The Sleepwalkers (91 page)

With hands that still trembled a little the Major held the list again before his eyes, then he laid it down and addressed himself to the other letters that had come in. Yet, strong as was the effort he made to bring his thoughts under control, it was not strong enough to master the contradictory orders and service instructions before him; he was incapable of resolving the contradictions. Chaos was invading the world on every side and chaos was spreading over his thoughts and over the world, darkness was spreading, and the advance of darkness sounded like the agony of a painful death, like a death-rattle in which only one thing was audible, only one thing certain, the downfall of the Fatherland—oh, how the darkness was rising and the chaos, and out of that chaos, as if from a sink of poisonous gases, there grinned the visage of Huguenau, the visage of the traitor, the instrument of divine wrath, the author of all the encroaching evil.

For two whole days the Major endured the torment of an indecision that the pressure of precipitate events kept him from realizing. In face of the general disorder it would have been quite natural had he simply let the matter drop, for a desertion was of little account; but it was just as natural for the Town Commandant not even to consider the possibility of such an easy way out. For the categorical imperative of duty cannot allow evasion to be piled upon evasion; and on the second day the Major gave instructions for Huguenau to be summoned.

At the sight of the traitor all the Major’s repressed disgust broke out with renewed force. Huguenau’s friendly greeting he countered with official reserve, and reaching the list across the table pointed silently to the name “Wilhelm Huguenau,” which was marked with a red line. Huguenau realized that everything was now at stake, and face to face with imminent danger drew again upon the lucid assurance that had hitherto preserved him. The tone that he adopted was light enough, but
behind the flashing eyeglasses the firmness of his look was an indication to the Major that here was a man who knew very well how to defend himself.

“I have been expecting something like this for a long time, my dear Major, the disorder in the army, if you will allow me to say so, is daily increasing … yes, you may shake your head, but so it is; I am, unfortunately, a living witness to it; when I reported at the Central Press Office the sergeant on duty took all my papers from me, in order, as he said, to send particulars to my regiment; I suspected at once that I would have grave difficulties, since it isn’t the thing to send a soldier anywhere without his papers—you agree with me there, of course—but I was reassured when they told me that they would send on the papers after me. All that I got was a provisional travelling-permit for Trier, you understand, I had nothing in my pocket but that permit, otherwise I was left to my own resources! Well, and I had to give up the permit, of course, to the military police at the station … that’s the whole story. Of course I must admit that I shouldn’t have kept on forgetting about it, but you know better than anyone, sir, how overburdened I am with work, and when the authorities are so remiss one can’t blame a simple taxpayer who’s doing his best to defend his country. At least, one would think so. But instead of setting their own house in order they find it naturally much easier to brand a respectable man as a deserter. If my patriotic duty did not forbid me, sir, I would gladly expose such incredible conduct in the Press!”

All that sounded plausible; the Major was again undecided.

“If I might venture to suggest it, sir, you should take up this line; inform the army police and the regiment—sticking to the truth—that I am in charge here of the official newspaper for the region, and that I shall send on as soon as possible the missing papers, which I shall meanwhile try to procure.”

The Major’s ill-humour fastened on the phrase “sticking to the truth.” What language the man dared to use!

“It’s not for you to prescribe to me what reports I am to make. Besides, to stick completely to the truth: I don’t believe you!”

“You don’t believe me? Has it perhaps occurred to you, sir, to find out whether the informer who laid this accusation is trustworthy? And that it can be only the work of some informer—and a stupid and malicious one at that—is as clear as daylight.…”

He stared triumphantly at the Major, who, surprised by this new attack, did not even remember that for this particular accusation no informer had been necessary. And triumphantly Huguenau continued:

“How many people, after all, know that I have had trouble about my papers? only one, so far as I know, and that one has often enough abused me as a traitor, pretending that he was speaking in joke, or symbolically, as he chooses to put it; you have only to cast your mind back, sir.… I know these sham-pious jokers … religious mania’s what people call it, and a poor man like me can lose all his money because of it, not to speak of his head.…”

The Major interrupted him with unexpected suddenness; he even rapped on the table with the paper-knife:

“Will you have the goodness to leave Herr Esch out of the question? He is an honourable man.”

Perhaps it was not wise of Huguenau to persist in hanging on, for his house of cards threatened every minute to collapse. He knew that, but something within him said “va banque” and he could not do otherwise:

“I beg respectfully, sir, to point out that it is you and not I who mention Herr Esch by name. So I’m not mistaken, and he’s the fine informer, is he? Ah, if that’s the way the wind’s blowing, and it’s to please Herr Esch that you do his dirty work for him, then all I ask, my dear sir, is to be arrested.”

This shaft went home. The Major pointed a finger at Huguenau and stammered with difficulty:

“Out you get … out you get … I’ll have you thrown out.”

“As you please, Herr Major … quite as you please. I know what I have to expect from a Prussian officer who adopts such means to remove a witness of his defeatist speeches in communistic gatherings; it’s all very well to trim your sails to the wind, but it’s not my habit to denounce the trimmer.… Salut.”

These last words, which were really sheer nonsense and only added by Huguenau to embellish his rhetoric, were not even heard by the Major. He kept on murmuring tonelessly: “Out you get … he’s to get out … the traitor” long after Huguenau had left the room and disrespectfully banged the door behind him. It was the end, the unchivalrous end! he was branded for ever!

Was there still a way of escape? no, there was none … the Major drew his army revolver from the drawer of his desk and laid it before him.
Then he took a sheet of letter-paper and laid it also before him; it was to be his petition for a successor to relieve him. He would have preferred simply to ask to be cashiered in disgrace. But the punctual performance of official duties must go on. He would not leave his place until he had handed everything over in a regular manner.

Although the Major believed that he was doing all this with prompt and soldier-like dispatch, his actions were extremely slow and every movement cost him a painful effort. And it was with an intense effort that he began to write: he wanted to write with a firm hand. Perhaps the very intensity of the strain he put upon himself prevented him from getting further than the first words: “To the …” he had traced upon the paper, in letters that seemed unrecognizable even to himself, and there he stuck—the pen-nib was splintered, it had torn the paper and made an ugly splutter. And firmly, even convulsively, clutching the pen-handle the Major slowly crumpled up, no longer a Major but a worn old man. He attempted again to dip the broken nib into the ink but without success, he only knocked over the inkpot, and the ink ran in a narrow stream over the top of the desk and trickled on to his trousers. The Major paid no attention to it. He sat there with ink-stained hands and stared at the door through which Huguenau had vanished. But when some time later the door opened and the orderly appeared he managed to sit up and stretch out his arm commandingly: “Get out,” he ordered the somewhat flustered man, “get out … I am staying at my post.”

Jaretzki had gone off with Captain von Schnaack. The sisters were still standing in front of the gate waving after the carriage that was taking both men to the station. When they turned to re-enter the house Sister Mathilde looked peaked and old-maidish. Flurschütz said:

“It was really terribly decent of you to take him under your wing last night … the fellow was in an awful state … where on earth did he get hold of the vodka?”

“An unfortunate man,” said Sister Mathilde.

“Have you ever read
Dead Souls
?”

“Let me think … I believe I have.…”

“Gogol,” said Sister Carla, with the pride of ready information, “Russian serfs.”

“Jaretzki is a dead soul,” said Flurschütz, then, after a pause, pointing to a group of soldiers in the garden, “… that’s what they all are, dead souls … probably all of us, too; it’s touched all of us somewhere.”

“Can you lend me the book?” asked Sister Mathilde.

“I don’t have it here … but we can get hold of it … as for books … do you know, I can’t read anything now.…”

He had sat down on the seat beside the porch and was staring at the road, at the mountains, at the clear autumnal sky that was darkening in the north. Sister Mathilde hesitated a moment, then she too sat down.

“You know, Sister, we really need to discover some new means of communication, something beyond speech … all that is written and said has become quite dumb and meaningless … something new is needed, or else our chief is absolutely in the right with his surgery.…”

“I don’t quite understand,” said Sister Mathilde.

“Oh, it’s not worth bothering about, it’s just … I only meant that if our souls are dead there’s nothing for it but the surgical knife … but that’s just nonsense.”

Sister Mathilde thought of something:

“Didn’t Lieutenant Jaretzki say something like that when his arm had to be amputated?”

“Very possibly he did, he’s infected with radicalism too … of course he couldn’t be anything but radical … like every trapped animal.…”

Sister Mathilde was shocked by the word “animal”:

“I believe he was only trying to forget everything … he once hinted at that; and all that drinking …”

Flurschütz had pushed his cap back; he felt the scar on his forehead and passed his finger over it.

“Well, I shouldn’t be surprised if we were entering on a time when people will do nothing but try to forget, only to forget: to sleep and eat and sleep and eat … just like our fellows here … to sleep and eat and play cards.…”

“But that would be dreadful, to live without ideals!”

“My dear Sister Mathilde, what you are seeing here is scarcely the war, it’s only a miniature edition of the war … you haven’t been out of this place for four years … and all the men keep a shut mouth even when they’re wounded … keep a shut mouth and forget about it … but you can take my word for it, not one of them has brought back any ideals.”

Sister Mathilde got up. The thunder-clouds were now outlined against the clear sky like a broad black wall.

“I’m going to apply for a field hospital again as soon as I can,” he said.

“Lieutenant Jaretzki believes that the war is never going to come to an end.”

“Yes … perhaps that’s just why I want to get out there again.”

“I suppose I ought to go out there too.…”

“Oh, you’re doing your bit here, Sister.”

Sister Mathilde looked up at the sky.

“I must bring in the deck-chairs.”

“Yes, you’d better do that, Sister.”

It was Saturday; Huguenau was paying out the week’s wages in the printing-room.

Life had gone on in the usual manner; not for a moment had it occurred to Huguenau that as an openly advertised deserter who was already being tracked down he really should take to flight. He had simply stayed where he was. Not only because he was already too much bound up with local affairs, not only because a business conscience cannot bear to see any enterprise abandoned in which a considerable sum of money has been invested, whether one’s own or another’s—it was rather a feeling of general indefiniteness that kept him where he was and prevented him from admitting defeat, a feeling that compelled him to assert his reality against that of the others. And though it was somewhat nebulous, yet it resolved itself into a very definite idea: that the Major and Esch would get together behind his back and sneer at him. So he stayed where he was, only making an agreement with Frau Esch that meals he did not consume were to be made up to him, thus enabling him to avoid without material loss the hateful midday dinners.

Of course he knew that the trend of affairs was not favourable to the taking of action against a single insignificant Alsatian deserter; he felt himself relatively secure, and moreover he had positively a strangle-hold on the Major. He knew that, but he preferred not to know it. On the contrary he played with the thought that the luck of war might take another turn, that the Major might again be a power in the land, and that
the Major and Esch were only waiting until then to crush him. It was for him to foil them in good time. Maybe it was sheer superstition, but he could not afford to fold his hands, he had to use every minute of his time, he had far too many urgent things to settle; and although he could not have told precisely whither this urgency was driving him, yet he consoled himself with the reflection that it was only their own fault if he laid counter-mines against his enemies.

Now he was paying out the wages. Lindner regarded the money, counted it over again, looked at it once more and left it lying on the table. The apprentice compositor was standing by, equally silent. Huguenau was puzzled:

“Well, Lindner, why don’t you pick up your money?”

Finally, with obvious reluctance, Lindner brought out the words:

“The Union rate’s ninety-two pfennings.”

That was something new. But Huguenau was not at a loss:

“Yes, yes, in large printing-works … but not in a tight squeeze like this … you’re an old, experienced workman and you must know the condition we’re in. With enemies on every hand, nothing but enemies’ … if I hadn’t set the paper on its legs again there wouldn’t be any wages at all to-day … that’s all the thanks I get. Do you imagine I wouldn’t be glad to give you twice as much … but where am I to get it from? Perhaps you think we’re a Government paper bolstered up with subsidies … then, of course, there would be some sense in your joining the Union and asking for Union rates. I would join it myself; I’d be much better off.”