The Absolutist by John Boyne
I must apologize for writing to you out of the blue like this. I don’t know what you’ve been going through over these last couple of years, I can’t imagine it, but I know that your brother is never very far from my thoughts because, no matter what anyone says, he was the bravest and kindest man I ever knew and there were plenty of brave men out there, I can promise you that, but not so many kind ones.
Anyway, I write to you now because I have something belonging to Will that I thought I should return. The letters you wrote to him while he was over there. He kept them all, you see, and they fell to me. Afterwards, I mean. On account of our friendship. I assure you that I’ve never read any of them. Only I thought that you might like them back.
I should have written before now, of course, but the truth is I haven’t been well since my return and have had to take a little time for myself. Perhaps you can understand that. That’s all over now, I think. I don’t know. I’m not sure about things when I look to the future. I don’t know if you are; I know I’m not.
I didn’t mean to write so much really, I just wanted to introduce myself and say that if perhaps you would permit me to call on you some day, then I should very much like to do so and I could return the letters to you, for I wonder if it might not give you some degree of comfort when you think of your brother.
Maybe you come to London sometimes. I don’t know if you do or not, but if you don’t I wouldn’t mind coming to Norwich. I hope this letter reaches you safely; you might have moved for all I know. I heard that sometimes in these cases people move because of all the trouble that comes about.
If you would write to me, I would like to set this matter right. Or, if you prefer not to meet, I could put the letters in a box and send them along to you. Only I hope you do agree to meet me. There are so many things I would like to tell you.
Your brother was my best friend, I said that already, didn’t I? Anyway, I know this much, that he was no coward, Miss Bancroft, he was no coward at all. He was a braver man than I will ever be.
I didn’t mean to write so much. But there’s a lot to say, I think.
With respectful wishes,
Tristan Sadler
Without realizing it, I had walked directly past my turning for Recorder Road and found myself standing on the Riverside, staring across from where the stone pillars of Thorpe rose up to greet me. I found that my feet were taking me across the river and inside the station and I stood quietly, watching the people as they purchased their tickets and made their way towards the platforms. It was five minutes past twelve and there in front of me was the London train, set to go in another five minutes’ time. A conductor was walking up and down crying, “All aboard!” and I put my hand in my pocket for my wallet, looking at the ticket that I was carrying for my return journey later that evening. My heart raced when I saw that it was valid all day. I could simply climb on board and go home, put the whole wretched business behind me. I would have lost my holdall, of course, but there was not much in it, just yesterday’s clothes and the Jack London book. I could forward Mrs. Cantwell what I owed her and apologize for leaving without a word.
As I hesitated, a man approached me, hand extended, and asked whether I had any spare change. I shook my head, stepping back a little as he reeked of stale sweat and cheap alcohol; he walked on crutches for his left leg was missing, while his right eye was sealed over as if he had recently been in a fight. He wasn’t a day over twenty-five.
“A few pennies, that’s all,” he said, growling at me. “Fought for my country, didn’t I, and look how they left me. You can spare some change, can’t you? Come on, you fucking bastard!” he cried, raising his voice now and shocking me with the unexpected vulgarity. “You can spare a few pennies for them what gave you freedom.”
A lady who was passing by with a small boy immediately covered his ears and I noticed him staring at the man in rapt fascination. Before I could say anything to the man he lunged at me and I stepped back again at the very moment that a constable appeared and took a hold of him—gently, as it turned out—and said, “Come along, that’s not going to solve anything, now is it?” And with that platitude, the man seemed to crumple inside himself and moved away, hobbling back towards the wall and returning to a seated position on the ground, where he became almost catatonic, holding his hand out in the air, not even expecting anyone to help him.
“Sorry about that, sir,” said the constable. “He’s not usually much trouble so we let him stay there as he gets a few shillings most days. Ex-army, like myself. Had rather a rough time of it, though.”
“It’s quite all right,” I muttered, leaving the station, any thought of heading back to London quite gone now. I had come to do a job, it was important that I completed it. And it had nothing to do with the return of a packet of letters.
It was almost two weeks before I received a reply from Marian Bancroft and in the intervening time I had thought of little else. Her silence made me question whether she had received my note, whether her family had been forced to move to another part of the country, whether she simply wanted nothing to do with me. It was impossible to know and I was torn between regret at having written to her at all and a sense that I was being punished by her refusal to reply.
And then one evening, returning home late from a day of reading dreary, unsolicited manuscripts at the Whisby Press, I discovered a letter waiting for me under the door of my flat. I lifted it in amazement—I never received any post—and stared at the elegant handwriting, knowing immediately who it must be from, and went inside to make a cup of tea, staring at the envelope nervously as I did so and imagining the possible traumas that it might contain. Finally settled, I opened it carefully, removed the single sheet of paper, and was struck immediately by the faint smell of lavender that accompanied it. I wondered whether this was her particular perfume or whether she was a girl who stuck to the old-fashioned ways and put a drop of scent in her envelopes, regardless of whether she was writing a love letter, paying a bill or answering an unexpected correspondence such as my own.
Dear Mr. Sadler,
First, I should like to thank you for writing to me and apologize for taking so long to reply. I realize that my silence might have appeared rude but I think you will understand when I say that your letter both upset and moved me in unexpected ways and I was uncertain how to answer it. I didn’t want to reply until I was sure of what I wanted to say. I think people often rush responses, don’t you? And I didn’t want to do that.
You speak very kindly of my brother and I was tremendously affected by this. I am glad that he had a friend “over there,” as you call it. (Why is that, Mr. Sadler? Are you afraid to name the place?) I’m afraid I have a very contradictory feeling towards our soldiers. I respect them, of course, and pity them for fighting for so long in such terrible conditions. I am sure that they were terribly brave. But when I think of what they did to my brother, what these same soldiers did to him, well, I’m sure you can understand that at such times my feelings are less than generous.
If I try to explain all this I am not sure that there will be enough ink in the world to hold my thoughts, nor enough paper on which to write them down, and I dare say I would have trouble finding a postman who would deliver a document as long as the one I would need to compose.
The letters—I can’t believe you have them. I think it is very kind that you want to return them to me.
Mr. Sadler, I hope you don’t mind but I don’t think I can come to London at present for personal reasons. I would like to meet you, but does it make any sense for me to say that I should like to meet you here, in streets that I know, in the place where Will and I grew up? Your offer to come here is a generous one. Perhaps I could suggest Tuesday the 16th of this month as a possible day? Or do you work? I expect you do. Everyone must these days, it’s quite extraordinary.
Look, maybe you’d write again and let me know?
Sincerely,
Marian Bancroft
I hoped that I would have a
“My mother’s gone out,” he explained. “So I’m left with this job. Woman’s work, isn’t it? Flowers. Makes me look like a pansy.”
He smiled at me and tried to make me complicit in the pun but I ignored his feeble attempt at humour and told him of my intentions.
“I’m just going up to my room,” I said. “Would you rather I left my holdall in your office or can I leave it up there?”
“The office is probably best, sir,” he replied, a little archly now, perhaps disappointed by my unwillingness to treat him as if he were a friend of long standing. “We do have another guest booked in for the room and they’re due in around two o’clock. At what time do you think you’ll be back for it?”
“Not till much later than that,” I said, although why I thought that I did not know. It was possible that my appointment would not last for anything more than ten minutes. “I’ll stop in for it before I catch my train.”
“Very good, sir,” he said, going back to his flowers. I noticed that he was not quite as forthcoming as he had been the night before and, despite the fact that I was not looking for conversation, I couldn’t help but wonder about the reason for it. Perhaps his mother had spoken to him and explained that talking about what had happened out there to someone who had experienced it might not be the kindest thing. Some servicemen lived off their stories, of course, as if they had actually enjoyed the war, but others, myself included, didn’t.
I went upstairs, cleaned my teeth and washed my face, and combing my hair once again in the mirror decided that, although pale, I did not look too terrible. I felt as ready for this appointment as I ever would.
And so, no more than twenty minutes later, I found myself sitting in a pleasant café just off Cattle Market Street, glancing at the clock on the wall as it ticked its way mercilessly towards one o’clock, and the other customers around me. It was a traditional café, I felt, one that had perhaps been passed through a number of generations of the same family. Behind the counter was a man of about fifty and a girl of my own age—his daughter, I presumed, for she had the look of him. There weren’t too many other customers, no more than half a dozen, which satisfied me, for I felt that it would be very difficult for us to talk if the room was completely full and noisy, and equally difficult if it was empty and our conversation could be overheard.
Dear Miss Bancroft,
Thank you for your reply and your kind words. You owe me no apology for the delayed response. I was happy to get it, that’s all.
The 16th is fine for me. Yes, I do work but I have some holiday days due to me and I shall take them then. I look forward to meeting you. Perhaps you could suggest by reply where and when might be convenient.
Sincerely,
Tristan Sadler
The door opened and I looked up, amazed by the fright the noise gave me. My stomach was rolling with anxiety and I suddenly dreaded this encounter. But it was a man who had come inside, and he looked around, his eyes darting left and right in an almost feral fashion, before taking a seat in the far corner, where he was hidden behind a pillar. I thought he looked at me suspiciously for a moment before moving away from my sight line, and I might have thought more of it had I not already been so preoccupied.
Dear Mr. Sadler,
Shall we say one o’clock? There’s a nice café along Cattle Market Street, Winchall’s it’s called. Anyone can direct you there.
Marian B.
I picked up a container of napkins from the table for something to do. My right hand immediately broke into a fresh spasm and the box fell from my grasp, spilling the napkins across the tablecloth and on to the floor. I cursed beneath my breath and reached down to pick them up, which was why I failed to notice when the door opened one more time and a lady stepped inside and made her way towards my table.
“Mr. Sadler?” she said breathlessly, and I looked up, my face flushed from leaning over, then stood up instantly, staring at her, words failing me now, words failing me.
WE’RE DIFFERENT,
I THINK
Aldershot, April–June 1916
I DON’T SPEAK TO Will Bancroft until our second day at Aldershot Military Barracks but I notice him on our first.
We arrive in the late afternoon of the last day of April, some forty of us, a group of untidy boys, loud-mouthed and vulgar, stinking of sweat and bogus heroism. Those who already know each other sit together on the train, talking incessantly, afraid of silence, each voice competing to drown out the next. Those who are strangers hide in window seats, their heads pressed against the glass, feigning sleep or staring out as the scenery rushes past. Some make nervous conversation about the things they have left behind, their families, the sweethearts they will miss, but no one discusses the war. We might be on a day trip for all the nerves we dare show.
We stand around in groups as the train empties and I find myself next to a boy of about nineteen who glances around irritably, taking me in and dismissing me again with a single look. He wears a carefully coordinated expression of resignation mixed with resentment; his cheeks are fleshy and raw, as if he has shaved with cold water and a blunt razor, but he stands erect, staring around as if he cannot quite believe the high spirits of the other boys.
“Just look at them,” he says in a cold voice. “Bloody fools, every last one of them.”
I turn to look at him more closely. He’s taller than I am, with a neat haircut and a studious appearance. His eyes are a little narrow-set and he wears a simple pair of owl-rimmed spectacles, which he removes from time to time to massage the bridge of his nose, where a small red indentation is clear to the eye. He reminds me of one of my former schoolteachers, only he is younger, and probably less prone to outbursts of gratuitous violence.
“It’s a lot of nonsense, isn’t it?” he continues, sucking deeply on a cigarette as if he wants to draw all the nicotine into his body in one drag.
“What is?” I ask.
“This,” he says, nodding in the direction of the other recruits, who are talking and laughing as if this is all a terrific lark. “All of it. These idiots. This place. We shouldn’t be here, none of us should.”
“I’ve wanted to be here since it started.”
He glances at me, thinks he has the measure of me already, and snorts contemptuously as he shakes his head and looks away. Crushing the spent tab beneath his heel, he opens a silver cigarette case and sighs when it reveals itself to be empty.
“Tristan Sadler,” I say, extending a hand now, not wanting to get my military career off on a sour note. He stares at it for five seconds or more and I wonder whether I will have to draw it back in humiliation, but finally he shakes it and nods abruptly.
“Arthur Wolf,” he says.
“Are you from London?” I ask him.
“Essex,” he replies. “Well, Chelmsford. You?”
“Chiswick.”
“Nice there,” he says. “I have an aunt who lives in Chiswick. Elsie Tyler. You don’t know her, I suppose?”
“No,” I reply, shaking my head.
“She runs a florist on Turnham Green.”
“I’m from Sadler & Son, the butcher on the high street.”
“Presumably you’re the son.”
“I used to be,” I say.
“I bet you volunteered, didn’t you?” he asks, more contempt seeping into his voice now. “Just turned eighteen?”
“Yes,” I lie. In fact my eighteenth birthday is still five months away but I have no intention of admitting this here in case I find myself back with a hod in my hand before the week is out.
“I bet you couldn’t wait, am I right? I bet it was your present to yourself, marching down to the sergeant major, yes, sir, no, sir, anything you say, sir, and offering yourself up on a crucifix.”
“I would have joine
He laughs but doesn’t pursue it any further, simply shaking his head as if I’m not worth wasting his time on. He is a man apart, this Wolf.
A moment later and I sense a commotion in the ranks. I turn to watch as three men in heavy, starched uniforms emerge from a nearby barrack and stride towards us. Everything about them stinks of authority and I feel a rush of something unexpected. Apprehension, certainly. Desire, perhaps.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” says the man in the centre, the eldest of the three, the shortest, the fattest, the one in charge. His tone is friendly, which surprises me. “Follow me, won’t you? We’re not quite where we ought to be.”
We gather in a pack and shuffle along behind him and I take the opportunity to look around at the other men, most of whom are smoking cigarettes and continuing low conversations. I pull my own tin from my pocket and offer one to Wolf, who doesn’t hesitate.
“Thanks,” he says, before, to my annoyance, asking for a second for later on. I shrug, irritated, but say all right, and he slips another from under the holding cord and perches it above his ear. “Looks like he’s the one in charge,” he says, nodding in the direction of the sergeant. “I need a word with him. Not that he’s likely to listen to me, of course. But I’ll have my say, I promise you that.”
“Your say about what?” I ask.
“Take a look around you, Sadler,” he replies. “Only a handful of these people will still be alive six months from now. What do you think of that?”
I don’t think anything of it. What am I supposed to think? I know that men die—their numbers are reported in the newspapers every day. But they’re just names, strings of letters printed together as news type. I don’t know any of them. They don’t mean much to me yet.
“Take my advice,” he says. “Follow my lead and get the hell out of here if you can.”