straightened my spine.
“Of late, you haven’t been all there, my friend. I’ve noticed it for a while now.”
I was startled. Inconspicuous, appropriate—that’s what I wanted to be. I didn’t want anyone focusing on me. “Hasn’t my performance been—”
“It’s not work-related,” he said, waving dismissively. Ashes fell on his sleeve. “Tell me, man to man: What’s eating you?”
“Nothing, Herr Leibold—that is, Captain.” I came to attention. “I’ll try harder from now on, sir.”
“You’re a hard fellow to figure out, Corporal,” the bald man said. “Can I help you in some way?” I could feel his sincerity, and I knew how dangerous such sympathy was. “Take the afternoon 98 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
off.” Leibold threw down his cigarette and ground it out under his heel. No privilege, I thought. Normality. Distance. “Rest and relax,” he said. “Why not go swimming? It’ll probably be your last chance this year.” He wiped his skull with a white handkerchief. I clicked my heels together too late and watched the black uniform disappear at the end of the hall.
No sound from anywhere. The hotel appeared deserted. Nobody walking down the corridors, nobody making a phone call. Everyone was on duty somewhere else. Except me, there alone, lying on my bed and listening. Faint traffic noise. A single drip in the bathroom. I felt like the only living creature in the building. With every minute that I lost, the possibility of doing anything grew smaller. But my chances of survival increased. I had to make a decision; I had to act. I remained where I was—on my back. I shoved a pillow under my head and gazed at the shepherd girls.
The curtain’s gray-green reminded me of Chantal’s eyes.
I sat up as though I had just awakened. Averting my eyes from the mirror, I opened the wardrobe and bent down to the cloth bag. I stayed like that for several seconds and then, finally, I seized the handle and swung the bag onto the bed. Then I turned slowly toward the wall. The calendar was hanging there; today’s date hadn’t been torn off yet. I’ll do it later tonight, I thought, after I get back. When I felt the material of my checkered suit between my fingers, everything stood still.
Nothing was different. The facade of the condemned building hung dangerously far out over the sidewalk. The coolness of the A P R I L I N PA R I S . 99
entryway welcomed me. I took off my uniform more carefully than usual and meticulously folded the shirt and the trousers. After cramming the shafts of my boots into the laundry bag, I took off my ID tags and weighed the little chain in my hand. With incomprehensible reverence, I slipped the tags back over my head and felt the metal on my chest. I quickly buttoned my civilian shirt up to my neck.
This evening, Monsieur Antoine was a self under duress. I was playing a role. I hurried through the streets, my eyes on the pavement. The way seemed longer than before. Suspicious silence on the Pont Royal. Why did the soldiers on the bridge stare at me? I didn’t take my usual route along the boulevard; instead, I sidled down narrow alleys and slipped through solitary passageways, approaching rue Jacob by detours.
The waiter at the Lubinsky invited me to have a seat. I didn’t slow down. Step by step, the café disappeared behind me. Two sergeants came around the corner; I hugged the wall and continued on. Finally, I reached the Jewish haberdasher’s shop. The barber’s windows glimmered just beyond it. Alert and apprehensive, I scouted around. Was the task force already lurking somewhere?
Had Leibold sent assault troops or men in civilian clothes? Were they posted in the entryways of the neighboring buildings, their eyes fixed on the barbershop?
If I walk past the salon now, I thought, and reach the next corner and return to my field gray reality, it will be as if none of this ever happened. I’ll tear the page off the calendar, just as I do every day. But
“Of late, you haven’t been all there, my friend. I’ve noticed it for a while now.”
I was startled. Inconspicuous, appropriate—that’s what I wanted to be. I didn’t want anyone focusing on me. “Hasn’t my performance been—”
“It’s not work-related,” he said, waving dismissively. Ashes fell on his sleeve. “Tell me, man to man: What’s eating you?”
“Nothing, Herr Leibold—that is, Captain.” I came to attention. “I’ll try harder from now on, sir.”
“You’re a hard fellow to figure out, Corporal,” the bald man said. “Can I help you in some way?” I could feel his sincerity, and I knew how dangerous such sympathy was. “Take the afternoon 98 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
off.” Leibold threw down his cigarette and ground it out under his heel. No privilege, I thought. Normality. Distance. “Rest and relax,” he said. “Why not go swimming? It’ll probably be your last chance this year.” He wiped his skull with a white handkerchief. I clicked my heels together too late and watched the black uniform disappear at the end of the hall.
No sound from anywhere. The hotel appeared deserted. Nobody walking down the corridors, nobody making a phone call. Everyone was on duty somewhere else. Except me, there alone, lying on my bed and listening. Faint traffic noise. A single drip in the bathroom. I felt like the only living creature in the building. With every minute that I lost, the possibility of doing anything grew smaller. But my chances of survival increased. I had to make a decision; I had to act. I remained where I was—on my back. I shoved a pillow under my head and gazed at the shepherd girls.
The curtain’s gray-green reminded me of Chantal’s eyes.
I sat up as though I had just awakened. Averting my eyes from the mirror, I opened the wardrobe and bent down to the cloth bag. I stayed like that for several seconds and then, finally, I seized the handle and swung the bag onto the bed. Then I turned slowly toward the wall. The calendar was hanging there; today’s date hadn’t been torn off yet. I’ll do it later tonight, I thought, after I get back. When I felt the material of my checkered suit between my fingers, everything stood still.
Nothing was different. The facade of the condemned building hung dangerously far out over the sidewalk. The coolness of the A P R I L I N PA R I S . 99
entryway welcomed me. I took off my uniform more carefully than usual and meticulously folded the shirt and the trousers. After cramming the shafts of my boots into the laundry bag, I took off my ID tags and weighed the little chain in my hand. With incomprehensible reverence, I slipped the tags back over my head and felt the metal on my chest. I quickly buttoned my civilian shirt up to my neck.
This evening, Monsieur Antoine was a self under duress. I was playing a role. I hurried through the streets, my eyes on the pavement. The way seemed longer than before. Suspicious silence on the Pont Royal. Why did the soldiers on the bridge stare at me? I didn’t take my usual route along the boulevard; instead, I sidled down narrow alleys and slipped through solitary passageways, approaching rue Jacob by detours.
The waiter at the Lubinsky invited me to have a seat. I didn’t slow down. Step by step, the café disappeared behind me. Two sergeants came around the corner; I hugged the wall and continued on. Finally, I reached the Jewish haberdasher’s shop. The barber’s windows glimmered just beyond it. Alert and apprehensive, I scouted around. Was the task force already lurking somewhere?
Had Leibold sent assault troops or men in civilian clothes? Were they posted in the entryways of the neighboring buildings, their eyes fixed on the barbershop?
If I walk past the salon now, I thought, and reach the next corner and return to my field gray reality, it will be as if none of this ever happened. I’ll tear the page off the calendar, just as I do every day. But
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