“But then one of his schoolmates, a certain Becker, turned out to be a real friend. Becker, whose parents were rich, was studying theology. He supported him financially, talking his parents out of some of the money and providing the rest from his own savings. So Herold left the school … By the way, did you know that he was named Theodor Herold?” The chaplain looked at me inquiringly. How would I know his name? I shook my head.
The noise from the guard room kept threatening to drown us out. Noise … shouts … the senseless bellowing of those who voluntarily allow themselves to be incarcerated in the prison of a uniform. The chaplain fell silent, then seemed almost to choke on his words as he said: “What good does it do to tell you all this? We should be praying instead; it’s just about the only thing one can do, don’t you think?” He gave me a tormented look, as if he were about to collapse beneath an invisible weight. Then he folded his hands. I took him gently by the arm, and I don’t know if it was curiosity that impelled me to say: “Go on with your story, please. I want to know everything.”
The chaplain looked uneasily at me; he almost seemed mentally disturbed. He stared at me blankly, as if he didn’t recognize me, and seemed to be searching his memory to recall who I was; then he took his head in his hands. “Oh, yes,” he said in a despairing voice, “Pardon me … I … I …” He gestured helplessly. And then he continued:
“It appears that Becker truly wanted to help Herold. They were studying at a university, and although Becker was somewhat restricted by living in a church hostel, he visited him often, talked with him, and no doubt tried to reawaken his buried religious impulse. But his support was in no way dependent upon this. They argued at times, that’s clear, discussing things all young men not yet dead discuss: religion and the concept of the Volk and so on, but remained friends through it all. And, although he never said so, he respected Becker, the only person he didn’t despise. He loved Becker; and not simply because he supported him, but for the unconditional manner in which he gave the money. Well, no doubt you have some idea of the relationship. Becker must have been an ardent young man who still believed in grace. For the first few semesters all the theology students still believed in grace, which was later often unconsciously replaced by belief in the vicar-general.
“Herold was just as great a phenomenon of intelligence and wit at the university as he had been in school. He not only despised his frivolous and less able fellow students, but his professors too, none of whom, as he put it, could be considered ‘a true spiritual guide.’ In the meantime he prepared for a possible career in politics. You can imagine how quickly the party absorbed such an intelligent young man.
“But then something terrible happened: He became a soldier, and there was no antidote for that. He hated the military beyond anything he’d known, hated it deeply, for when he tried to make a career there, a strange thing happened: That same officer caste which had welcomed dim-witted criminals from the dankest swamps of society insisted that new recruits meet certain social standards: and of course he failed to meet the conditions of this hierarchy of ignorance. His hatred now firmly established, he made his first declaration of war against society. He saw through the absolute political cowardice of these yes-men. He glowed with white-hot rage and scorn, but of course got nowhere against the well-established clique, and the dull and dreary life in the barracks seemed even more terrible than the misery of his childhood years. War seemed to offer him salvation, and he volunteered for one of those units which, steeped in that spirit which denies all true values, considered the murder conducted behind the lines, known as the destruction of racially inferior types, equivalent to the murder at the front, called war.” The chaplain paused in misery and covered his face with his hands, breathing heavily. “Imagine that razor-sharp face among those troops, filled with hate, in that social order which became blinder and more cold-blooded with every passing year under the terrible pressures of war, yoked to the triumphal car of a criminal who denied all values—that gloomy triumphal car whose rotten wheels were soon to crumble, and which collapsed at last in a flood of stinking gasoline fumes.
“Repelled at first by his associates in spite of having volunteered, then increasingly entangled in emotions that bind a bloodthirsty mob, Herold still kept in touch with Becker, who wrote to him, warned him, admonished him. Herold even visited him on leave, congratulating him on his ordination as a priest. Even afterward he maintained contact with Becker, whom he truly loved, a word he never used, given his unusual shyness. He sent Becker packages with items that were scarce back home: cigars, soap, lard, and so on. He wrote letters, sent small packets, but revealed nothing of his spiritual condition. No more discussions on religion and worldviews. He felt irrevocably bound to the gang he had stumbled into, often filled with bitter regret, horrified by the streams of blood mingled with dirt, terrified by bestial cruelties, all these emotions jumbled together with unexamined notions of race, honor, and unconditional obedience, the Fatherland, the master race. He became an officer in those units, was wounded several times, distinguished himself, was decorated. But none of that could expunge the uneasy feeling of guilt. He seemed deeply troubled.
“And in the chaos of anxiety, hatred, and remorse, the worst for him was that Becker ceased writing. He heard nothing from him for over a year. He attributed his silence to the breakdown of communications, the total confusion of an ‘incomparable system.’ Although he blamed it on these external factors the dark suspicion remained that Becker no longer cared about him. And the closer the end came, the inevitable, disastrous end, the more defiled he felt, burdened with indescribable acts of cruelty.
“Only the thought of Becker, who might perhaps help him, sustained him. A series of clever maneuvers allowed him to avoid capture by the Russians. He managed to smuggle himself through the Russian front lines as a Russian soldier until he reached the area controlled by the Western powers. Here he disappeared, well furnished with money and provisions, somewhere in his devastated hometown, in one of the thousands of hiding places no one would ever discover; and here too he avoided capture. Then he began a careful search for Becker. For him, Becker symbolized salvation. He had no clear idea what sort of help he expected; he was totally broken. The dark water of fear, disgust, and guilt had risen to his chin; he simply wanted to speak with someone who wouldn’t threaten him, wouldn’t reject him. He saw Becker as the representative of a religion which, contrary to all secular custom, did not judge, did not condemn—the religion that he himself had loved as a child and young boy, whose reflected splendor still shone upon him, without his knowledge.
“Disguised as a disabled soldier, he limped out of his hiding place and began, amid the hopeless chaos, to search for Becker, whom he knew had been a chaplain in a small town. He finally managed to reach the town by hitching a ride in an American military truck. He found the village undamaged, its inhabitants still frightened and confused. And he found Becker. His heart pounding with happiness, he entered the rectory.
“Becker was cold and indifferent. He had broken off the correspondence intentionally. Their entire friendship had died, and Becker acted strangely, treating him as if he’d met him once years ago and had simply run into him again, just another former acquaintance. Herold was shocked by the cool reserve with which his only friend received him, but the dark tumult of torment, blood, and guilt which had gathered within him was too powerful to restrain. He opened his heart to Becker, telling him everything, every single thing, things he could never have written. And when he had finished, and he had nothing more to say or ask, he stared helplessly at Becker. He told me that for the first time in his life, he found himself totally defenseless.
“Becker said nothing. He appeared touched in his professional role as a spiritual adviser, as a paid official of the state, but in human terms, Becker had been completely deadened by everything he had seen, heard, and experienced; by the horrors of the retreat, by hunger, confusion, fear, and bombs. Becker only had a few phrases to offer, you know the so
rt—ready-made clichés from the spiritual five-and-dime store, the stuff handed out in some confessionals after absolution, one to a customer and on your way … next, please! Of course he urged him to go to confession, to pray, to become a better man … imagine!”
The chaplain seized me firmly by the shoulder and forced my weary face in his direction. His eyes flared excitedly, like sparkling blue lights, his poor, pale face was flushed, his mouth twitching. We faced each other almost like combatants, here by the bier bearing the corpse of the Mad Dog! But I was so tired, so very tired. And yet deep, deep within me lay an urgent, passionate interest in this human destiny, and I had to hear how it had ended.
“You see,” the chaplain groaned, “I can easily imagine it, because I’ve done it so many times myself. I can picture it in living detail. Becker no longer had a personal relationship with him. In the face of this terrible torment he produced nothing but a cool, professional response. Perhaps he was worn down, dulled, as may happen to priests in the confessional … My God, nothing but adultery and baseness, year after year! Perhaps, as a doctor, you understand. You find a corpse less gruesome than thousands of others do who’ve seen far fewer corpses and far less blood, in spite of the war. Unburied bodies are less disturbing and less moving to priests than they are to those who have never peered into the hearts of so-called decent human beings. My God … that’s how it must have been for Becker, you see. The demonic frenzy of the final months of the war had died away and we were in the doldrums, the wind had fallen and everything was still, a becalmed void. Becker was cool toward him. Indifferent, perhaps even dismissive. Herold said: ‘He pushed me back into my personal abyss …’ And then he plunged into a totally destructive rage.
“He must have been denounced by people who noticed him and found him suspicious. The police were after him; he had to change hiding places several times. They hounded him through the piles of rubble. In the midst of a broad expanse of ruins in the inner city, he finally discovered a bombed-out building with an undamaged cellar, easily accessible and difficult to find, and here, motivated by burning hate, he brooded a few days before emerging as the ‘Mad Dog.’ He found accomplices easily enough—he couldn’t bear to be alone, although he was arrogant and domineering with his henchmen. First they stole enough to make themselves comfortable. Then—planning in cold blood—they amassed a large supply of stolen goods on the black market, stocked their rooms with provisions, and began a hideous game. The whole plan was his; he was the acknowledged leader and judge. He turned up, with a certain aura of mystery, when his henchmen had carried out the burglary and prepared the victim or victims. He declared the method of death according to his mood … shooting … stabbing or hanging … and often simply terrorized them, leaving them quaking under the constant threat.” The chaplain paused for a moment. “They killed twenty-three people that way … twenty-three.”
The two of us stared at the motionless body, moved by a deep feeling of horror—cold terror in our veins. The murderer’s pale red hair shimmered softly through patches of blood and dirt in the dismal light of the room. The cold, thin-lipped mouth seemed still to be smiling, scornful and cruel, appearing to mock our words, our entire conversation. I turned, trembling, and waited uneasily for the chaplain to turn toward me as well. I felt menaced by doleful spirits, and thought his poor, humane face might offer some consolation. But the chaplain remained silent a long time, staring at the dead man … a long time. I don’t know if he startled me out of my thoughts, or prayers, or merely from a state lost in fear, when he touched me lightly on the shoulder. Now his voice was gentle, almost consoling: “And strangest of all, this man, who was never close to any woman, who lived a life of almost celibate purity, died because of a woman. And it occurred to me he might still be alive, might have been a more humane person, had he found a woman to love, or succumbed only to those vices of all weak men—alcohol and tobacco. In some mysterious sense, he remained chaste. No ruined fragment from paradise could deceive him. And his downfall was brought about by a woman, added to the gang against his will, who wormed her way in, in spite of his objections, his furious outbursts, a woman he could never control, although she committed several murders under his leadership. Worst of all, she was in love with him, and was driven by months of scorn and rejection to murder him. She incited the others, and they fell upon him with a fury more terrible than that reserved for other victims, for it is a diabolical, profoundly shocking enigma that down deep, Hell hates nothing quite so much as itself. They practically tore him to pieces. Yet he was still alive when they found him here at the door with a slip of paper in his breast pocket, on which was written, in a literate hand: The Mad Dog, for burial by the police. It was a woman’s writing …”
I no longer had the strength to move. Lost, I stared at the dirty ceiling. My God, was I hungry, tired? I was miserable, the absolute horror of it all beyond my grasp, immersed in my own total wretchedness, incapable of prayer. I felt buried beneath the rubble of despair of our entire world by the chaplain’s report, and a dull, dark personal fear held me in its rigid, iron claws. Then, as if the words were already dashed to pieces within my mouth, I managed to ask: “Do you think that he …?”
But the chaplain had turned around once more. He seemed to be praying, and—strangely—I too was forced to turn and view the body, the unchanged corpse, smeared with blood and filth. Perhaps I prayed, I don’t know … My entire being was a blend of fear and torment and dull foreboding.
But who can describe this state of dull, defensive listlessness in which the mind retains a sharp clarity, a coldness possible only in thought?
Then the door was yanked open so noisily it sounded as if the building was about to be brought down around our heads, and as we turned around, shocked and startled, a harsh voice called out: “All right, let’s get the body and—” But then three uniformed figures noticed us and approached more quietly. Things seemed so strangely bright upon their entrance. One of them, a slim, dark-haired man with an impassive face, said quietly: “Good evening,” and turned to the other two: “All right now …” But the chaplain, who’d watched in shock all the while, as if lost in thought, finally came to himself. He raised his hands to ward them off and cried out: “No … no … let me do that …” He quickly turned and gathered the frayed human bundle fearlessly, ignoring the shocked cry: “But Father!”
He looked as if he were carrying a dead lover with despairing tenderness.
I followed as in a dream through the warm, terrible brightness of the guard room, out into the damp, dark street, covered with wet patches of dirty snow. A car waited outside, its motor growling, coughing. Slowly, tenderly, the chaplain placed the body on a sack of straw inside the vehicle. There was a smell of gasoline and oil, of war and terror. The darkness, the merciless darkness of winter, lay across the empty façades of the buildings like an unbearable burden.
“But … no … you can’t do that …” one of the policemen cried as the chaplain got into the car. But the third made an unambiguous circular motion at his temple—while the dark-haired one stood by quietly, with what seemed to me a pained smile.
The chaplain gestured for me to come closer, and in spite of the swelling roar of the engine, I heard the words he whispered softly to me, as if it were a secret: “He cried in the end, you know … I wiped away the tears before you came … because the tears—” But the car suddenly pulled away with a powerful surge, and I saw only a final helpless gesture of the figure in black as he was carried off into the cold, gloomy canyons of the destroyed city.
THE RENDEZVOUS
I went to the quay early to meet her. It had been pouring rain for days. The ground of the promenade had softened, and leaves were rotting in the puddles. Although it was mid-August, the smell of autumn was already in the trees, the café terraces had been cleared, the white chairs and tables stacked and hastily covered with canvas. Nearly all the guests had departed; not a person was in sight. A thick, humid haze floated above the water, almost obscu
ring the strands of rain. The only other person in view was an employee of the shipping company whose cap was visible behind the small window of his tiny ticket booth.
The waiters stood shivering in the corners of the hotel lobbies, waiting on the few guests seeking afternoon coffee or tea.
A week ago I’d sat down beside her in the cinema. I had arrived early, far too early, and as I walked past the yawning usher into the empty, brightly lit movie house, the first thing I saw was the glare of the projector, its flickering light casting black threads upon the bright rectangle of the screen, gently shifting, tumbling about in the void; and right at the front of the empty hall, near the screen, I saw her, just her delicate neck and green raincoat, and although I had a ticket for one of the better seats, I walked forward and sat down beside her.
I felt the damp rising slowly around me now, leaching itself coolly to me, but I didn’t care. My gaze was fixed on the bend in the Rhine where the boat would appear at any moment. The blackboard on which the arrival time had been written in chalk bore only a few smeared, grayish white lines, and water was dripping from the clapper of the bell used to announce arrivals and departures, faster and faster, like a leaky faucet.
A black barge appeared at the far end of the bend, being towed wearily, irritatingly slowly, upstream. I looked at my watch: It was a few minutes to five. If the boat intended to depart again on schedule, ten minutes from now, it had to round the bend at any moment. The man behind the little window of the booth was enjoying a cigarette, his red face veiled now and then by smoke. My coat was already dark from the rain.
The barge had not yet cleared the bend, towing its rear section like a wounded reptile dragging its tail. Just then the fellow opened the booth and his deep voice called out to me: “Pretty boring, isn’t it, Doctor?”
I recognized him now. His wife ran a tobacco store somewhere back up the quay, and not an hour ago I’d bought tobacco there and had a long chat with him about the pros and cons of various brands.
The Collected Stories of Heinrich Böll Page 106