Stile Maus (23 page)

Lena smiled and wrapped the glass within a towel, swiping away the swarm of bubbling suds. 

‘So how are Hugo and the others?’

‘Well.’ Felix replied bluntly.

‘I ran into Agatha at the market,’ Lena whispered as if someone else was listening, ‘she said Luther came home last week.’ 

Felix nodded resignedly.  Lena didn’t push him.  He handed her another glass.

‘Karolin, and the baby, how are they?’

‘Karolin’s fine, the babies healthy, he’s four now.   Already talking and walking and acting as the man of the house.’

‘Four,’ Felix sighed with a smile, ‘You never mentioned a name in the letters.’

‘Karolin wanted it to be a surprise for
Sebastian, she thought you’d crack if you ever crossed paths over there.’  Felix’s smile halted halfway.

‘He didn’t come back did he?’

‘No,’ said Lena, her words quiet, cold even. 

‘I saw him out there,’ Felix recalled, ‘he looked well, he was excited.  He was a good boy.’

‘Karolin didn’t leave her room for weeks.’

Felix shook his head.

‘His family arranged the funeral, Karolin said a few words, and Lucien insisted we have the wake here.’

Lena shivered beneath the heavy shawl that was Felix’s jacket and crossed her pink hands into each inside pocket.  She raised a cluster of star shaped medals.  A sigh battled her smile.

‘These should be on your uniform, for the whole world to see,’ she said.

Felix shrugged and proposed a tired smile. 

‘I’m no hero, Lenny.  No man who ever did such things can be called a hero.’

Lena placed a hand against his cheek and pulled his stare towards her big, blue eyes.

‘I know you Felix Kalb.  You’re the best man I know.  All that matters is that you’re home, that’s all.’

He kissed her.

‘So,’ Felix said, ‘has my famous grandson got a name?’

‘Of course,’ Lena said with a smile, ‘his name is Klaus, little Klaus Jung.’

Hugo gulped down the last bubbling remnants of his beer and raised the glass into the smoky air above.  Lucien acknowledged him with a nod and got to
pouring another pint right away.  Hugo winked. 

‘I thought you had given those up,’ coughed Felix as he slipped into the booth. 

‘In France maybe,’ said Hugo as a slither of grey smoke leaked out from the corner of his grin, ‘I’m home now brother.  The rules don’t apply.’

Felix yanked his boot away from the mud, shaking away a horde of scavenging rats in the process. 

They sat beneath a cave of arched muck, talking long into the night.  A small fire withered within the steel frame of a battered lantern and Felix blew a feeble gust of breath into its glass chamber, hoping to antagonise the embers inside.  Hugo placed a card down against the makeshift table and grinned. 

‘Now I’ve got you.’

Felix refused to let the crease of defeat settle on his mud spattered face and he smiled, slightly and coolly.  A crack of gunfire sounded overhead and without a moment’s hesitation they both grabbed at their rifles and pushed away from the stools of mounded mud.  The trench had awoken and men spilled away from the coves buried within the walls, springing to the breach, rifles in hand.  A marshal appeared, a pistol swaying by his side, his red face covered by a rounded, dent filled helmet. 

‘False alarm,’ he yelled, ‘get back to your stations.’

The busyness ceased and the assembly of rowdy troops cautiously retreated into their digs.

Hugo felt at the cigarette behind his ear.

‘What do you say, one last smoke?’

Felix propped his rifle down against the bench and huffed.

‘Not for me, brother.’

‘Come on,’ Hugo said, ‘we could be gone tomorrow.’

‘Tell me again why the infirmary sent you up here again?  I can’t imagine it was to spread good cheer.’

Hugo set the cigarette down against the table and then shuffled the playing cards, a mischievous smirk etched between his cheeks.  Felix knew his game.

‘What are the stakes?’

‘Only that my dear friend joins me in a smoke every now and then.’

‘And if you lose?’

Hugo chuckled as if he hadn’t even contemplated the other option.  This being said his reply was snappy and enticing.  

‘I’ll leave every cigarette behind, right here in these godforsaken pools of muck. 
Every last one.  Just for the rats to devour.’

Felix checked his hand and kept his face at rest.

‘Deal.’

‘I was hoping you wouldn’t remember that,’ Hugo remarked, flicking a heap of grey cinder into an ashtray.  His eyes fell across Felix’s empty glass.

‘Lucien!
Another beer my good man!’  Felix didn’t argue.

‘It’s good to have you back,’ said the bartender as he pinched away their empty glasses and replaced them with tall auburn beers finished with bubbly cream tops.  A cluster of soldiers sat two booths down, their conversation muted and rare.  A pair of wooden crutches leant against the stilted frame of the stall and all three, deeply sorrowed faces shared a mixture of bandages and arm slings between them. 

‘A round for the gentlemen seated over there, please Lucien,’ requested Felix.

‘You got it.’

Hugo followed his friend’s stare. 

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘enjoy tonight enjoy all of this, because I guarantee, when the drink wears off and the novelty of home fades and the kisses from our families and friends become pale with age, we won’t ever be the same again.’ 

Wishing he could refute, Felix found himself nodding in agreement, Hugo was right, he would never forget, neither would the young men sitting in that booth.  They got their drinks and after Felix was pointed out by the tender, the soldiers struggled to rise to their feet, saluting him with pain stricken smiles. 

‘Here’s to an eternity of sleepless nights,’ he whispered, lifting his glass. 

Lena appeared at the bar and gave him a smile before turning to a waiting customer.

‘That’s what we have to look forward to right there,’ Hugo nodded, ‘an abundance of sympathetic smiles.’

‘Watch it,’ Felix said tenderly.

There was a cheer from across the bar and a group burst into a drunken choir of merry song.  Their smoky silhouettes jumped within the mist.

Hugo sniggered.

‘Look at that, brother,’ he said, ‘you’d think the war had been won.’          

THE INDIAN CHIEF

The Indian Chief arrived in the shop on the 5
th
of November 1918.  It’s deliverer, unknown, it’s condition, shabby and tattered, its importance, vital.  It had caught Felix’s, sleep deprived eyes as he turned up for work that misty morning, it’s beaten chassis hidden beneath a wind sheet of crinkled blue.  At first he had assumed it was Max’s and put it to the back of his mind as he got to work on an old engine that had been gathering dust for the duration of the war.  It was simply when his only employee strutted through the doors two hours late, holding an apologetic mug of coffee and a hick in his step, that Felix realised the mysterious motorcycle now belonged to Kalb Autos. 

‘
Who’s is it?’ asked Max, the reason for his truancy lost within a mouthful of hot coffee. 

‘I’m not
sure, it was here when I came in this morning.’

‘Does it run?’

They both looked at one another.

‘Only one way to find out.’

After wheeling the motorcycle inside they both counted to three before wrenching away the cover.  Felix had only ever worked on Triumph’s and early stage BMW’s brought in for simple repairs and oil changes, all in immaculate condition.  This bike was different.  It’s black exterior was worn, as though it had been around for decades and the spindles spiralling away from the centre of each wheel had been bent and dislodged.  Mud edged over its dark frame.  The stitching that held the leather seat together bubbled loosely at the seams and the once gleaming handlebars were tainted with a smatter of orange rust.

‘Keys are in the ignition,’ said Felix as Max hopped on.  The keys jingled and the engine kicked, splurging out a chasm of black smog. 

‘She’ll take a lot of work,’ Max concluded, ‘but she runs.  You thought of a name yet?’

Felix looked over the chassis and frowned.

‘Here, hand me that cloth.’

With a few rough scrubs the mud on the chassis vanished, revealing a dashing of bold letters.

‘She’s called Chief,’ Felix grinned.

Felix lay awake, his mind busy with the constant hum of nothingness.  Sleep deprived him and he found that he didn’t mind entirely, for once it meant a night away from the haunting apparitions that roamed his dreams.  He plodded into the kitchen and set the kettle over the stove.  He added honey to his tea and sipped it down, staring out into the garden from the back door.  The air was brisk, more windy than cold.  When he had washed up his mug he padded into the living room and tried reading under the lamp light.  If anything, he felt more awake now than ever.  He was on edge, his awareness heightened, almost as though he was expecting something terrible to happen at any moment.  Felix grabbed his jacket and scarf and headed out onto the moonlit veranda.  He passed through the town and saw his hunched reflection within the misted windows of Mr Krause’s key cutters.  Luther’s jewellers stood across the cobbled street, another ladder for his memories to climb, he couldn’t shake it, his mind seemed to still be there, ducking against the muddy coves, praying for the gunfire to finally cease. 

‘Luther!’ His voice was hoarse, weak from the rattle of his throat. 

A screeching filled his ears and before he knew it he was scrambling against the sludge again, his shoulders covered in a spatter of ash and clumped mud.  The aftermath rang though his teeth.  Felix raised his arm into the cloud of smoky fallout, feeling his way along the trench wall with blood stained fingers. 
Another explosion of dirt, this time further down.  He heaved his rifle up onto his back and continued towards the coiled figure of Luther Eichel.  He had been downed by a shot to the knee and possibly somewhere else, it had happened fast and his heavy form fell before Felix could get to him.

Did he make it back to the company?  Was he still out there?

He glanced behind.  Max was staring out into the hellish battlefield through the aim of his rifle, clips of ammo pinging away from the chamber as he clutched at the trigger.  Men fell away from the wall, some screaming, some already gone.  Felix reached his friend and grabbed his face away from a pool of shallow mud.

‘Luther,’ he cried, stripping away the ropey slants that held together his chest of plated armour, ‘wake up, Luther for Christ’s sake.’

His hands slapped against Luther’s face and he forced open his lifeless eyes.  His helmet had slipped out of sight and his hair was matted and stuck against his bruised forehead.  A drizzle of red trickled away from his lips.  Felix stared down towards Luther’s thigh.  His trousers were rippled with holes from the edge of his boot to the curve of his belt, each one oozing bubbles of dark blood.  Felix turned away and choked on his words.

‘Medic,’ he yelled, spitting a gob of sick out onto the coving of mud below, ‘m-medic!’

His eyes left the vast display of watches and rings that sat behind the glass and he focused on his ghostly reflection.  His stomach suddenly felt full with sickness and he took a deep breath before finally turning up the neck of his fallen scarf and turning away down the dark street.  Stuttgart was peaceful and not a thing stirred but for Felix’s footsteps as he headed over the cobbled bridge.  The river babbled beneath him.  It’s flow silent.  He blew against his cupped hands and thrust them into his jacket pockets.  A steel band tingled against his numb fingertips and with a gentle pinch Felix pulled out a round faced watch, its bracelet and casing sparkling within the cerulean moonlight.  The blue hands ticked with mulish simplicity, casual strokes of brilliant blue.  Felix sighed.  Another memory;

Burgundy.  The skies were torn within a mixture of claret and pale blue.  Spirals of grey smoke rose toward the heavens.  The truck grumbled and churned at the dirt road before rolling away into the distance.  Felix
lay his head back against the cabin.  He stroked a hand over his beard and was surprised when he could hold its length between each comb of fingers.  His hair curled at his neck.  Once blonde and cleanly cut, he had no idea how it looked now.  It felt darker and heavier.  Cracks rippled over his bottom lip, his fingernails were black and filled with dirt.  A crowd of young men sat on the bench across from him.  Their faces were plain, most lost within a spell of slumber.  All but one in fact, a boy, young and scared, his sniffles swiped into the cuffs of his jacket.  He caught Felix looking and brushed at the heavy stream of tears falling over his smudged cheekbones before closing his eyes and gritting together his teeth.  He appeared to be haunted by a great pain.  Felix leaned towards him.