North (31 page)

"A prodigy!"

"Well, get this! he robs the errand boys! . . . he swipes their newspapers! . . . for the comics!"

"Say! That's something!''

Roger's no idle talker . . . man of action! . . .

"How much have you got there?"

"About a thousand pages . . ."

He was talking about this same manuscript . . .
North
. . .

"Can it take illustrations?"

"I think so . . . sort of . . ."

"How much more to come?"

"About the same, I think . . ."

"I'll get you an artist . . . there must be one who'll take it on . . . your fortune! . . . but get this, Ferdinand! . . . three four pictures a chapter . . . 'contracted' chapters . . . three lines to fifty of yours . . . you understand?"

"Are you kidding? . . . do I understand the package-label style! . . . you'll see . . . Roger! . . . you'll see if I'm with youth and the future! Achille won't ever go out again! he won't ever leave his office, or his bed, or the crapper!"

Comics? . . . Comics? . . . an artist? I'm not really convinced . . . he won't find one . . . some obliging "comer-backer" . . . the ones I know have denounced me from every direction, they're scared vicious . . . comics, though . . . I read them as a kid . . . in seven colors . . .
Les Belles Images
, 10 centimes . . . but even contracting my book to the limit, I don't quite see how it could sell considering the present state of the newsstands and bookstores . . . all puking up returns . . . the public's in such a hurry, so blasé, so alcoholic, so tired . . . they don't read any more . . . oh, maybe some little fruit story? . . . madness in the nursery? . . . the confessions of a sexhilarated governess? . . . which makes me look pretty sick with my tales of flames, phosphorus, and earthquakes . . .

I was telling you about Inge, the cripple, the
bibelforschers
, the Kretzers, our
mahlzeit
of lukewarm water soup in the tall gloomy dining room under the portrait of the guy who was to set himself on fire a few months later . . .
heil! heil!
all the others pretended to like the soup . . . like us . . . they asked for more . . . like us . . . they had to, the typists and bookkeepers . . . a display of optimism and high morale . . . Kracht, the SS pharmacist, Herr Kretzer, director of the Archives-in-Hiding, his wife the nervous weeper, and the three of us . . . we all took second helpings of that splendid succulent soup! . . . you wouldn't get us to turn it down! . . . the little hunchback too . . . she smacked her lips . . . she'd stopped going to Berlin, she'd stopped bringing back fish, she hadn't seen her parents in months . . . their impregnable bunker had taken a haymaker . . . cracked, split, and splattered . . . with her parents in it! . . . good subject to steer clear of . . . The lukewarm soup in the dishes rippled and trembled . . . tiny little waves . . . from the pounding and clobbering . . . of Berlin, I've told you about it, seventy miles away! not just the soup, the glasses of water too and the portrait of Adolf . . . in its gilt frame . . . we weren't getting any more "communiqués," but we could tell by the soup and the glassware that it was coming closer every day . . . the Russian armies, I guessed . . . most of the ruckus came from the east . . . probably catching Berlin in a pincers movement . . . they'd be here pretty soon . . . they'd send their reconnaissance . . . maybe a tank . . . When you've been listening to bombs for a while, you end up thinking you're important and that all the armies in the world are converging on Zomhof . . . hamlet, huts, and cowflop . . . you go nuts very fast . . . better concentrate on the tobacco in the cupboard . . . I dove right in . . . Luckiest Navy Cut! . . . Craven! . . . not for myself, of course, for the others, every day two three packs . . . you get into the habit . . . I distributed them . . . six cigarettes for Kracht in bis holster, on the hatrack where he'd told me . . . naturally they were all in the know . . . tobacco! sniff! sniff! . . . exactly what he wanted, I'm no sap, for me to dip into the cupboard and everybody to know . . . if Harras came back, we'd see!. . . as long as I was helping myself for Kracht, why not for messkits . . . the SS guard in charge of the dance-hall kitchen knew all about it too . . . he preferred Navy Cut . . . oh yes, and our grocery woman too, for our bread and ersatz honey . . . every evening five or six Camels . . . I could afford it . . . it would take me at least three years to run through the stock . . . not to mention the rest of it, the cognac, caviar, pernod, chianti . . . I didn't know exactly how much, anyway plenty! . . . nobody else seemed to have touched die stuff, I certainly wasn't going to give the show away . . . they'd have taken that cupboard by storm! . . . at the rate I was going, three four packs a day and a few cigars, the war would be over before I was finished . . .

As I was saying, at the dinner table, at the
mahlzeit
ceremony, the secretaries and Kracht took second helpings of soup, same as us . . . we didn't make faces, certainly not, they . . . well, just a little . . . For maximum zeal Kracht starts shrinking his moustache . . . thinner than the
Führer's
. . . three hairs . . . the whole table commented, not out loud, but worse, in whispers . . .

Consuming the lukewarm soup wasn't enough . . . we had to converse too . . . every day we had to show perfect morale . . . comment on the news . . . Frau Kretzer was our gazette . . . where did she get the dope?. . . she never told us . . . the latest news: their Revizor, ° the Inspector General for Brandenburg, had left Berlin three weeks ago, he must have got lost . . . and they couldn't stir a finger without him, the
Dienstelle
accounts just had to wait . . . not a trace! . . . he was supposed to be coming via Moorsburg . . . maybe he'd been detained somewhere . . . but where? . . . by whom? . . .

Quick, another subject . . . when Frau Kretzer wasn't crying she was cutting up, horsing around in a way that was kind of embarrassing, for the men, I mean . . . this time it was about the covered wagon in our park . . . had the gentlemen gone to see? and what did they think of it? . . . the Gypsy girls . . . so pretty! . . . eyes like glowing coals! what did the bookkeepers think? . . . and Kracht? not the one who had come up to our tower, that foul-mouthed virago who had kicked Le Vig and me out . . . no! . . . different ones! charming little girls . . . precocious! . . . curves! . . . lascivious! . . . absolutely Oriental! . . . and the breasts on them!

"Did you resist, Kracht?"

He hadn't been there . . .

"Oh yes you were!"

The secretaries laughed, they'd seen him . . . he protested . . .

"Nein! nein!"

"Ja! . . . ja!. . . ja!"

He defied them to prove it! the Kretzer bitch kept at him . . .

They call each other every name in the book . . . there'll be dishes flying in a minute!

I step in . . . Kretzer is dangerous!

"The three of us will go over . . ."

I mean me and Lili and Le Vig . . .

"Well tell you if they're good-looking . . ."

Then we'd be posted . . . mostly I wanted to find out if the insolent slut who'd been up to our tower was a man or a woman. . . I'd get her to come out of her wagon . . . and tell us some more about the "black house" . . . and our future . . . Gypsies get around, but I didn't think they had any Lucides . . . tobacco's better than gin, better than butter, better than gold in fact . . . when you want information . . . the sulkiest sour-puss will open up if you take out a pack . . . no words needed! . . . and a box of matches . . . if you're going to play the tempter, you've got to know what you're doing . . . First we put Bébert in his bag, I didn't want to leave him with the Kretzers . . . or the little Polish elves . . . or the bookkeeper . . .  just a suspicion . . . that they'd do away with him! . . . those people didn't like animals, they didn't want any dogs or cats on the farm . . . except Iago downstairs . . . he was useful, to haul the old buzzard around and exhibit bis ribs, to show that famine reigned at the manor . . .

We get up . . . good-bye all around . . . they give us
heil! heil!
. . .

The wagon's not far . . . a hundred yards to the left . . . Christ! . . . the "conscientious objectors" are building another isba! . . . they're indefatigable! . . . ah, there's the wagon right next to it! . . . absolutely cockeyed-looking and patched all over . . . every color, speckled yellow . . . purple . . . pink . . . camouflage effect . . . on purpose? . . . but what's it like close up? . . . we go over . . . an old man's looking at us out of a little window . . . he opens up . . .

"What do you want?"

He speaks French . . . he must know who we are . . . kinky white hair . . . not friendly . . . he speaks German, but funny German, not the Gypsy accent . . . he hisses . . . in German and French . . .

"Fas follen chie? . . . fous êtes franchais?"

"Yes . . . yes . . . that's us!"

"Ponjour!"

I pull out the Luckies! . . . Virginia tobacco! . . . I had them ready . . .

"Ah,
allumettes! franchaiges
too?"

Must be from Auvergne . . .

I hand him the box . . . he can keep them . . . he calls into the wagon.

"Zénoné! . . . Laïka . . . Sinül!"

The three of them . . . and a lot more . . . come to the windows . . . to look at us . . . they must have been working in back . . . usually Gypsies work in the open, not these . . . I see, they're repairing chairs . . . to judge by the voices . . . men and women . . . there must be a lot of them . . . is that Hungarian they're talking? . . . or Czech? . . . ah, I see the faces . . . especially the women . . . young, I'd say . . . but not pretty! . . . la Kretzer didn't look very hard! yes, the Oriental type, as far as I can see, but very run-down . . . messy hair . . . messy and oily . . . not irresistible in the least . . . worse than the Russian maids . . . the Russian women are overworked too . . . but their skin holds up . . . no matter how much they dig and hoe, outdoors in every kind of weather, sleet, wind, and sun . . . not these Gypsies! . . . you'd think they'd been daubed with sulfur . . . the men too, and swarthy besides . . . the old geezer wore earrings . . . the women had no jewelry . . . I don't think they all spoke the same language . . . anyway they were packed in . . . I didn't see our fortuneteller . . . were they all repairing baskets and chairs? . . . I ask them . . . they don't speak German . . . only the old man . . .
sprechen nicht!
that's all they know, and gestures . . .
nein! nein!
they must be forbidden to speak German . . . don't they ever get out of their wagon? . . . the call of nature? . . . and their grub? . . . I didn't see any cook pots . . . do they all sleep on top of each other? . . . are they worse . . . or better housed than us? they haven't got much more light, that's for sure . . . right against the isba and under those big trees . . . But where's the entrance to this wagon? . . . on the other side? . . . not so sure that it's chairs and baskets . . . could they be doing something else? . . . none of our business, they'll just throw us out! . . . But if they talk through the blinds, maybe they'll open them a crack . . . I take another look at this wagon . . . it's long . . . at least thirty windows . . . a monument! . . . and cockeyed . . . three four sections . . . lots of wheels! with balloon tires . . . it runs on motors! two of them! an enormous wood-burning engine in back . . . comics Roger wanted! . . . a picture of this would do it! four little chimneys . . . must be their kitchen . . . I hadn't seen everything yet . . . on the other side more portholes . . . and enormous hooks . . . about twenty . . . One of the Gypsy girls appears . . . to see what we want . . . oh, very friendly! . . . big smile . . . teeth missing . . . she shows us a tambourine . . . she bangs on it . . .
pom! pom! 
. . . she must be a dancer! . . .
ja! ja!
. . . well go and see her . . . once more around . . . really a weird contraption, patched all over . . . tin, wires, string . . . and painted pink, yellow, and green . . . plus designs . . . symbols . . . arabesques . . . I'll ask the old man . . . if he's still there . . . oh yes, same window . . . he doesn't hear me, he's not listening . . . he's playing the fiddle . . . not bad . . . Gypsy style, but not bad . . . they must be rehearsing . . . well see them at the "Strength Through Joy" show . . . at the
Tanzhalle
. . . we make friends through the window . . . the rest of them, the girls, are sullen . . . except the dancer with the tambourine tike old man looks at Lili's hand, he feels her fingers . . .
"cholie bague!"
pretty ring! rupies! rupies! . . . me rupies too! . . . he hadn't shown us, he'd turned it around, palm side up . . . a ruby! and an emerald! . . . he shows us the next finger, a sapphire . . . and on his little finger a "blue tiamont" . . . he exhibits them all! . . . "how mooch your rupy, pretty lady? you no vant sell?" and in a whisper "dey steal it!" I can see this old-timer does more than play the fiddle, he's a jeweler too . . .

But the woman that came up to our place . . . I still don't know what she was . . . a man with a wig? . . . and so rude . . . wonder if he knows her . . . and what she does in addition to cards and table turning . . . a fink for sure! I ask him . . .

"Oh, she dell vortune . . ."

He laughs . . . he won't say any more . . . they're all yacking inside! . . . in Russian . . . and German . . . and Spanish too, I think . . . Oh, they didn't ask us in . . . all one tribe? or several? . . . how many of them? . . . this bus is long and wide, but even so, don't they ever come out? . . . I ask them . . .

"Don't you ever come out?"

"Oh yes! . . . yes, Monsieur! . . . all together!"

I'd like to see them all together . . .

"When do you come out?"

"Oh, I don't know!"

Blarney! . . . I'll ask Kretzer, she'll know . . . what's true and what's hot air . . . one thing is sure, they're oily, they're filthy, and they're Gypsies, which makes them sworn enemies of the Reich, dyed-in-the-wool traitors, so how come nobody bothers them? . . . "travel permit" stamped and signed, Kracht showed me . . . more than we've got! . . . and when they leave their wagon, what do they do? . . . Gypsies or not, Hungarians, Walachians, or what have you, what do they do? . . . repair beehives? . . . we didn't see any on their hooks . . . not a beehive, only chairs and a few baskets . . . eyewash if you ask me . . .