiancé and said they had been looking for him, Benedikt regarded him silently for some time. Then, in a quiet but congenial tone, he said: “So we’re friends.” Heinrich nodded, and their friendship began. They sat silently for some time, smoking. Then Benedikt looked up and said quietly: “You believe in Christ.” Heinrich said: “Yes,” although it had not been put as a question. “You’ve surely read my essay on Napoleon. You know, those swine, those constipated penmen, simply left out the opening. I began: ‘May God forgive me if my essay is unworthy. I wrote it in anger at those who make a mockery of His name, yet call themselves Christians.’ And they left that out.” He looked at Heinrich with flashing eyes.

  Benedikt stood and paced the room in thought for some time, then finally came to a stop before Heinrich and said: “I’d like to ask you something.” He paused and seemed to be considering whether or not to continue. “In six months a young woman you’ll soon meet will bear my child. I met her in a pawnshop. I’d gone there early in the morning, to pawn the only thing I had of value, my watch, because I hadn’t eaten for days. I passed it across the counter, the watch was appraised, everything was fine, I was to receive five marks. Then the man asked to see my papers … Embarrassed, I stammered that I didn’t have any. He passed the watch back to me and I was about to leave shamefaced when I heard the clear voice of a young woman behind me: ‘I’ll vouch for the gentleman; here’s my identity card.’

  “I turned in surprise and looked at her as she handed him her card. She was about my height, with dark hair and a pale face. She regarded me with serious, dark eyes. The man returned her card: ‘In the first place you can’t offer security for someone else, and secondly you’re not an adult yourself, so I can’t take your things either.’

  “I took her arm and accompanied her home. I was astonished at how naturally everything came to me. I’d never escorted a young woman before. We talked and talked, and were friends at once. I didn’t fall in love with her; I simply loved her. As we walked we even cheered up and joked about how hungry we were. But for the most part she walked silently beside me, in melancholy sadness. Only occasionally did she show a spark of joy, saying something with a smile. Her smile was charming, the bright, full-blooded smile of a young woman. We said goodbye on a street corner. I told her where I lived and invited her to come see me. She said nothing, but came that very evening.

  “When she arrived, I went straight to her and kissed her. She smiled again. She dropped by every evening, and we would sit and talk. First we recounted our lives, then talked about everything, about God, art, politics—it was wonderful listening to her clever words. And then we prayed together. We revered the good thief crucified at Christ’s side, who joined him that very day in paradise.

  “My financial affairs were going from bad to worse back then. My only regular income was the twenty-five marks I received each month from the executor of my small inheritance. It had reached a point where I could no longer afford the bare necessities, like clothes and shoes. I started several projects, but the Napoleon essay was the only one I finished. I entrusted it to her, and she carried it around to various houses for almost three weeks, until she found someone willing to publish it. A publisher’s representative visited me (a publisher who’d made a fortune with trashy novels). We quickly reached an agreement.

  “It was around this time that her father committed suicide. He was a businessman who’d managed to keep his head above water by a series of clever maneuvers, in spite of being deeply in debt. Now his shady deals had been discovered, and he shot himself. She came to me late that afternoon. I longed to see her, for I was sad, even though I had signed a relatively advantageous contract. In the powerful heat of the late summer day, heavy storm clouds were forming on the horizon. The sun had just set, and I gazed from my small window across a city drenched in red. It looked less forlorn than normal … and yet I felt I could die of sorrow, and knew how much I needed her. Then she arrived, looking half insane. She collapsed into my arms, and gradually I pieced together what had happened from the phrases she stammered out. I could think of nothing to say, and kissed her wordlessly. That night she stayed with me. And that day … we lost our innocence.”

  Benedikt talked rapidly, pacing back and forth. Now he broke off and stared out the window. Heinrich wanted to go to him, say something, at least press his hand, when the dark figure of a youn
g woman entered. He recognized her immediately from his description. He greeted her, and Benedikt introduced them. Benedikt gave her his chair and sat beside Heinrich on the bed. In the dim light of the room the two youths could barely make out her silhouette. She began speaking softly in a warm voice: “I’ve found something for you. A gentleman who runs a private school afternoons is looking for someone to teach grammar-school subjects part time for one mark an hour. You’d have to teach middle-class children who haven’t done well in school. The work would be steady, six or seven hours a day. There’s a short qualifying exam, but the gentleman waived it. I spoke with him, told him you already have a grammar-school degree. He gets three marks an hour from the parents, by the way.” Benedikt looked up slowly, “Thank you, Magdalena.… That means we can get married, that is … if God …”

  All three sat for a long time in the half-darkness. Only once was the silence broken, by Benedikt: “Magdalena, I told you about the young woman in the brothel who taught me the truth about things, you remember … She’s to be Heinrich’s bride …”

  Magdalena sprang up, went over to Heinrich, and fixed her unusually large, dark eyes somberly upon him: “Has she forgiven him … forgiven us … for not returning to her? We were too ashamed to face her purity.” She turned bright red and stared at the floor. When she looked up again she saw Heinrich smile and nod. She pulled up her chair and joined them.

  While Magdalena stayed with Susanne, almost joyful in the aura of the latter’s glowing faith, the two youths visited the capitalist schoolmaster. The cold winter rain that murders the poor was still falling. Hatless, clad only in their thin, threadbare coats, they stuck close to the walls of the buildings as they walked along, accepting what little protection they offered. On a broad and elegant suburban avenue, where houses lay in studied reserve behind rows of tall trees and garden parks, they rang the bell of an almost palatial home. They were led into a reception area and left waiting for over an hour. After tracing the origin and history of every picture in the room angrily and in sarcastic detail, they were almost in a frenzy, and were about to turn their attention to the wallpaper pattern when a “serious” gentleman entered. He was of average height and portly build, with the smile of a Buddha. They introduced themselves; he greeted them amiably and within five minutes, without an exam, Benedikt was hired on the basis of his degree for a probationary period of one month. Heinrich said he would like to teach as well, and after a quick glance at his credentials he was taken on, in spite of his youth. “You can start this afternoon,” and with these words they were dismissed. They returned along the same barren route.

  “The man is either stupid or crazy,” said Heinrich. “He’s risking the entire reputation of his famous school, hiring us just like that.”

  Benedikt laughed: “He’s not crazy, but he is too lazy. But he’s not stupid either. Since he knows Magdalena he probably realizes we’re Catholic, and believers. Catholics, he figures, are afraid to commit a sin, since they know they’ll have to go through the humiliation of confession. They cheat less than those who don’t have to slip into a box at regular intervals to unburden their souls … There are plenty of unbelievers who will only hire Catholic maids, you know, because they think they won’t dare steal anything for fear of having to confess. And he can toss us out anytime he thinks we’re endangering his reputation.”

  Magdalena was still with Susanne. It was pleasant sitting beside the warm stove, drinking hot coffee and smoking.

  Benedikt and Magdalena soon took their leave, since they still had to see the priest about their wedding, which was to take place in a week.

  Susanne sat beside Heinrich. He stared into her eyes: “Susanne, I’ve always hated the sun because I thought its blissful rays were mocking my pain. I found it hard to live, let alone feel any pleasure in life. Then one day I found the will to live, and that same day I found you, the joy of my life. The sun hasn’t shone since that day, in punishment for my blasphemy, but it will surely appear again, and I’ll greet it joyfully. The days will be filled with wonder for us, Susanne … Susanne …” He smiled, the first smile Susanne had seen upon his face, like the simple, clear, godly music of ancient times tentatively settling upon his young countenance. Susanne was happy to see this gentle outbreak of joy. They shared something so pure, so far from sin—in an era so constantly near it—that it resembled medieval courtly love, a pleasant, tender breath of blessedness, full of silent jubilation. Heinrich drew her gently closer, kissed her mouth, and the earth seemed to vanish beneath their feet.

  The wedding was as sad as a child’s funeral. The majestic cathedral, infinitely vast and lofty, had no doubt rarely witnessed a ceremony so forlorn. The few poorly clothed people kneeling before a side altar seemed crushed to pitiful insignificance by the huge room, whose high ceiling of disintegrating gray resembled the cloudy February sky. Magdalena closed her eyes humbly, trembling with joy as she awaited the holy sacrament of marriage, and when, in the course of the ceremony, the priest turned, it was Benedikt’s pale, earnest face he confronted. Magdalena’s mother and brothers knelt behind them. Her mother’s face bore a hint of painful submission, like a violated maiden who, in the purity of her soul, is beginning to forget her body’s shame. Something of her brothers’ debauchery could still be read in their eyes, masked by their boldness. It was no doubt they who, along with her father, had violated the soul of this woman. From time to time they would sneak a glance at Susanne, kneeling before them at Magdalena’s side, her head bowed. The two witnesses, Heinrich and Paul von Sentau, assisted at the mass.

  After the benediction the couple stepped forward and knelt on the ancient, plain hassock that had served in many a princely wedding. Both witnesses joined them and the priest began. When the holy ceremony was completed, the young priest spoke. He spoke softly, as if he were afraid of awaking an echo in that vast space, a smile of joy on his face.

  “It’s customary for the priest to say a few words to a young couple upon uniting them in holy matrimony. Please forgive me, but I can’t speak at the moment … We so seldom see true Christian feeling and humbleness before God these days. I hope you understand.” He blushed and looked at the floor. “I’m too deeply moved … But permit me to accept your invitation to a small celebration.”

  Magdalena’s brothers took their leave in front of the cathedral. With the disappearance of their greedy, nasty faces, a sense of oppression seemed to lift from the pitifully small party. They walked through the daily life of the great city to their new apartment, situated near the outskirts of the old part of town. The cathedral wasn’t actually in their parish, but Benedikt wanted to be married there because that was where his parents had been married, and where he himself had been baptized. The young priest to whom he’d opened his glowing heart six months ago, the night he received the spark of divine truth from Susanne, had gone through old church records and discovered that Danile Tauster had been joined in matrimony with one Adelheid von Sentau in the second year of the Great War. Benedikt’s baptism was also recorded. So now they had a fairly long walk from the city center to the suburbs. The young couple led the way, conversing quietly. Magdalena’s mother followed with the priest. Susanne walked behind them, between Heinrich and Paul.

  Paul, who’d never met Susanne before, was telling her about himself: “I’m the last descendant of a noble Frankish family reduced to middle-class circumstances over a hundred years ago. My cousin Benedikt is my only blood relative. I was born the day my father fell at Langemarck. My mother was barely eighteen. Her young husband’s love had rescued her from an orphan’s painful life, and she was devastated by his death. Benedikt’s mother, my father’s sister, only nineteen herself, took me in when I was six months old, although she was expecting a child and deeply concerned about her husband, hospitalized in Romania with a serious head injury. Her husband died three months before Benedikt was born. She bore the sorrow over her husband, her brother, and my mother along with the infinite burden of life. She forced her fiery yo
ung soul through the business of everyday life, believing in Christ, the herald of truth and the friend of all those who suffer.

  “She received scant pleasure from the boys she raised. She was forced to get a job, and we spent our long morning hours with Veit, a crippled veteran, who lived in a garret next to us. Veit had lost a leg, and had a hard time climbing all those steps on his crutches. He spent a lot of time in bed because his lungs were bad, and he was glad to have us around since he was still young. He was thirty-two years old, and full of energy, and when he learned that our fathers had died in the Great War, he came to love us.

  “I was five, Benedikt not quite four, when our friendship with Veit began. Veit believed in nothing. When we entered his room, he would ask with mock solemnity: ‘What is the basic rule of life?’ and our high-pitched children’s voices would respond according to his teaching, ‘Everything is shit!’ He’d lived through terrible times, and told us horror stories, which we found fascinating. He dripped the poison of unbelief into our childish souls, which remained untouched by the prayers we said each evening when our mother came home, weary and kind. Veit wasn’t a bad man, but he had lost touch with God. I think now that the Holy Ghost stirred mysteriously within him, for on one of the final days of his life—I was seven at the time—he said: ‘Boys, what do you say in your evening prayers?’ ‘We pray to Jesus Christ to protect our souls from unbelief, to take our fathers to heaven, to make Veit well again, and to grant our mother happiness.’ He smiled uncertainly at us and said: ‘That’s good, don’t forget to say them.’ This remark, which ran counter to all his wisdom over the past two years, was to us simply one impression among thousands; we merely absorbed them without differentiating.