The Collected Stories of Heinrich Böll by Heinrich Böll
Thus, almost effortlessly, I acquired a certain education, burned all my textbooks and copybooks, and devoted myself to my true passions: I played ball, threw my pocketknife at the door panel, read thrillers, and had long conferences with the manager of the royal movie theater. I gave instructions for all my favorite movies to be obtained, and in Parliament I proposed some educational reforms.
It was a glorious time, although I found the parliamentary sessions wearisome. I succeeded in giving an outward impression of the melancholy youthful king and relied entirely on Prime Minister Pelzer, who had been a friend of my father and was a cousin of my deceased mother.
But after three months Pelzer urged me to get married, saying, “You must set an example to the people, Your Majesty.” Marriage as such didn’t scare me: the bad part was that Pelzer offered me his eleven-year-old daughter Jadwiga, a skinny little girl whom I often saw playing ball in the courtyard. She was considered dumb, was repeating the fifth grade, was pale and looked spiteful. I asked Pelzer for time to think it over and now became genuinely melancholy, spending hours leaning on my windowsill watching Jadwiga playing ball or hopscotch. She was a little more attractively dressed now and from time to time would glance up at me and smile. But her smile seemed to me artificial.
When my decision was due, Pelzer appeared before me in gala uniform: he was a big strapping man with a sallow complexion, black beard, and flashing eyes. “May it please Your Majesty,” he said, “to inform me of your decision? Has my child found favor in Your Majesty’s eyes?” When I replied with a point-blank “No,” something terrible happened: Pelzer ripped the epaulets from his shoulders, the decorations from his chest, threw his portfolio—it was made of synthetic leather—at my feet, tore at his beard, and shouted, “So that is the gratitude of Capotian kings!”
I was in an awkward situation. Without Pelzer, I was lost. Quickly changing my mind, I said, “May I ask you for Jadwiga’s hand?”
Pelzer threw himself at my feet, fervently kissed the tips of my shoes, and picked up the epaulets, decorations, and the synthetic-leather portfolio.
We were married in Huldebach Cathedral. There was beer and sausage for the populace as well as eight cigarettes per head and, at my personal suggestion, two free tickets for the carrousel; for a whole week, noise surged around the palace. From now on I helped Jadwiga with her homework, we played ball, played hopscotch, went horseback riding together, and, whenever we felt like it, ordered marzipan from the royal confectioner’s or went to the royal movie theater. I still enjoyed being a king; but a serious incident finally put paid to my career.
On reaching the age of fourteen, I was made a colonel and commander in chief of the 8th Cavalry Regiment. Jadwiga was made a major. From time to time we had to inspect the regiment, attend functions at the officers’ mess, and on every high holiday pin decorations on the chests of deserving soldiers. I myself received a good many decorations. But then came the Poskopek affair.
Poskopek was a soldier in the fourth squadron of my regiment who deserted one Sunday evening to follow a female circus rider across the border. He was caught, detained, and sentenced to death by a court-martial. As regimental commander it was my job to sign the death warrant, but I simply wrote at the bottom: “Sentence commuted to two weeks’ detention, Pyg Gy II.”
This note had terrible consequences. The officers of my regiment all ripped their epaulets from their shoulders, the decorations from their chests, and had them scattered about my room by a young lieutenant. The entire Capotian army joined in the mutiny, and by the evening of that day my entire room was full of epaulets and decorations: it looked a mess.
True, the populace cheered me lustily, but that very night Pelzer informed me that the army had gone over in a body to the Rasacs. There was the crack of rifle shots, and the frantic hammering of machine guns rent the silence around the palace. Although the Misacs had sent me a bodyguard, Pelzer went over to the Rasacs during the night, which meant that I was forced to flee with Jadwiga.
We hastily gathered up clothing, bank notes, and jewelry, the Misacs requisitioned a taxi, and we barely made it to the railway station of the neighboring country, where we sank exhausted into a second-class sleeping compartment and moved off toward the west.
From across the border with Capota came the sound of rifle shots, frantic yelling, the whole terrible music of rebellion.
We traveled for four days and left the train at a city called Wickelheim. Wickelheim—dim memories from my geography lessons told me—was the capital of our neighboring country.
By this time Jadwiga and I had experienced things that we were beginning to appreciate: the smell of the train, acrid and pungent, the taste of sausages at railway stations of which we had never even heard. I could smoke to my heart’s content, and Jadwiga began to blossom now that she was relieved of the burden of homework.
On the second day of our stay in Wickelheim, posters appeared everywhere that caught our attention: “Hunke Circus—Hula, the famous equestrienne, with her partner Jürgen Poskopek!” Jadwiga became all excited. “Pyg Gy,” she said, “think of our livelihood. Poskopek will help you!”
At our hotel, telegrams were arriving hourly from Capota announcing the victory of the Misacs, the execution of Pelzer, a reorganization of the military.
The new prime minister—he was called Schmidt and was the leader of the Misacs—implored me to return and once again to accept the steel crown of the kings of Capota from the hands of the people.
For a few days I wavered, but ultimately Jadwiga’s dread of homework won out. I went to the Hunke Circus, asked for Poskopek, and was welcomed by him ecstatically. “You saved my life!” he cried, standing in the doorway of his trailer. “What can I do for you?”
“Provide me with a livelihood,” I said modestly.
Poskopek could not do enough for me: he interceded on my behalf with Herr Hunke, and I began by selling lemonade, then cigarettes, later goulash at the Hunke Circus. I was given a trailer and within a short time was made a cashier. I adopted the name Tückes, Wilhelm Tückes, and from then on ceased to be bothered by telegrams from Capota.
I am regarded as dead, as having disappeared without trace, whereas actually I am roaming the country in Hunke Circus’s trailer with my blossoming Jadwiga. I get to sniff the air of foreign lands, to see them, I enjoy the great confidence placed in me by Herr Hunke. And if it were not for Poskopek visiting me now and then and telling me about Capota, if it were not for his wife, Hula, the beautiful equestrienne, assuring me over and over again that her husband owes his life to me, I would never give so much as a thought to having once been a king.
But the other day I came upon actual proof of my former royal life.
We were performing in Madrid, and one morning I was strolling with Jadwiga through the city when a big gray building with the inscription “National Museum” caught our eye. “Let’s go in,” said Jadwiga, so in we went, into one of the large, more remote rooms over whose door hung a sign saying HOLOGRAPHS.
All unsuspecting, we proceeded to look at the handwritings of various heads of state and kings until we came to a glass case discreetly labeled KINGDOM OF CAPOTA—NOW A REPUBLIC. I saw the handwriting of my grandfather Wuck the Fortieth; I saw an excerpt from the famous Capotian Manifesto written in his own hand; I found a sheet from my father’s hunting diaries—and finally a scrap from one of my copybooks, a piece of soiled paper on which I read “Helth is Welth.” Embarrassed, I turned toward Jadwiga, but she merely smiled and said, “That’s all behind you now, forever.”
We quickly left the museum, for it was now one o’clock, the performance began at three, and at two I had to open the box office.
A PEACH TREE IN HIS GARDEN STANDS
Special circumstances require me to reveal a secret that I had wanted to preserve to the end of my life: I belong to a club or, rather, a secret society, although I had sworn never to join such an institution. It is most embarrassing, but the problems of the younger generation
So I slowly copy out the ballad and press down onto the paper the rubber stamp which we—the members of the Society of Ribbeckians—are obliged to keep on hand: “Join our club! Your sole obligation is to copy out the enclosed poem ten times and send it to the owners of fruit trees. You may then call yourself a Ribbeckian, a distinction we trust you will appreciate.”
I write my neighbor’s address on an envelope, stick on a stamp, and betake myself to the mailbox. It so happens, however, that the mailbox is attached to the garden fence of this very neighbor, and as I lift up the yellow flap of the mailbox I can see him—my neighbor—standing there on a ladder, with outstretched forefinger, lightly touching his peaches one by one. No doubt about it, he is counting them!
Next morning we are standing side by side, my neighbor and I, waiting for the mailman, that grossly underpaid cherub whom not even his obviously flat feet can rob of charm.
My neighbor’s face seems even yellower than usual, his lips tremble, and his slightly bloodshot eyes seem to point to a sleepless night.
“It is indescribable,” he said to me, “how moral standards are declining. Today’s young people: nothing but thieves and robbers. Where is it all going to end?”
“In disaster.”
“Precisely. I see you agree.”
“Of course, it’s inevitable. We are drifting inexorably toward the abyss. All this depravity, this dissipation!”
“No respect for the property of others! One should … but the police refuse to intervene. Just imagine. Yesterday evening I still had a hundred and thirty-five peaches on my tree—and this morning—care to guess?”
“A hundred and thirty-two?”
“Optimist! A hundred and thirty. Five ripe peaches! Just imagine. I shudder to think of it.”
“Sackcloth and ashes—we’ll have no alternative. Morality is a thing of the past. I can see there are times ahead of us …”
But the approaching mailman relieves me of having to complete my sentence. The letter that I threw in the mailbox yesterday has gone full circle and now, via the collector, the sorter, and the mailman, has landed in the hands of my neighbor.
There was no mail for me. Who would write to me anyway, since I am not even an active Ribbeckian but merely a passive one? I own no fruit trees, not even a currant bush, and the only person who knows my name is the corner grocer who grudgingly grants me credit and with a sorrowful eye sees gray bread, margarine, and fine-cut tobacco disappear into my shopping bag and stubbornly refuses me any credit for regular cigarettes and red wine. But it is time to observe my neighbor’s expression: he has opened the letter, put on his glasses and, with a frown, started to read: he reads, reads, and I am surprised at the length of that ballad. In vain I wait for a smile on his face: nothing, there is nothing. Obviously a person who is not responsive to literature as well as devoid of humor. He takes off his glasses as if he had been reading some trivial bit of printed matter, folds up the letter, opens it again, and hands it to me across the fence, saying, “Listen, aren’t you … er … what was it again?”
“A writer,” I said.
“Of course. Take a look at this, what d’you make of it?”
The sudden sight of my handwriting gives me a bit of a shock. Perhaps, I think, he is a person who can only be reached acoustically, impervious to the charms of the visual. And I begin to read aloud: “Herr Ribbeck of the Havel lands, / A pear tree in his garden stands …”
“Oh, I know what it says!”
“Did you see the stamp at the bottom? There is a stamp there: ‘Join our club! …’”
“I know, I know,” he says impatiently, and his sallow face turns a shade darker, “but it makes no sense to send me something like that since I only have a peach tree. It’s something about pears, isn’t it? The way people waste their time!”
Without so much as a nod, he shuffles off to his observation post at the back, where he can keep an eye on his peaches.
I see, I thought, as I folded up my sheet of paper, and now I am wondering whether I should apply for a change in the statutes of our club. Of course the ballad would lose its melody, for there are not that many one-syllable fruits.
PALE ANNA
I didn’t get home from the war till the spring of 1950, and there was nobody left in town whom I knew. Luckily for me, my parents had left me some money. I rented a room in town, and there I lay on the bed, smoking and waiting and not knowing what I was waiting for. The idea of a job didn’t appeal to me. I gave my landlady money, and she bought what I needed and cooked my meals. Whenever she brought coffee or a meal to my room, she stayed longer than I liked. Her son had been killed at a place called Kalinovka, and after coming into the room she would set the tray down on the table and come over to the darkish corner where my bed was. That’s where I dozed away my time, stubbing out my cigarettes against the wall so that the wallpaper around my bed was covered with black smudges. My landlady was pale and skinny, and when her face hung there in the shadows over my bed, I was scared of her. At first I thought she was queer in the head, for her eyes were very bright and large, and she kept on asking me about her son.
“Are you sure you didn’t know him? The place was called Kalinovka—weren’t you there?”
But I had never heard of a place called Kalinovka, and I would always turn toward the wall saying, “No, really, I can’t remember him at all.”
My landlady was not queer in the head, she was a very good soul, and I found her questioning painful. She questioned me very often, several times a day, and whenever I went into her kitchen I had to look at the photo of her son, a colored photo hanging over the bench. He had been a laughing, fair-haired boy, and in the photo he was wearing an infantry dress uniform.
“That was taken in the garrison town,” said my landlady, “before they were sent to the front.”
It was a half-length portrait: he was wearing his steel helmet, and behind him you could see some dummy castle ruins entwined with artificial creepers.
“He was a conductor,” my landlady said, “a streetcar conductor. A good worker, my boy was.” And then she would reach for the cardboard box of photographs that stood on her sewing table between the scraps of cloth for patching and the skeins of thread. And I had to go through piles of photos of her son: group pictures from his school days, each showing a boy seated in the middle with a slate between his knees, and on the slate a “VI,” a “VII,” and finally an “VIII.” In a separate packet, held together by a red rubber band, were the pictures of his first communion: a smiling little boy in a formal black suit, holding an enormous candle and standing in front of a transparency painted with a golden chalice. Then came pictures of him as a mechanic’s apprentice standing by a lathe, grimy-faced, his hands grasping a file.
“That wasn’t the right kind of job for him,” my landlady would say; “the work was too difficult.” And she would show me the last photo taken before he was called up: he was wearing a streetcar conductor’s uniform and standing beside a Number 9 streetcar at the terminus, where the tracks curve around in a loop, and I recognized the soda-pop stand where I had so often bought cigarettes, in the days before the war; I recognized the poplars, which are still there now, saw the villa, its gateway flanked by golden lions, which aren’t there now, and I would remember the girl I used to think about so often during the war. She had been pretty, with a pale face and almond-shaped eyes, and she had always boarded the streetcar at the Number 9 terminus.
I would stare for a long
“Maybe,” the landlady would say, “you did know him after all.” I would shake my head and put the picture back in the box: it was a shiny photo and looked like new, although by now it was eight years old.
“No, no,” I would say, “and I was never in Kalinovka—really I wasn’t.”
I often had to go to the kitchen, and she often came to my room, and all day I would think of the thing I wanted to forget—the war—and I would toss my cigarette ash behind the bed and stub the glowing tip out against the wall.
Sometimes, as I lay there in the evening, I could hear a girl’s footsteps in the next room, or the Yugoslav who had the room next to the kitchen; I could hear him swearing as he groped for the light switch before going into his room.
It wasn’t till I had been living there for three weeks and was holding Karl’s picture for what must have been the fiftieth time that I noticed that the streetcar he was standing beside, laughing, with his leather pouch, wasn’t empty. For the first time I looked closely at the photo and saw that a girl sitting inside the streetcar, smiling, had got into the snapshot. It was the pretty girl I used to think about so often during the war. The landlady came up to me, studied the look on my face, and said, “Now you recognize him, eh?” Then she stepped behind me and looked over my shoulder at the photo, and from close behind me rose the smell of the fresh peas she was holding in the folds of her apron.
“No,” I said quietly, “but the girl.”
“The girl?” she said. “That was his fiancée, but maybe it’s just as well he never saw her again …”