Almost Everything Very Fast (32 page)

Fred hesitated.

Markus snatched Fred’s hand and laid the butt of the pistol in his palm.

“It’s heavy!” said Fred.

“It has to be. The weight reminds its owner of the power and responsibility that the possession of such a weapon brings.” Markus held the mirror up before Fred once more. “Who do you see?”

“Frederick Arkadiusz Driajes.”

“And what else?”

“Green.”

“And what else?”

“A pistol.”

“That’s quite a lot, isn’t it?”

Fred looked at the ground, and whispered: “Quite a lot.”

“Why so shy? Say it louder: quite a lot!”

“Quite a lot.”

“Even louder.”

“Quite a lot!”

“Louder!”

“THAT’SALOTTHAT’SNOTNOTHINGATALLTHAT’SALOT THAT’SQUITEALOT!”

I should have done something, I shouldn’t have just surrendered Fred to Markus. But then, I was glad someone was looking after him, sparing me the task. During the next few days, Markus demonstrated to Fred how you slipped the magazine into the gun, how you cocked the hammer and stood with your legs spread and arms extended and supported your right hand with your left and squinted your eyes and jerked the trigger. For targets they built scarecrows—which Markus called “blackamoors”—from old clothes stuffed with muddy straw. Whenever Fred landed a bull’s-eye their heads burst like kernels of corn in a hot pan, and Markus applauded. “Of course, killing is always the last resort,” he said, “but one should never forget: blackamoors steal children and eat them.”

At home, Anni often forgot to cook anything for Fred, and when he asked her for food she didn’t even shake her head, but slipped out of the house and ran to the Moorsee, where she spent most of her time nowadays. At home Fred slunk around, always on guard, because he didn’t want to run into me. At home he sometimes awoke, thinking that the day had come when his father would return, but the day never came. At home, it was obvious, Fred didn’t feel safe.

But he did with Markus, very much so. The man’s mere proximity infused him with a feeling of strength, just like the pistol in his hand. As long as Fred walked along the main street by Markus’s side, everyone said hello to him. In the tavern, they were the first ones served. While listening to the radio, Fred could sit right up in front of the set. Or he could stretch out on the floor while Markus read to him from his books. Nobody called Fred
Klöble
anymore, they all addressed him as Frederick or Herr Driajes, and he liked the way that sounded: “Herr Driajes.”

In exchange for all that, Markus wanted merely a handful of drawings. At first, these showed Markus himself—with a full head of hair, blond hair, parted on the side. Later, his new friend began to take an interest in pictures of other Segendorfers, too. He made no secret of this, and allowed Fred to hand them over to him in public. He wanted everyone to be aware that he was aware of everyone. His monologues, seemingly directed at Fred, were in fact camouflaged addresses to the community at large. “Everything is mixed up with everything else,” he said to Fred. “And that’s why I need as many pictures as possible of as many people as possible. Pictures of whoever Blacksmith Schwaiger talks to in the tavern. Of wherever Farmer Obermüller’s widow roams around at night. Of whoever Cobbler Gaiger sells his fishing rods to. Drawings help us understand life. Where it comes from, for example. And, in the best case, where it’s going. And wouldn’t it be marvelous if you could divine just how every life is going to unfurl? If you could hold the future in your hands, and step in at an early stage to shape it? No more subterranean drownings, no more blows of fate, no unpleasant surprises. You could prevent the bad, play midwife to the good, and never have to rely on God again. If you ask me, you, Fred, are the best draftsman there is. Most people see things the way they want to see them—for instance, when it’s raining, everyone says it’s rotten weather, and that the weather is good when the sun shines, but, as you’ve certainly found, we need rain for drinking and washing and irrigation, and thus rain is good weather, too—you, Fred, see things as they are. And draw them. You might not understand it all, you probably don’t know many of the words I use, but I’m convinced that you have a grip on the deeper truth of things. You can’t help but see the truth in things, that’s why you’re so valuable. You observe and you listen and you draw. Nobody can do that better than you. And it’s no surprise that others have been struck by this remarkable ability as well. I know it’s strange when people who used to talk with you are now always hurrying past. But you can chalk it up to envy. They want to be like you and me, they can’t grow the way we can and want to belittle us to make themselves feel bigger. Don’t let it bother you. Just think! Why does your mother go around claiming you’re only six years old, when everyone knows you’re nearly nine? She wants to make you small. Because she senses that she’s inferior to you. You’re no Klöble, not anymore, just like I’m no longer a pig farmer. I used to use idiotic words like
heya,
I sounded just like you’d imagine a pig farmer sounds, and I bullied other kids to make myself feel strong. But I’ve grown! Significantly, all of this started with a root up on Wolf Hill. Pastor Meier told me what someone had carved there:
I love you.
Those were the first three words I learned.
I love you.
The ones after that I found in his Bible. And the ones after that in books that an undertaker from out of town gave me in exchange for a pair of juicy porkchops. I read and read and read, until the letters faded on the page and my fingertips grew black. And even then I didn’t stop. Every new book honed my mind further. Books became my best friends. Through them I traveled the world, made the acquaintance of places we can only reach with our minds. Thanks to them, I was finally able to see things plainly, as plain as print on paper. I understood that I couldn’t, shouldn’t, mustn’t be the way I’d been any longer. Because almost everything goes by very fast. A love. Our lives. Simply all of it! There’s not a lot of time. Anyone who doesn’t comprehend that will get lost in hopes and memories and die without ever having lived. The books opened my eyes, I came to understand what
I love you
really meant: to accept myself. Because that’s the first step toward growth. You have to realize who you are. Once you’ve understood yourself, you can like yourself, and whoever likes himself won’t let himself be hurt by others anymore, and when one can’t be hurt by others anymore, one is on the path toward setting oneself free. I was my Most Beloved Possession. At that point, it wasn’t long before my maturity, ambition, and will became apparent to others. Just the way
you
noticed me. You’re an outstandingly gifted boy, Fred. Not everyone can handle that. Just think about your father, your papa! Where is he? Why is he traveling the world, why isn’t he taking care of you? Why didn’t he take you with him? Why doesn’t he write? Very simple: he’s intimidated by your greatness! But your uncle is even worse. When others have something that
he
can’t have himself, he tries to destroy it. In this case, your talent—where does he get the right to abuse you? The same goes for the honor of this village—why doesn’t he marry Mina Reindl? And the same for the faithful love your mother bears for your father—how dare your uncle live in a house with her, alone, for months at a time? Unfortunate as it is, it seems to me that Julius Habom is not a good man. While we grow, he shrivels. And sadly, sadly, he’s not the only one. You will have noticed: The racial integrity of the German nation is in grave danger. Like a malignant cancer, lives unworthy of life are proliferating throughout its body. We can’t ignore this threat any longer. We have to look it in the eye. Now. Even right here, in our homeland, there are souls, sad, pitiful souls, who are lost forever. I know this won’t have escaped someone like you. Like me, you see the truth in things. And in times like these, there’s great need for figures like us, with a firm hold on the truth, unswerving, never straying from the right path. We, my good man, must do anything we can to preserve truth whole in the maelstrom of history. We must! Because without the truth, we’re nothing.”

On January 22, 1940, after night had fallen, Fred rapped at Mina’s bedroom window to inform her that I wanted to marry her, right then, that very hour.

Five minutes later, she was rushing down the main street after Fred, dressed in her wedding gown. She assumed she didn’t have to worry about Ludwig, that he was with me. And she wasn’t wrong about that. Only we weren’t waiting for her—we were asleep, tied together with a rope, at the other end of the village.

What with her nephew’s long legs, she had to make a considerable effort to match his pace. Her steaming breath vanished in the dark. As they passed the edge of the village, neither of them saw the wooden crate by the side of the road. In it was the new city sign that had just been delivered. It would be erected the following morning, hastening the secularization of the community—most Segendorfers still had no idea that, very soon, they would be Königsdorfers.

“Where’s Julius?” asked Mina, gasping for air. “Where are we rushing off to?”

Fred didn’t say a thing, and ran faster. Mina tripped and went down on the cobblestones, scraping her hands, and as Fred helped her up again, she saw the moon in the sky, but no stars.

Soon they were crossing one of the bleak fields on the outskirts of the village where stands of winter rye grew. Four dark-green cars were parked in a half circle. Their motors were idling and sounded impatient, and all of their headlights were on, throwing bright light onto a bus in the middle of the field. Shadows flitted between the vehicles.

“Where is Julius Habom!” Mina wanted to know, stopping short. Fred grabbed her arm—she couldn’t break loose, and fell to the ground.

“Don’t be so rough!” shouted Markus, coming closer and offering her his left hand. In the other, he held his pistol.

Men in surgical masks loomed behind him. The wintry ground crunched beneath their feet. As Mina screamed that she was here for her wedding, and began to thrash around, they gathered her up and carried her onto the bus.

“Are they going to hurt her?” asked Fred.

“No,” said Markus, checking his makeup compact to ensure that his toupee was properly situated, and thanked Fred, saying he’d done well.

From within the bus there was a rumbling, followed by a high, mechanical buzzing. Mina’s screams were smothered.

Fred covered his ears. “Where is Julius?”

“Probably afraid to get married.” Markus grinned. “Looks like we’ll have to postpone it.”

One of the masked men came back, passing Markus the bridal gown, which he in turn handed to Fred.

“That’s all of them,” said Markus.

The man in the mask gestured to Fred.

Markus shook his head.

Two more masked men stepped out of the bus, and advanced on Fred. One of them wore white rubber gloves, their fingertips red.

Fred flinched away.

“No,” said Markus, and lifted his pistol an inch or two.

Now it was the other men who flinched. The one with the red fingertips spread his arms as if to call for calm.

From the bus there came a dull thud, and the other two men vanished once more. Markus lowered his pistol. A rattling ran through the bus, it shook slightly. From within, a boy hollered—and went silent.

Markus rolled his eyes and nudged Fred: “Typical Klöble!”

Someone turned on the engine, and the bus shook. Then the two masked men stepped out again, opened a hatch in the vehicle’s side, pulled a lever, and the door shut. They inspected a hose that ran from the rear of the bus to its roof. One of the two gave a thumbs-up, at which the man with the red fingertips positioned himself at a distance from the bus, walking slowly backward with his eyes fixed on the windows.

Markus noticed that Fred was trembling. “Come,” he said, and they climbed into one of the cars. Fred sat in the passenger seat, and Markus tucked the bridal gown around him.

“Better?”

Fred nodded.

Markus put his pistol away, laid his hands on the steering wheel, and stretched out his arms. “A BMW 321.” He took a deep breath. “It’s a real speedster! Tomorrow I’ll give you a driving lesson.”

“Where is the bus going?” Fred asked.

“Far, far away.” Markus leaned back. In the rearview mirror he inspected his toupee, and nudged it a bit to the left.

They fell silent. The car vibrated.

“I want to go home.”

“You know what? I’m going to give you this speedster. It’s yours, it belongs to you. What do you think about that?”

“I want my mama!”

“Fred,” said Markus, laying his hand on the gearshift, “don’t be afraid. Nothing’s going to happen to you. I’m here. Just be quiet and close your eyes.”

But he didn’t do that, he couldn’t look away, he didn’t even blink. Fred stared and stared.

Hours later, after Markus had driven up and down Reichsstrasse 11 for so long that Fred had finally been able to nod off, the dark-green BMW rolled into Anni’s garden and stopped with a soft wheeze. Markus shut off the headlights and glanced over at Fred, sleeping heavily beside him, wrapped in the wedding gown.

Anni knocked at Markus’s window. Her greasy hair gleamed, her eyes were bloodshot.

He took his pistol and got out. “Were you over at the Moorsee again? It doesn’t agree with you.”