North (21 page)

"You see this plain, this sky, this road, these people! . . . sad, aren't they? . . . Russian! . . . sad! . . . as far as the Urals! . . . and then some!"

. . . a hamlet . . . a hollow . . . another hamlet . . . geese . . . plowed fields . . . we at least had a landmark, the steeple, the clock . . . nine . . . we head that way . . . have they got a food store? . . . it must be open . . . two three dogs bark at us . . . I see that this extra-wide road circles around Zornhof, but in two parts . . . it forks at the first huts and comes back together at the end . . . and goes on straight as a die . . . on and on . . . landscapes like this are made for Russian music, bands with sleigh bells . . . Cossack regiments receding into the distance . . . but that steeple? . . . ah, here's the church! nothing like Felixruhe, this church isn't coming apart . . . perfect condition . . . and a whole bevy of kids cleaning up . . . scrubbing the pews . . . girls and boys . . . having a helluva time! . . . not surprised to see us! . . . they make motions . . . a game they want to play . . . them on one side of the pulpit and us on the other . . . to see who can scrub more and faster . . . on with the housecleaning!. . . teach us some Russian . . . I listen . . . Russians and Boches . . . some Poles too . . . all together . . . making war on each other, but not our war . . . they've got the right spirit though . . . they want us to come into their war . . . and learn their war cries . . .
lourcha!
 ° 
lourcha!
that seems to be for us . . . I step in . . . where's the pastor? . . . I ask the ones that speak German . . . "He's out with the bees" . . . ah, at the hives . . . we leave them . . . in fact we run . . . got to, they're throwing things . . . every thing in sight, brooms, buckets, brushes! . . . at us! they don't like us any mote, we won't play . . . that must be the parson age right there . . . that house . . . neat, freshly painted, win dows open wide . . . little girls looking out . . . happy as larks . . . laughing . . . I ask them where the pastor is . . . they understand us . . . 

"Where's the pastor?"

"With the bees."

"Out there?"

We point to the garden . . .

"No . . . no . . . far . . . far . . ."

They're cleaning up the parsonage same as the others in the church . . . but this bunch aren't so rough . . . they don't throw their brooms and brushes at us, they could, we're right under them . . . at least four to a window . . . they ask us to come up . . . oh, they're a little suspicious all the same . . . later on, in prison, I met German soldiers who'd fought the Russians in the forests east of Trodjem, they'd captured some girls, very dangerous chicks, sharpshooters . . . their trick . . . perched up in the trees they could recognize an officer six thousand feet away, dressed exactly like the men, all in white, it didn't help . . . they never missed!
ping!
one shot, bull's-eye! . . . instinct! the female knows . . . same with she-dogs . . . who's in command! . . . take Joan of Arc at Chinon . . . Charles VII in disguise . . .

Coffee? . . . no sign . . . we look at the garden, leeks . . . potatoes . . . apple trees . . .

"Are the bees far?"

"Yes! . . . yes . . .
ja! ja!
. . . far! . . ."

If you ask me, this pastor won't be back for a while . . . what we want is a little something hot . . . especially for Lili . . . we say good-bye to the chicks . . . their heads are all done up the same way . . . handkerchiefs knotted under the chin . . . jolly little girls!

Right after the shed there's a big sign . . .
Tanzhalle!
Dance hall . . . the
Tanzhalle
is closed . . . but inside they're hammering! loud! . . . and sawing! . . . and the
pom!
. . .
pom!
. . . of a motor . . . that must be their workshop . . . somebody from inside must have seen us . . . a door opens . . . a
bibelforscher
comes out . . . a convict in denims with red and yellow stripes, same as out there at the isba . . . they're not supposed to speak to anybody . . . this one makes no bones . . . what do we want?

"We're looking for a place to eat! . . .
wirtschaft!
 
wirtschaft!
"

He motions me to wait, for the boss I suppose . . . here he is . . . same guy as over there at the isba, we'd just spoken to him. . . he'd been in command over there too . . . Zomhof isn't big, hadn't taken him long to make the rounds. . . he welcomes us . . .

"But
teufel
. . . the devil! no more coffee! come and see!"

We go into the
Tanzhalle
. . . he shows us his barracks . . . the floor and the straw, he and his thirty-five "objectors" sleep right on the floor . . . pretty good thickness of straw . . . we've slept on less, not one day but years . . . coffee? ah, too late, too late, he shows me the pot . . . we talk about this and that . . . fleas for instance . . . they haven't got any . . .

"Verboten!"

Spiders? plenty . . . so have we . . .

"Nicht verboten!"
spiders not prohibited!

Next door we see the carpenter's bench . . . benches . . . plenty of tools . . . this is where the sound of the motor came from . . . where they turn out the logs . . . they're not lying down on the job . . . piles of logs all over the road . . . these "objectors" earn their soup . . . we look at their kitchen . . . next to the sleeping quarters . . . three big kettles simmering . . . got to taste this . . . Le Vig too . . . a company-sized ladle . . . more than vegetables in there. . . two geese! . . . we worm it out of the SS-man . . . how big? . . . five six pounds! I see where the convicts get their tummies . . . where do they find them? . . . in the, fields! . . . anyway it's a lot better than the Kretzer soup . . . I think of Lili and Bébert . . . not bad, our little excursion . . . we've got ourselves thrown out of the farm but we've battened on the ladle . . . selfish bastards! a cupful for Lili and Bébert? I don't dare . . . I really don't dare . . . no, but I think of it. . . so does Le Vig . . . We're not really pals yet with this SS slave driver . . . but that'll come . . . really nutritive fare! . . . oh, they haven't got it soft, they work like robots, but they eat . . . they're better off than they'd be at the front, and better off than us. We take the road back, we see one thing and another, I'll tell you later . . . I've told you, thatched huts on both sides. A nobody looking at us . . . the young men are at the front and the women in the fields . . . with the kids . . . all we get to see is geese and ducks . . . the duck ponds spread out over the road, we're wading . . . there must be a bar in this place . . . there are limits! . . . maybe we've passed it? no! . . . on one of the roofs, a sign . . .
Wirtschaft
. . . hm! . . . green . . . we're in luck! . . . we go in . . . a big farm room, benches all around . . . nice and warm . . . tile stove in the middle . . . I see they're burning peat . . . a fable in back, I hadn't seen it, and a bar . . . farm hands standing around . . . I count them, six . . . talking French . . . they start whispering and giving us the once-over . . . they know what we are . . . they start right in: "Collabos! stinkers!" Zornhof or Montmartre, or Meudon thirty years later, that's fame! . . . it'd be kind of amusing with money, but no lettuce it's a damn nuisance . . . oh well, let's see about some coffee . . . I step up to the counter . . . they nudge each other . . . I look them over . . . they all look the same, maybe the one that called us Krauts is a little more brassy, more insolent, he must be the head of the local "Resistance'' . . . anyway there he is, white bread, plenty of butter . . . they're doing all right! . . . Fräulein!. . . I dive right in . . . a Frieda with braids . . . the boss? maybe? . . . she'd disappeared when she saw us . . . she comes back . . .
nichts! nichts!
. . . nothing for us! cute little burg! as friendly as the Eighteenth! ° . . . lovely spot our
Oberführer
had picked! quiet, out-of-the-way . . . 

Which reminds me . . . Harras . . . where's he gone? to one of his Lisbons probably, chasing epidemics, piling it in up to here, caviar, port wine, strawberries and cream . . . he didn't give a shit about typhus! . . . or the curtain coming down on the way and its frenzied combatants! . . . the epidemic would come to us! no need to travel so far! it wouldn't skip Zornhof! we'd see the young ladies' gizzards bursting with microbes! . . . Right! . . . but meanwhile we were going home empty-handed! . . . we'd even been threatened! tell Lili? . . . hell, no! . . . some more empty houses . . . suddenly a bugle blast! . . . two blasts! . . . up ahead . . . I say to Le Vig: it's the beadle, well go in and ask him . . . where can he be? in a blind alley between two barns . . . he pays no attention to us . . . he's blowing . . . a kind of cornet that seems to have only three notes, but that'll do for a warning . . . you can hear it pretty far in the daytime . . . even at night . . . they must notify him from someplace . . . with the telephone out? . . . I guess he blows as a matter of principle . . . he doesn't look as if he knew anything . . . it's his function, he does what he's supposed to . . . this alley, that alley . . . he's rigged out like a "territorial" . . . spiked helmet, pre-1914 . . . standard Boche . . . a broad patent-leather shoulder strap for his drum . . . but no jacket . . . out-at-elbows denim jacket, pants in tatters . . . they haven't pampered him! . . . wooden shoes, or so it seems, all I can see is clods of caked mud where-his feet are supposed to be . . . his legs look like boots . . . we're pretty much in the local style ourselves, we can show ourselves in Zornhof . . . we look at him . . . he's tired, he's leaning against the wall, he's stopped playing . . . his spiked helmet has slumped down over his forehead . . . he's sucking the ends of his moustache . . . yellow and white . . .

"Tell us! Tell-us, Herr
Landwehr!
 ° the grocery store!
Kolonialwaren?"

He must know . . . I only hope he hasn't forgotten! . . . but now he's got a question for us . . .

"Where do you live?"

"At the
Rittmeister's!
Up there!"

We point . . .

"Ach! ja! . . . ja! . . . franzosen!"

He knows . . . not unfriendly! . . . not in the least! . . . he'll show us . . . up ahead! . . . our direction . . . after the second third house! . . . he counts on his fingers . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . he won't go with us . . . we can't go wrong . . . we shake hands . . . I say to Le Vig:

"Careful now . . . if anybody's there, forget it! . . . we'll try again later . . . if it's like at the bar . . ."

"You want to heist the joint?"

"Oh no! . . . well do it with charm! . . . your department! . . . your eyes! . . . go on! I bet it's a woman!"

I'd guessed right . . . a blowsy blonde, not bad . . . her store was a big thatched house like the others, but inside it was all shelves . . . all around the walls . . . I've seen them like that in Canada, in Saint-Pierre and Miquelon . . . and in Cameroun in 1918, the trading-post effect . . . I'm not trying to impress you . . . the intrepid traveler, the "Madon of the Sleeping Cars" ° . . . not these days when a round-trip to the Cape is a weekend jaunt! . . . and New York via the stratosphere more boring than a trip to the suburbs . . .

Speaking of trading posts, I had one like that myself, a straw hut, strings of shelves all around . . . that was in '17, with the Maféas in Bikomimbo . . . quite an edifice, three stories, built entirely by myself and the village carpenters . . . cannibals, it seems . . . I never saw them eating dinner . . . but bandits, I'm sure of that . . . looters as bad as my Fifis on rue Girardon and tomorrow the Chinese right here. . . I had everything, not like Zornhof!
cassoulet
, rice, cod fillets, loincloths . . . no water though! . . . that bog water is fatal . . . applesauce bowels for the rest of your life . . . At the first tornado everything flies away . . . shelves, merchandise, liana rigging, rice, kegs of tobacco! . . . everything I'd ordered from John Holdt & Co. . . don't talk to me about tropic nights! nothing left but scorpions, snakes, and chiggers . . . everything else had taken off, absolutely . . . like my pad on rue Girardon . . . it's habit-forming . . . take Copenhagen, Denmark, same routine . . . I won't live long enough to see the next act . . . but it'll be the same . . . "Forgetful youth" . . . me . . . my youth . . . doesn't forget a thing . . . don't I make my living by it? . . . telling you this and that and not having it do you any good . . . except for cocktail parties and vacation chit-chat! we hadn't gone there to dream . . . I saw a shelf full of bread . . . "coupons?" she asks me . . . I'm sure it was agreed between the Kretzers, the von Leidens, the
Landrat
and SS Kracht, and all the kittens at the
Dienstelle
, that we'd never see our food cards again . . . twenty housewives were wrangling at the counter . . . clamoring for their jar of mustard, their quarter pound of ersatz camembert . . . exactly the same as rue Girardon, Montmartre, and later on up there in Denmark

The good housewife's dream is to cheat the grocer out of coupons . . . the thought of forking them over, they see red . . . All of a sudden they see us, they see we're looking . . . panic!
komm! komm!
they gather up their baskets and kids . . .
komm! komm!
tracks! Harras out there looking for plagues and poxes to end the war . . . it seems to me, when it comes to terrorizing and making a clean sweep, the three of us were in a class by ourselves . . . one look at us and this
"Kolonialwaren"
setup, housewives, snot-noses, didn't last three seconds . . . everybody out! thin air! . . . to give you an idea of our devastating power! If Harras had exhibited us on the Eastern Front, the war would have stopped dead, the armies would have faded! . . . just to get us but of their sight! . . . the rout of the housewives, head over heels, skirts over heads, for fear somebody would recognize them . . .

Yes, I grant you . . . Montmartre would have been a lot worse, the same women with the Bibici conniptions would have rushed us, cut us up small and fought over our kidneys . . . a bit of liver . . . carried us away in their shopping bags . . . oh, that could happen here too! . . . sure to, in fact! . . . matter of weeks . . . Zornhof . . . Montmartre . . . alignment of epilepsies . . . why, even today I get letters full of horrible threats, twenty years later, from people who hadn't been born yet . . . all in the day's work, I'm used to it . . . I might add that the most virulent letters are never signed . . . the letters on-the other side, ardent admirers, all carry names and addresses . . . amiable autograph hunters! . . . the funny part, I have an idea it's the same people who inform you'that they're coming to cut you to pieces and then next week in a different handwriting they think you're an incomparable genius and they're inconsolable, weeping night and day at the thought of the way abject humanity has been treating you . . . worse than the dyedest-in-the-wool parricides . . . it takes all kinds to make a world and more to make one man . . . don't try to make head or tail!. . . there anyway, one good thing, we were alone with the grocery woman . . . I say to Le Vig . . .