“Veit died a few days later. We mourned him deeply for a long time. Mother tried in vain to console us. Time alone healed this wound, and after a period of mourning, the seeds he’d sown began to sprout. We contradicted our mother when she spoke of things in which—as far as we recalled—Veit had not believed, although we did not yet doubt God. That happened much later, when we were exposed to the corrupt wisdom of the streets, and when, after our mother’s death, we were despised in high school by the sons of the middle-class and newly wealthy upstarts because we were poor. Increasingly isolated within the realm of our own minds, slowly at first, then with startling suddenness, we denied all things metaphysical, bearing our poverty proudly with bitter, pale faces. We were awash in skepticism, and circumstances and our own short-sightedness conspired to turn us from the cross—repulsed by the cripples who called themselves Christians—long before we knew the first thing about its teachings.
“Our mother died when I was nine, and Benedikt barely eight. The doctors said she died from overwork. She had surely been weakened by the drudgery she undertook out of love for us, but I believe, in fact I’m sure, that she died of sorrow. It had fermented in her for years, and at last dealt her a devastating blow which sent her into the eternal life in which she had always believed. Had she offered us the gentle teachings of the cross in those decisive early years we surely would have understood, and would not have foundered upon the ignorance and shortcomings of the world around us. Instead we were forced to wander aimlessly for years on end, groping blindly. We lived on the proceeds of a tiny house Benedikt’s mother had purchased with her scanty income to offer some small security for the future. People talk about magnificent memorials, documents of love. For me nothing compares to that tiny, crooked old house in the old city, for which a beautiful, tormented, lonely young woman suffered long years of hunger.
“One year before my final high school exam, I left Benedikt and my hometown for the sake of a woman. She had dark brown hair, a splendid young mouth, and eyes black as night, burning with fire. She gave a Chopin concert back then … I listened in a trance—moved for the first time in my life, inspired by the music’s magical, melancholy, seductive sensuality. This young woman, whose profound performance filled my soul with ecstasy, became my sole desire. The applause still sounded through the thick curtains as I waited in her dressing room. Her lackeys had withdrawn under my gaze, the curtain was pulled back, and she entered with noiseless grace. She was neither startled nor angry. Without noticing that I was dressed like a beggar, she looked into my eyes and smiled. She was very young, seventeen. I saw at once that she was still as innocent as I was. She stood for some time, smiling, while I waited, pale with pain and joy. She approached and kissed me. I had never kissed a woman before, and felt the joy of that first kiss from a woman I loved. In a soft voice that made me tremble, she said: ‘I know you’ll laugh, but I love you. You’re my first and only love.’ We were united in a night filled with dizzying, sweet pleasure—joyful, but lacking God’s blessing.
“I traveled the world with her that year. She gave concerts, was famous … Never in all that time did I have any clothes other than this old worn school uniform. She never noticed such things; she was natural and warm, and I didn’t think about them either. We never went to parties. We were always alone, alone with our youth, our love. I could never bring myself to attend one of her concerts; those thousands of eager eyes trained on her body, which was mine, would have driven me insane.
“Neither one of us thought about Christ, but a guardian angel hovered over us, and we were never base. My existence did not remain unnoticed. The press had discovered me; I know the journalists referred to me among themselves as the great pianist’s gigolo. We sinned greatly, but every day was as fresh, glowing, and joyful as the first. And the pleas of my mother, who saw the fruit of her young womb enmeshed in sin, and the entreaties of my second mother at God’s throne, were not in vain … I found my way back.
“I was out walking one evening in some small town or other in southern Germany while she was giving a concert, my heart still on fire from our parting, which had taken place before the eyes of the local squire—and all at once it was clear to me that I was taking unfair advantage of her, allowing her to work for me, for I had long since realized that she was miserable playing before the audiences she faced. Only when we were alone, only when she opened her burning heart to me on the piano or violin, was music a joy to her. The realization struck me with terrible force.
“I fled to a nearby church because I knew it was the only place where I could be alone and sat in a back row of the church, shrouded in darkness. The softly murmured prayer reached my ears faintly above the voices of the sparse congregation as they sang. Then I was startled by a loud, clear voice: ‘Every sin, every offense against God, begins in pride, even in the slightest arrogance toward a neighbor.’ An elderly priest had mounted the pulpit to deliver the sermon, and I was forced to listen, first by his loud, clear voice, and then by what he was saying. My mind followed his words as if entranced, and within a scant fifteen minutes I heard what seemed a strikingly clear overview of the doctrine of the cross. He spoke of humility, of love, of virtue, and when he spoke of ordination, of order, of divine measure, I winced. I realized I had offended against the divine order; it struck me like a bolt of lightning. I was so totally downcast I didn’t hear what followed, and remained alone in the church at the conclusion of devotions. I sat for a long time, sweating in agony, and thought I was going to die. I heard footsteps in the silence, looked up, and saw the priest, who, having genuflected before the tabernacle, was preparing to leave. I waved to him like a drowning man. When he stood beside me, regarding me with solemn goodwill, I found I couldn’t speak. I saw, believed in, felt God only vaguely, but nonetheless truly. I suffered terribly for my sins, yet I knew as never before that Natalie was a sublime creature of God, and that she was not wicked. I begged God to move her heart as mine had been with the truth and clarity of His being. Then, my voice weak, I spoke to the priest, and told him everything.
“On the way back to the hotel the joy of divine truth burst upon me, and I burned to pass on this treasure, the only one worth possessing, to the person I loved … still loved. I had no doubt that she would understand. I knew she had natural longings, for I recalled the many hours she wept hot tears because our love remained childless. And her art revealed there was more in her than mere nature. Walking through that late night I seemed to hear again her thousand passionate fantasias, and they were not reduced to vapid meaninglessness when measured by my Christian conscience. I rejoiced in the blissful expectation of showing her the goal. You’ll soon learn how things turned out. You’ll see a young woman, in many ways still a girl, wearing a plain gold band on her right finger, the symbol of our union. She will be wearing a simple red dress, her only jewelry a rosary, the prayer book of the humble … the great pianist who married her gigolo and became Natalie von Sentau.”
Paul beamed at the two of them, having kept his eyes on the pavement throughout his story. Susanne glowed confusedly over this strange young man, who had no doubt read in her eyes that she would understand him. She saw that Heinrich was smiling.
The small party was received at the door by a slender young woman with brown hair, wearing a simple, dark red dress. The dark beads and gold cross of a rosary were visible about her neck. She had strikingly large, dark eyes, a delicately curved nose. She greeted the young couple first, kissing Magdalena and taking Heinrich’s hand firmly. Paul came over quickly and introduced her to the priest and Susanne: “Here she is,” he said to Susanne with a laugh.
Natalie had prepared a fine breakfast. The table was tastefully set, there were flowers everywhere, and in the corner a candle burned before a picture of the Virgin Mary.
Natalie smiled as she noticed the surprised looks on their faces: “I discovered it only this morning, in the attic of an old house, looking like a shapeless clump of dust. Who knows how many owners of that tiny
house had shoved it aside without noticing it. At first I thought it was a dusty old distaff, but when I lifted it up, it was very heavy, and wherever I touched it gold shimmered through … It must be very old.”
A delicious aroma of coffee filled the room. Bread too stood on the table, enticing brown and hearty black, with yellow butter in a brown dish. They sat down happily. February had turned somewhat friendlier, the gray sky at least empty of threatening rain clouds, and a weak glimmer of sun came in through the window from the southwest. It was still cold outside, but here in the room it was pleasantly warm. They spoke little as they ate; something akin to respect for the newly sanctified couple reigned over them.
When they had finished eating, the coffee cups were refilled and tendrils of blue tobacco smoke began to fill the room. Paul said: “We need to think a few things over.” Everyone looked at him expectantly. He smiled. “Surely you can see we have to form some sort of club or alliance—something of that kind.”
“I agree,” Heinrich said, as the others laughed. “Whenever three or more people are in general agreement, something should be set up with membership cards and dues. It would be a strange club, all right: eight members to begin with: a young man crazy enough to get married on a monthly income of less than two hundred marks; the wife of this idiot, who has thereby dropped out of the middle class; the mother of that deranged person; then a great artist who resigned her calling, whose husband, leading a nomadic existence, is the last of his line, a totally degenerate descendant of an ancient noble family; a priest totally enslaved by the Catholic Church; Susanne with her slightly more than shady past; and me …”
“If I can chair the group and compose the club song, I’ll join up,” said Benedikt, puffing on his pipe with a smile.
The conversation would no doubt have continued in this vein for some time had not the young priest, who had been smiling as he listened, now raised his right hand to stem the tide, speaking softly, almost into the pipe he had just lighted: “In all things truly ridiculous—and of course few of the things people tend to make fun of actually are—one finds something twisted, crooked, or false—and so the ridiculous always has its serious, even satanic, side as well. Clubs, for example, are usually ridiculous, yet still, if they turn truly false and ridiculous, they prove to be no more than one of the thousand various shades of the divine service. I’m convinced many club members who attend church regularly and are ‘good Christians’ would be far more upset, perhaps even stirred to revolutionary action in spite of their normal apathy, if one of their club rules were broken—or the club funds misused—far more upset than they would be if a sentence were to be struck from the Credo. That’s only by way of an example. Whether these things are called current fashion, sports, dance, exercise, or the cinema—or, as is most often the case, money—they are generally nothing more than well-laid, almost comfortably middle-class traps set by Satan. He consumes the still healthy core within them, using them—in nice, decent middle-class fashion (most people are too lazy, tired, and dull to sin wildly)—to divert people gradually from the truth—or better yet, from the tiny residue of truth that would have saved them. And when things have finally reached the point where even those whose duty it is to protect the truth support such traps, then things take their natural course: Beauty is derided, the feeling for beauty is corroded, desire is whipped into a frenzy. It’s easy to brew a vile broth from such swamps. So if someone truly wants to found a new club, it should be a ‘Club for the Friends of the Absolute.’ But that already exists … It’s called the Church.”
He smiled at his strange conclusion. The others had fallen into thoughtful silence. The young men smoked quietly, thinking to themselves. The young women gazed straight ahead. Magdalena’s mother looked at the priest, slightly surprised. Susanne rose and relighted the candle standing before the Madonna, which had somehow gone out. Natalie said softly: “I’d like to play something”—she blushed—“if you …” Everyone nodded. She stood up and asked Heinrich, who was sitting by the bookcase, to pass her the music. “Beethoven,” she said, as he looked at her inquiringly. And while the men laid aside their pipes, and sunlight suddenly streamed through the window, Natalie stepped to the piano, which stood against a white wall unadorned by pictures, bearing only a large black cross.
TRAPPED IN PARIS
Reinhard plundered the paymaster’s bullet-riddled car with a soldier’s cool indifference. The last stragglers had long since disappeared into the various streets spread out fanlike from the square, and there was no sound or sight of the enemy. The park, ripped and torn by shells, brooded in desolate silence, and the façades of the buildings gaped like an eerily empty stage. Here and there curtains fluttered wildly, almost longingly, from the windows; you could almost hear the frightened breath of people hiding in the cellars, not daring to trust the uncanny stillness in the aftermath of the roar of the attack. The semicircle of the square that adjoined the park—the central portion of the fan from which streets radiated like slender, elegant spokes—was strewn with steel helmets, gas masks, and broken rifles. A bright, smiling heaven arched auspiciously above the incomparably beautiful city, whose brilliance and loveliness beckoned from each of its countless windows. And between scraps of military equipment on the soft, saturated, deep green stretches of grass furrowed with trenches lay corpses, corpses in gray uniforms. It was like a lull in a revolution where the center of action had shifted to some other part of the city, drawing all life along with it. And while the corpses on the meadow clasped the earth as if frozen in eternal lament, the trees that lined the avenue trembled beneath the lighthearted caresses of the soft summer breeze.
Reinhard had slung his weapon and his gear beside the disabled vehicle and was rummaging through a jumble of cardboard boxes, discovering delicacies he had not seen in the long, long years of war. Marvelous cigars and soaps whose mere fragrance could have spelled peace, chocolates and biscuits, the finest linens. With startling rapidity he pulled off his filthy, sweat-soaked shirt and felt the pleasure of a new silk one against his body. He then stuffed his pockets systematically, cramming in as much as he could, intoxicated with happiness, digging through the riches at random, sensing with wild delight that the war, which had seemed so cruel and endless, was beginning to unravel. It was inevitably dissolving, dispersing like a gray, persistent pall of cloud scattered by golden flicks of the sun’s lash; the war was unraveling. It seemed to Reinhard as if a huge steel cover screwed down airtight over him had suddenly lifted, releasing him into light and air, and he breathed deeply with a wild, powerful sense of freedom. He drew on his magnificent cigar with a smile, released a blue cloud of smoke into the splendid air, and thought of his wife. Soon he would see her again, soon life would begin, and with a laugh he tossed a couple of packs of cigarettes back in the car to make room for a few bars of expensive soap, fit for a princess, for his sweet love. Then he bent to pick up his sword belt and fasten it around his stuffed and swollen waist. But the next moment he lay flattened against the hot, smelly asphalt, breathing heavily.
From a small grove across the park came a whole column of diminutive, fast-moving cars with soldiers in khaki uniforms, careening madly in a broad front, firing blindly as they approached the square. The last remnant of stillness disappeared as a bullet shattered the car’s windshield above him. Gripped suddenly by fear, he was unable to take a calm look to his rear; his confused eyes saw only the merciless smooth surface of the square, across which no flight was possible. The small khaki cars had reached the avenue, gathering on the semicircular square like a pack of small, agile, barking dogs, then dispersing into the streets. One of them passed within a hair’s breadth of Reinhard’s head, but he had long since assumed the crumpled position he had so often seen among the dead, warding off and embracing in a single gesture. The contented growl of well-maintained tanks approached from the park, and now, risking a quick glance past the flat tire, he saw the advancing columns of infantry and knew it was time to act. The war machine was d
escending upon him like a cruel curtain and somewhere far beyond it, where the streets opened outward like canyons of deliverance, was the small, beloved face of his wife.
He rose to his knees, concealed behind the bullet-riddled car, and raced toward the nearest street with the improbable, almost grotesque, speed of a madman. But he had failed to notice one of the tanks, followed by a troop of infantry, which had advanced to that very street. He was startled out of the mindless panic of his blind flight by the horrid flutter of a tank shell, winging its way past his head like some terrible bird and exploding against a building with an appalling blast. He threw himself to the ground and crawled on, crazed with fear, while more shells whistled past him like the blows of an enraged man, punching the air. Again and again the rapid flutter above his head, then the detonation, reverberating in the street as if it were a living room. The twelve meters to the street seemed a murderous eternity between life and death. He jumped up and ran, ran toward the street as if into the open arms of life, fluttering curtains, open windows, and the defaced façades of buildings accompanying him as in a dream. The seconds were monstrous waves of fear through which he struggled to make his way. He looked around and saw the barrel of the khaki monster rounding the corner like a silently threatening snout; the soldiers accompanying it, moving soundlessly, struck him as especially cruel as they occupied the nearby doorways, calling out in their nasal language for him to surrender. The next bullet whizzed past his shoulder, so close that he could feel the cold ripple of air, and struck a large store window, which shattered in bright and terrible laughter. Then he was on the ground again, crawling, twisting, changing direction like a wild animal, enveloped by the almost sweet song of the infantry’s bullets and the ghastly flutter of bursting tank shells. He reached the edge of the street, sweating, filthy, and totally exhausted. The hideous khaki monster rumbled nearer as soldiers rushed from door to door. Cries and stench, noise, noise. Just as he was about to throw himself with full force against the door of a house, a shot flashed from a basement window directly across the way, grazing his arm, ricocheting off the wall, and angling into infinity with a threatening hum. He lurched in despair, near to surrender, heading up the street again, her dear, small beloved face constantly before him. Suddenly, to the right, a small side street. He threw himself into it as into an abyss, cried out, and the small face grew larger and smiled as, blind with exhaustion, almost feeling his way in spite of the bright, smiling sky, he leaned his shoulder against the first door he came to and it opened easily. He found the bolt to lock it as if he’d known the house for years, then stood silently, leaning against the door, holding his breath, listening. Scarcely a minute had passed since he had leaped from behind the bullet-riddled car to race mindlessly toward the face of his beloved.
The Collected Stories of Heinrich Böll Page 103