We threw a coin into the plate which stood by the placard and walked away, shaking our heads.
So here he stands, we thought, armed to the teeth, the indestructible soldier of the long millennia, he with whom history was made, he who enabled Alexander, Caesar and Napoleon to perform those great deeds we read about in school text-books. This is he. He does not flicker an eyelash. This is Cyrus’s archer, Cambyses’s scythe-wheeled charioteer whom the sands of the desert could not bury for all eternity, Caesar’s legionary, Jenghis Khan’s mounted lancer, Louis XIV’s Swiss Guard, Napoleon I’s grenadier. His is the faculty – not, after all, so unusual – of not betraying his feelings when every conceivable instrument of destruction is tried out on him. He remains (he says) like a stone, without feeling, when he is sent to his death. Pierced by spears of every possible age – stone, bronze, iron – mown down by the chariots of war, those of Artaxerxes and those of General Ludendorff, trampled underfoot by Hannibal’s elephants and Attila’s horsemen, smashed to pieces by flying metal from the ever-improved guns of many centuries, though also by flying stones from catapults, riddled by rifle bullets as big as pigeons’ eggs, as small as bees, he stands indestructible, ever commanded anew in diverse tongues, but never knowing why or wherefore. It was not he who took possession of the lands he conquered, just as the mason does not live in the house he has built. Nor indeed did the territory he defended belong to him. Not even his weapon or his equipment belongs to him. But he stands under the rain of death from aircraft and burning pitch from city walls, mine and pitfall beneath his feet, pestilence and mustard gas around him, there he stands, flesh-and-blood quiver for javelin and arrow, target, tank pulp, gas inhaler, with the enemy in front of him and the General behind.
The untold hands that wove the jacket, forged the armour, cut the boots for him! The untold pockets that were filled by him! The immeasurable clamour in every language in the world that urged him on! No god who did not bless him. He who is afflicted by the hideous leprosy of patience, sapped by the incurable disease of imperviousness.
What sort of burying alive is this, we thought, to which he owes this disease, this frightful, monstrous, supremely infectious disease?
Might it not, we asked ourselves, be curable after all?
A Mistake
Karl Krucke, a small, thickset lathe operator from Halle an der Saale who had come to France in 1936 because the Gestapo were showing too much interest in him, was found lodgings by friends in the house of a French metalworker in the Paris banlieue. He did not speak a word of French, but he knew what Front Populaire meant and that the things they said to him when sharing that lovely French bread were friendly. He lived quietly with these people, went regularly to the mairie and to meetings arranged by German friends where they held discussions and were able to read the newspapers. But after a few weeks he began to look yellow and to complain of stabbing pains on the right side of his belly, so friends gave him a note with the address of a good specialist who was prepared, they said, to examine him free of charge on the following Friday at seven o’clock. They urged him to be punctual, since the doctor was a very busy man.
This was unnecessary since Krucke was always punctual, and his pains were giving him a great deal of trouble.
He rose early that Friday, wrapped one leg of an old pair of drawers tightly round his middle and set out to walk to Paris.
He was not quite without cash, but he thought he would save the fare, for he had unlimited time, far too much time indeed.
It was April and still dark on the streets. For a while he did not meet a soul. The road ran through open fields and was in bad repair, full of holes, but there was no wind and it was not particularly cold. From time to time he would pass a farmhouse and a dog would bark. He could see neither the fields nor the farms because of the darkness. Yet this did not make them seem any less foreign. It was undoubtedly not Germany.
Thank God he was walking on a main road, so there were no decisions to be made at crossroads, otherwise he might have had problems with signposts. On the other hand he could ask people; it would suffice to say Paree in a questioning tone. That was what they called Paris in those parts.
After he had been walking for an hour he heard a horse and cart rattling behind him. He stopped and let it go by. The cart was loaded high with cabbages. A wizened old man nodded when he said Paree in a questioning tone. But he did not ask him to climb aboard, though he did look round again ten metres further on as if he were still contemplating such an invitation.
When the next cart passed him, carrying a load of milk churns and driven by a plump woman, he produced a few gestures to ask whether he could get on. But the woman did not stop. He decided that she did not trust the stout stick which he had carved himself out of a young willow. For the going was bad with the pains in his side.
These two experiences put the little man off making further attempts to get a lift in a cart, although the carts began to come along more and more frequently. The famous giant convoys of vegetables, milk and fruit were beginning to converge on the city in the hours after first light from every point in the fertile countryside.
For a while the tramping and rattling was constant. He had to keep stepping aside, for the peasants did not bother to keep to the right since hardly any vehicles were coming in the opposite direction. Paris was asleep and had nothing to offer the country in the early hours.
At one time the lathe operator walked along a railway line. When the train thundered by he stood still. He could not read the destination boards on the coaches, the train was going far too fast, but the train could not be coming from Germany, for he was to the south of the city.
About half past four the sky became light. The region had changed its appearance, the fields had been left behind, these were the suburbs.
Small houses with gardens and fine trees. Streets of houses with a café already open here and there. Sleepy waiters with dirty aprons and brilliantine on their hair were putting wicker chairs on the pavement. At the counter drivers were downing their coffee and cognac.
Then more stretches with nurseries, greenhouses, walls covered with posters, notices from the mairie. A cement works.
By now the cartloads of provisions had probably reached the markets. Only a few stragglers were still driving their horses on. But there were now more cars. They could start later. They were the type of car that had a coffin-shaped bonnet, mostly blue.
Then came the belt of buses and trams, packed with workers.
The thickset little man from Halle an der Saale walked with even strides, somewhat tired, with rather more pains in his belly. Now as he passed the cafés he looked more often at the white clocks behind the bar. He had to be at the Boulevard Saint Michel at seven o’clock sharp.
By about five it was fully light, and half an hour later he could feel the sun. He had crossed the city boundary.
Walking became harder on the stone and asphalt. And there was traffic here too. Mainly workers carrying billy-cans. And a big water-cart whose fan of jets sent people jumping. The city was being cleaned and tidied up. For the daily grind that brought in the dinner, rent, children’s school money, gauloises, the city had to be clean.
For all these people, all the Frenchmen worked and struggled and lived. The lathe operator from Halle an der Saale understood that, because he too had worked, struggled and lived in Germany.
In fact he was still struggling, of course, and in a sense he was still working too, and wasn’t he living as well? Dead men did not have pains in the belly.
His march to the Boulevard Saint-Michel was an act in the struggle. And he had allies, friends who had given him the note, and the Front Populaire, a mighty support!
The question was now, ‘Boulvahr Sang Meeshell?’
Then it was a side street, number 123. A tall, narrow, distinctive house. It was half past six.
Half past six is not seven. There were few signs of life in the house. So now he’d have to wait.
The lathe oper
ator took up his position opposite. Once a servant came out of the house, once a maid in a bonnet, once a portly man with a red face stepped out on to the pavement and looked round. Then a flic, a policeman, walked down the street, and he had to move on to the next corner so that it wouldn’t look as if he was up to no good. Policemen the world over require this, it doesn’t vary.
Then it was seven o’clock.
The thickset little man crossed the street and went up the stairs. The red balloon face he had seen before appeared at the window in the hallway. The con-syersh! Krucke showed him the note with the doctor’s name. The con-syersh said something with much gesticulation which did not do much to explain matters. He ended with a violent shrug and the way was clear.
You climbed the stairs on a red coconut runner. The house was damned posh. He must be a good doctor.
There was his brass plate. All you have to do is ring the bell.
A maid opened the door. The lathe operator pronounced the doctor’s name. The French workmate with whom he lodged had taught him how to say it the previous evening.
But the girl shook her head in astonishment. She too said a good deal in that damned language, and once again the accompanying gestures did nothing to clarify the matter. What was the use of pointing into the flat with his stick and at his belly where the pain was with his finger? The girl simply shut the door.
Only one of her gestures had made sense. She had pointed to the brass plate where he could read 5–8. These were of course the consulting hours. But he was to be taken outside of hours, naturally enough, since he could not pay! That was why it was fixed for seven in the morning, unusual though the hour was, so he could be taken before the doctor’s real business started. As he had understood it, the doctor was doing overtime for him so to speak, because he was busy later, a specialist for whom every minute means money, in a house with coconut runners and servants, all of which cost money and more money.
At such a moment it would help to speak French.
He had stood outside the closed door. But down on the landing balloon-face appeared, redder than ever. He was probably suspicious. The stick alone must look suspicious. And his trousers were not the newest.
The lathe operator went down the stairs again, past the con-syersh and out of the door. There was nothing else to do.
Probably the doctor had forgotten to say that he was coming and was to be let in early. Such people have a lot on their mind. And the examination was free.
It was also possible that the doctor had been called out to an operation. In that case a new time would have to be arranged, before or after his consulting hours. There was nothing to be gained from a rash move. On Sunday evening he was meeting his friends. The next move could be discussed then.
The little man sat on a stone pillar in a niche in the wall of the house, unpacked the provisions his host had given him and chewed the white bread.
Then he set out slowly for the outskirts. He would get there in the afternoon.
When the French doctor, a friendly and helpful man, asked a few days later why the patient had not turned up and was told that the German had assumed seven o’clock to mean seven a.m. – since he never expected to get free treatment in regular consulting hours, he was dumbfounded.
Gaumer and Irk
To fell Irk was easy. He was very busy, and he looked after many but not after himself. Gaumer had beaten him to death before he noticed how extraordinarily hard it was to bury him.
He was lying on the floor of the office, and Gaumer first tried to take him on his shoulders. But that of course was impossible. Gaumers cannot carry Irks.
So Gaumer took him by the left leg and pulled him with all his might towards the door. Irk’s other leg wedged itself so firmly against the doorpost that Gaumer had to drag the corpse back into the office, this time by the head which did not afford a good grip. Gaumer was glad to get Irk back in the room where he had been lying before. Covered with sweat, he sat down on a chair and breathed deeply.
Gaumer began to ponder. He pondered more deeply than he had ever pondered before. Irk ought to be pulled head first through the door. That was the solution. There was always a solution if you only pondered fearlessly. So Irk had always said.
While pulling Irk to the door by his head Gaumer twice fell because he lost his grip on Irk’s head. No wonder; that head had not been designed as a handle. All the same, the corpse was now lying on the landing and its own (excessive) weight ought to take it down the stairs. A kick from Gaumer sufficed. Of course the banister at the foot of the stairs fell to pieces under the impact. The thing was rotten, Irk had always said they ought to have had it replaced. Pity that Gaumer had never agreed to this. Now people would see it when they came to work next morning.
Anyhow Irk was now downstairs, and that was progress. At least it would be progress when he was moved on, for there he was more likely to be discovered than up in the office.
And now things took a very nasty turn. Gaumer realised after struggling desperately with the body for two hours that he would never get it outside on his own. The space between the stairs and the door was too narrow and the door opened inwards. Gaumer could not open the door and lift the body at the same time. He could not even turn it on to its side and that was what he would have to do. It had to be turned at all costs.
Gaumer saw that there was nothing for it but to fetch his nephew and explain all. That was terrible. That lazy, spoilt lout would make him pay dearly for his help. Of course if he had not been lazy and spoilt Gaumer would not have been able to turn to him in such a matter. After tonight he would be entirely in the fellow’s hands, which meant that he would have to do away with him. That was a fine prospect.
True enough, his nephew looked at him rather more than curiously when he told him his story. All the same he came along straight away. Gaumer had the impression that he came rather too easily. He could scarcely contain his delight, it seemed. The two of them managed to open the door and drag the body through the doorway. And then suddenly they could not move it another step.
What was wrong? There was nothing in the way and there were two of them. The main part of the job seemed to be done. It took some time for them to work out what had happened. At first it seemed to Gaumer that his eyesight had suddenly begun to fail. As he held Irk’s feet together, his nephew, who was pulling Irk by the head, struck him as strangely far away. Then his nephew suddenly said, ‘He’s growing.’
Yes indeed, that was it. Irk in his lifetime had not been much bigger than Gaumer, at least in Gaumer’s eyes. After the murder, in the office, hard as he had proved to carry, he had still retained his more or less natural dimensions. But now in the open air he was inconceivably big. His legs seemed like two pillars and his head was like a spherically pruned laurel tree. And he was still growing.
While the two of them stood there looking at him in horror, the uncle from the foot, the nephew from the head, the body grew longer and fatter at amazing speed. It was no longer a man, it was a giant.
How was this colossal heap of flesh and bones to be buried, how was this mountain to be put underground?
Gaumer did all he could to fight down his panic. They would have to get ropes immediately, or better still steel cables. If they put a truck in front of Irk and towed him they might still just manage to get him down to the canal that flowed past the factory. Lucky that Gaumer carried all the keys and had such things as trucks and cables at his disposal.
He proceeded to the sheds with leaden steps.
In backing the truck out of the shed he ran over Irk’s leg. It was as if he had run over a block of granite; the springs groaned and one of them snapped.
Irk’s body was now a good five metres long and one and a half metres in diameter. To raise one foot so as to put a cable round it they had to use a jack. That bent as well. In the end the whole contraption broke down.
Climbing into the lorry, Gaumer caught a glance from his nephew which troubled him deeply. The man was clearly afraid of
him. That made him very dangerous. He plainly realised now that Gaumer would have to do away with him once the job was done, and he was no doubt mulling over plans to beat his uncle somehow to the punch. Gaumer would have to do him in at the first possible opportunity, but only after the job was done, that went without saying.
The cable slipped off Irk’s foot twice, then the engine turned out to be short of power and simply stalled. The driver ought to have been cut into little pieces. Why didn’t he keep his engine in proper running order? Or was there some dark purpose behind it?
Gaumer ran into the second shed in a sweat.
They now had two lorries harnessed to the body with the uncle driving the front one and the nephew driving the one behind. So they could not see what was happening to the body. First the vehicles faltered, then there was a jerk, and the rear lorry ran into the one in front. Gaumer climbed out cursing. The body had been dragged a short way forward, but the radiator of the second truck had been bashed in by its collision with the one in front.
They tried again. From a certain point the yard sloped down towards the canal. There they began to skid and the body now developed the impetus of a loaded truck on its own and stepped up their speed tremendously. And in addition the bad light made it hard to drive properly. Too bad they could not have done the job by daylight . . .
With a crash that must have been heard for miles Gaumer’s lorry thundered into the canal with its brakes full on, and behind him the same thing happened to his nephew.
When Gaumer emerged from the muddy water and reached the edge, he heard splashing and saw his nephew swimming towards the embankment. The two lorries had disappeared completely into the canal. But Irk’s body, although it was right in the canal, was not covered by the water. Huge, gigantic, so vast he could never be hidden, Irk’s head and knees jutted out of the black waters.
Bertolt Brecht Page 16