He took a cigarette.
For two weeks Steiner had been a waiter at the Green Tree Inn. It was now late at night. The proprietor had gone to bed two hours before.
Steiner lowered the shutters. “Closing time!” he said.
“Let’s have one more, Johann,” said one of the guests, a master carpenter, with a face like a cucumber.
“All right,” Steiner replied. “Barack?”
“No. No more of that Hungarian stuff. Let’s go to work on a good plum brandy.”
Steiner brought the bottle and glasses. “Have one yourself,” the master carpenter invited.
“Not tonight. Either I stop drinking right now or I’ll have to get drunk.”
“Get drunk then.” The master carpenter rubbed his knobbly face. “I’ll get drunk too. Just imagine: a third daughter. In comes the midwife this morning and says, ‘My congratulations, Herr Blau, on your third fine daughter.’ And I’d thought that surely this time it would be a boy. Three girls and no heir! Isn’t that enough to drive a man crazy? Isn’t that enough to drive a man crazy, Johann? After all, you’re a human being, you must understand how I feel!”
“And how!” Steiner said. “Shall we use bigger glasses?”
The master carpenter struck the table with his fist. “You’re God-damned right, that’s the thing! Bigger glasses, that’s what we want! And to think it never occurred to me!”
They took bigger glasses and drank for an hour. By that time the master carpenter was badly mixed up and was lamenting the fact that his wife had borne him three sons. Clumsily he counted out the money and staggered away with his drinking companions.
Steiner cleaned up.
He poured himself another tumbler of brandy and tossed it off. His head was roaring. He sat down at the table and brooded. Then he got up and went into his room. He rummaged among his things, got out his wife’s photograph and looked at it for a long time. He had never heard from her. Nor had he written to her. Because he assumed her mail would be opened. He believed she had divorced him.
“Damn it!” He got up. “Maybe she’s been living with someone else for months and has forgotten all about me.” With a jerk he tore the photograph in two and tossed the pieces to the floor. “I’ve got to get out! If I don’t, this thing will drive me nuts. I am a man who lives by himself. I am Johann Huber. I’m not Steiner any more. All that’s over!”
He emptied another glass, then shut the place up and went out on the street. In the neighborhood of the Ring a girl accosted him. “Will you come with me, dearie?”
“Yes.”
As they walked along together the girl eyed him curiously. “You haven’t looked at me once.”
“Yes I have,” Steiner replied without lifting his eyes.
“I don’t think you have. Do you like me?”
“Yes. I like you.”
“You know what you want, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he said, “I know what I want.”
She pushed her arm through his. “What are you going to give me, my pet?”
“I don’t know. How much do you want?”
“Are you going to stay all night?”
“No.”
“How would twenty schillings be?”
“Ten. I’m a waiter. I don’t earn much.”
“You don’t look like a waiter.”
“There are people who don’t look like presidents of countries, still that’s what they are.”
The girl laughed. “You’re funny. I like funny people. All right, we’ll call it ten. I have a beautiful room. Just you wait. I’ll make you happy.”
“Will you?” Steiner said.
The room was a red plush-lined box, with plaster statues, and little crocheted covers over the tables and chairs. On the sofa sat a row of carnival dolls, Teddy bears and stuffed monkeys. Above them hung an enlarged photograph of a pop-eyed sergeant-major in dress uniform and waxed mustache.
“Is that your husband?” Steiner asked.
“No, the landlady’s dear departed.”
“She must have been glad to get rid of him, eh?”
“You have no idea!” The girl was slipping out of her blouse. “She still howls for him, he was such an amazing fellow. Capable, if you know what I mean.”
“Then why has she hung him in your room?”
“She has another picture in her own room. Bigger and brighter. Of course only the uniform is brighter, you understand. Come and unhook me behind, will you?”
Steiner felt her firm shoulders under his hands. He was surprised. He knew from his time in the army what the flesh of whores was like—always somewhat too soft and gray.
The girl threw her blouse on the sofa. Her breasts were full and firm. They suited her strong shoulders and neck. “Sit down, my pet, and make yourself comfortable,” she said. “Waiters and our kind always have tired legs.”
She pulled her dress over her head.
“Damn it,” Steiner said. “But you’re beautiful.”
“Lots of people have told me that”—the girl carefully folded her dress. “If this won’t disturb you—”
“On the contrary, it does disturb me. It disturbs me a lot.”
She turned half around. “You’re always making jokes. You’re a funny fellow.”
Steiner looked at her.
“What makes you stare at me like that?” the girl said. “You’re enough to frighten a person. Jesus, just like a stabber. Haven’t had a woman for a long time, have you?”
“What’s your name?” Steiner asked.
“You’ll laugh—Elvira. It was one of my mother’s ideas. She was always trying to be refined. Come on to bed.”
“No. Let’s have something to drink,” Steiner said.
“Have you money?” the girl asked quickly.
Steiner nodded. Elvira went to the door, naked and unembarrassed. “Frau Poschnigg!” she shouted. “Something to drink.”
The landlady appeared as quickly as if she had been listening behind the door. She was a roly-poly person, tightly laced in black velvet. Her cheeks were red and her eyes glistened like marbles. “We could give you champagne,” she said eagerly. “Like sugar!”
“Brandy,” Steiner said. “Plum brandy, pear brandy, Enzian, whatever you have.”
The women exchanged a glance. “Pear brandy,” Elvira said. “Some of the kind from the top shelf. It costs ten schillings, my pet.”
Steiner gave her the money. “Where did you get a skin like that?” he asked.
“Not one pimple, is there?” Elvira pirouetted in front of him. “Only redheads have skins like that.”
“Oh yes,” Steiner said. “That’s something I hadn’t noticed before—you have red hair.”
“I had my hat on, darling.”
Elvira took the bottle from the landlady. “Have one with us, Frau Poschnigg?”
“If I may?” The landlady seated herself. “You’re lucky, Fräulein Elvira!” she sighed. “Now look at me, a poor widow—always alone—” The poor widow gulped down the drink and immediately poured another. “Here’s your health, kind sir!”
She got up and glanced coquettishly at Steiner. “Well then, my very best thanks! And have a good time.”
“I think you might get somewhere with her, my pet,” Elvira remarked.
“Give me that tumbler,” Steiner said. He filled it and drank it down.
“Jesus.” Elvira looked at him anxiously. “You’re not going to start breaking things up, darling? This is expensive furniture, you know. It cost a lot of money, my pet.”
“Sit down here,” Steiner said. “Beside me.”
“Perhaps we better go out somewhere. To the Prater or into the woods.”
Steiner raised his head. He felt the brandy pounding behind his forehead, pounding against his eyeballs with soft hammer-blows. “Into the woods?” he asked.
“Yes, into the woods. Or into a cornfield. Now that it’s summer.”
“A cornfield—in summer? How’d you hit on a cornfield
?”
“The way anyone would,” Elvira chattered hastily and anxiously. “Because now it’s summer, my pet! That is when you go into a cornfield sometimes, you know.”
“Don’t hide that bottle, I’m not going to wreck your room. You said a cornfield in summer?”
“Yes, of course, in summer, my pet; in winter, it’s too cold.”
Steiner filled his glass. “Damn it! How you smell—”
“Redheads all smell alike, my pet.”
The hammers beat faster. The room reeled. “A cornfield—” Steiner said slowly and heavily, “and the night wind—”
“Come to bed now, darling. Get undressed—”
“Open the window—”
“Why the window’s open, my pet. Come, I’ll make you happy.”
Steiner drank. “Were you ever happy?” he asked, staring at the table.
“Of course, often.”
“Oh, shut your mouth. Turn out the light.”
“Get undressed first.”
“Turn out the light.”
Elvira obeyed. The room became dark. “Come to bed, my pet.”
“No. Not to bed. Bed is something else. Damn it, not to bed!”
With unsteady hand Steiner poured brandy into his glass. His head was roaring. The girl crossed the room. She came to the window and paused a moment, looking out. The pale glow from the street lights outside fell over her dark shoulders. Behind her head was the night sky. She raised her hand to her hair—“Come here,” Steiner said hoarsely.
She turned and came toward him softly and silently. She was like a ripe cornfield, dark and unknowable, with the scent and the skin of a thousand women, and of one. “Marie,” Steiner murmured.
The girl laughed low and tenderly. “Just see how drunk you are, my pet—my name is Elvira.…”
Chapter Eight
KERN SUCCEEDED IN getting his permit extended for five days; then he was ordered to leave. He was given a railroad pass as far as the border and he rode to the customs house.
“No papers?” asked the Czech official.
“None.”
“Go inside. There are some others there now. About two hours from now is the best time.”
Kern went into the customs building. Three people were there—a very pale man, accompanied by a woman, and an old Jew.
“Good evening,” Kern said.
The others muttered an indistinct reply.
Kern put down his valise and seated himself. Wearily he closed his eyes. The trip later on would be long he knew, and he wanted to get some sleep.
“We’ll get across,” he heard the pale man say. “You’ll see, Anna; and then everything will be better.”
The woman said nothing.
“We’re sure to get across,” the man began again. “Absolutely sure. Why shouldn’t they let us across?”
“Because they don’t want us,” the woman answered.
“But after all we’re human beings—”
You poor fool, Kern thought. He heard indistinctly the man’s continued murmuring; then he fell asleep.
He awoke when the customs man came to get them. They went across fields and came to a leafy woods which lay in front of them like a solid black block in the darkness.
The official stopped. “Follow this path and keep to the right. When you get to the road, turn left. Good luck.”
He disappeared into the night.
The four stood hesitating. “What shall we do now?” the woman asked. “Does anyone know the way?”
“I’ll go ahead,” Kern said. “I was here once before, a year ago.”
They groped their way through the dark. The moon had not yet risen. The grass was wet, and they could feel its strange, invisible touch against their ankles. Then came the woods and swallowed them up in its breathing darkness.
They walked for a long time. Kern heard the others behind him. Suddenly flashlights blazed in front of them and a harsh voice shouted: “Halt! Stand where you are!”
With a sidewise leap Kern got away. He plunged into the darkness, striking against trees and groping his way; he plowed through a blackberry thicket and threw his valise into it. There was the sound of running feet behind him. He turned. It was the woman. “Hide yourself!” he whispered. “I’m going to climb this tree!”
“My husband—Oh this—”
Kern hurriedly climbed the tree. Crouching in a fork, he could feel the soft, rustling foliage beneath him. The woman stood motionless below; he could not see her, he just felt her standing there. In the distance he heard the old Jew talking.
“Bosh!” the harsh voice answered. “Without a passport you don’t get across. That’s all there is to it!”
Kern strained his ears. After a while he could hear the low voice of the other man answering the guard. So they had caught them both. At that instant there was a rustling under him. The woman was going back, muttering to herself.
For a time everything was quiet. Then the beams of the flashlights began to sweep beneath the trees. Footsteps approached. Kern pressed himself against the tree-trunk. He was well hidden by the thick leaves under him. Suddenly he heard the piercing, hysterical voice of the woman. “This is where he must be. He climbed a tree, here—”
The beam was directed upward. “Come down!” the harsh voice shouted. “Otherwise we’ll shoot.”
Kern considered the situation; there was nothing to be done. He climbed down. The blinding flashlights were thrust into his face. “Passport?”
“If I’d had a passport I wouldn’t have climbed that tree.”
Kern looked at the woman who had given him away. She was disheveled and almost out of her mind. “You’d have liked that, wouldn’t you?” she hissed at him. “To get away and leave us here! All of us are going to stay,” she screamed, “all of us.”
“Shut your mouth!” roared the guard. “Stand close together!” He turned his light on the group. “We really ought to throw you into prison, you know that well enough! Unauthorized entry! But what’s the use of feeding you? About-face! Back to Czechoslovakia! But make a note of this: next time we’ll shoot at sight!”
Kern got his valise out of the thicket. Then the four went back silently in single file, followed by the guards with the flashlights. They could see nothing of their opponents but the white circles of the flashlights; it gave them an eerie feeling as if voices and light had captured them and were now driving them back.
Presently the lights stopped moving. “March straight ahead,” commanded the coarse voice. “Anyone who returns will be shot.”
The four went on until they could no longer see the lights behind the trees.
Kern heard behind him the gentle voice of the man whose wife had betrayed him. “You must excuse her—she was beside herself—forgive her—I am certain she feels sorry now—”
“That makes no difference to me,” Kern said over his shoulder.
“But you must understand,” the man whispered; “the shock, the fear—”
“Sure, I understand.” Kern turned around. “Forgiving is too much trouble. I’d rather forget.”
He stopped. They were in a little clearing. The others stopped too. Kern lay down on the grass and put his valise under his head. The others whispered together. Then the woman approached. “Anna,” her husband said.
The woman placed herself in front of Kern.
“Aren’t you going to show us the way back?” she asked sharply.
“No,” Kern replied.
“It’s your fault they caught us. You louse!”
“Anna!” her husband said.
“Leave her alone,” Kern said. “It always helps to get it out of your system.”
“Get up!” screamed the woman.
“I’m staying here. You can do what you like. Straight ahead and turn to the right beyond the woods; that’ll take you to the Czech customs house.”
“You Jewish bum!” the woman screamed.
Kern laughed. “I thought that was coming.”
He watched the pale man whispering to his hysterical wife and urging her to leave. “He’s planning to go back,” she sobbed. “I know he’s planning to go back. And he’ll get across. He must take us—it’s his duty—”
The man led her slowly away toward the woods. Kern was fumbling for a cigarette when something dark bobbed up a couple of yards in front of him like a gnome popping out of the earth. It was the old Jew who had also been lying down. He straightened up and shook his head. “These Christians!”
Kern made no reply. He lit his cigarette.
“Do we stay here all night?” the old man asked softly.
“Till three. That’s the best time. They are on the lookout now. If no one comes back they’ll get tired.”
“Waiting is something I can do too,” the old Jew said contentedly.
“It’s a long way and we’ll have to crawl part of it,” Kern replied.
“It don’t matter. I’ll turn into a Yiddish Indian in my old age.”
They sat in silence. Gradually the stars appeared from among the clouds. Kern recognized the Great Bear and the North Star.
“I’ve got to get to Vienna,” the old man said presently.
“There’s really no place I have to get to,” Kern replied.
“That’s how it is sometimes.” The old man began to chew a blade of grass. “Later on there’ll be some place or other you have to get to. That’s the way it goes. You just have to wait.”
“Yes,” Kern said. “That’s what you have to do. But what is one waiting for?”
“For nothing really,” the old man replied calmly. “When it comes it’s nothing. Then you start waiting again for something else.”
“Maybe so.” Kern stretched out again. He felt the bag under his head. It was nice to feel it there.
“I am Moritz Rosenthal from Godesberg-on-the-Rhine,” the old man said after a while. He got a thin gray ulster out of his knapsack and threw it around his shoulders. It made him look even more like a gnome. “Sometimes it’s ridiculous to have a name, isn’t it? Especially at night—”