side.” The other side: after the war is over.
In Naples, the second day, he came under fire and was glad of it. Now I am like the others.
He lay down on the bed. He had again been almost happy in Naples where he was assigned to the newspaper the Stars and Stripes , and spent off-duty hours in the Galleria, cruising with his eyes only, determined to do nothing which might be a blot on his army record. “We’ll meet on the other side.”
I don’t want to survive this year. I am nearly on that other side. He closed his eyes, and this time, the whisky and the pills combined to invite sleep.
XIII
He woke sweating and afraid: a horrible dream. Gustaf in SS uniform and highly waxed gleaming boots. He brandished a riding-crop. “This time it is I who plays the role of Princess Tebab with which you insulted me and made me appear ridiculous,” he yelled, and lashed out at Klaus. The first blow caught him across the face and he fell to his knees. Shrieking obscenities, Gustaf struck out again and again. The whip bit into Klaus’s flesh. He smelled his own blood. “Admit you deserve it,” Gustaf cried. “Confess you have wronged me.” But Klaus found no words, only sobs. Then Gustaf was on his knees beside him, thrusting his face, with sulphurous breath into his. “Judas,” he muttered. “Judas. I came close to loving you and you betrayed me,” and began to howl.
It was still dark. Klaus felt his face wet with tears. If he had remained asleep, would they have consoled each other? “I came close to loving you” – closer perhaps than ever before or since. The thought was insupportable. How ugly, unlike Willi, Gustaf had been in that uniform!
Klaus began to weep freely, tears of exhaustion and despair. They flowed unstoppable as the river of time. “I’m at the end of everything.” A shadowy shape hovered above him. He knew what it was: the ghost of an earlier night horror. He was lying on a deserted Baltic beach, stretched out on the cold wet sand while the beating of vultures’ wings filled the air. “But there are no vultures in Germany,” he cried out, vainly.
A cramp seized the back of his thigh. He hopped out of bed, naked, pressed his hands against his leg, stood on tiptoe to ease it. There was still some whisky in the bottle. He lifted it in both hands and swallowed. René’s last words: “I am disgusted with everything.”
The whisky steadied him. He tilted the bottle, this time into the glass. Why not do it now? I am being devoured by loneliness and misery. Why not escape? “But that the fear of something after death” – yet I have no fear of that. Only of life. And it’s not fear, but wretchedness, boredom. He put on a dressinggown. To die naked would be an embarrassment. The thought was amusing. He nursed the glass as a friend who had never betrayed him.
I can wait. I can still wait. I have not yet arrived at the irreversible moment. I am almost in credit here at the hotel, and the money Mielein sent me is not exhausted.
Her photograph stood in its frame on the table before him. The tenderness of her gaze without a hint even of reproach. Yes, my death would certainly hurt her. Can I be so cruel? And I still have work to do.
“Julian had thought so deeply, so often and so longingly of death that he felt it had become the shadow that accompanied him wherever he walked. Yet now, lying on the beach, listening to the murmur of the waves and smoking a cigar, he said to himself, ‘Not yet, there’s no urgency, I don’t need anything now and that’s a sort of freedom. There’s only the seashore and the north breeze and the gulls crying out in the upper air, and the smoke from my cigar rising blue towards them to lose itself in the sunshine. I’m almost at ease with life. For the moment. So no need yet.’ But then it came to him that this was precisely the occasion to depart. Was it possible that in the afterlife your condition might depend on the mood in which you had taken your leave
In Naples, the second day, he came under fire and was glad of it. Now I am like the others.
He lay down on the bed. He had again been almost happy in Naples where he was assigned to the newspaper the Stars and Stripes , and spent off-duty hours in the Galleria, cruising with his eyes only, determined to do nothing which might be a blot on his army record. “We’ll meet on the other side.”
I don’t want to survive this year. I am nearly on that other side. He closed his eyes, and this time, the whisky and the pills combined to invite sleep.
XIII
He woke sweating and afraid: a horrible dream. Gustaf in SS uniform and highly waxed gleaming boots. He brandished a riding-crop. “This time it is I who plays the role of Princess Tebab with which you insulted me and made me appear ridiculous,” he yelled, and lashed out at Klaus. The first blow caught him across the face and he fell to his knees. Shrieking obscenities, Gustaf struck out again and again. The whip bit into Klaus’s flesh. He smelled his own blood. “Admit you deserve it,” Gustaf cried. “Confess you have wronged me.” But Klaus found no words, only sobs. Then Gustaf was on his knees beside him, thrusting his face, with sulphurous breath into his. “Judas,” he muttered. “Judas. I came close to loving you and you betrayed me,” and began to howl.
It was still dark. Klaus felt his face wet with tears. If he had remained asleep, would they have consoled each other? “I came close to loving you” – closer perhaps than ever before or since. The thought was insupportable. How ugly, unlike Willi, Gustaf had been in that uniform!
Klaus began to weep freely, tears of exhaustion and despair. They flowed unstoppable as the river of time. “I’m at the end of everything.” A shadowy shape hovered above him. He knew what it was: the ghost of an earlier night horror. He was lying on a deserted Baltic beach, stretched out on the cold wet sand while the beating of vultures’ wings filled the air. “But there are no vultures in Germany,” he cried out, vainly.
A cramp seized the back of his thigh. He hopped out of bed, naked, pressed his hands against his leg, stood on tiptoe to ease it. There was still some whisky in the bottle. He lifted it in both hands and swallowed. René’s last words: “I am disgusted with everything.”
The whisky steadied him. He tilted the bottle, this time into the glass. Why not do it now? I am being devoured by loneliness and misery. Why not escape? “But that the fear of something after death” – yet I have no fear of that. Only of life. And it’s not fear, but wretchedness, boredom. He put on a dressinggown. To die naked would be an embarrassment. The thought was amusing. He nursed the glass as a friend who had never betrayed him.
I can wait. I can still wait. I have not yet arrived at the irreversible moment. I am almost in credit here at the hotel, and the money Mielein sent me is not exhausted.
Her photograph stood in its frame on the table before him. The tenderness of her gaze without a hint even of reproach. Yes, my death would certainly hurt her. Can I be so cruel? And I still have work to do.
“Julian had thought so deeply, so often and so longingly of death that he felt it had become the shadow that accompanied him wherever he walked. Yet now, lying on the beach, listening to the murmur of the waves and smoking a cigar, he said to himself, ‘Not yet, there’s no urgency, I don’t need anything now and that’s a sort of freedom. There’s only the seashore and the north breeze and the gulls crying out in the upper air, and the smoke from my cigar rising blue towards them to lose itself in the sunshine. I’m almost at ease with life. For the moment. So no need yet.’ But then it came to him that this was precisely the occasion to depart. Was it possible that in the afterlife your condition might depend on the mood in which you had taken your leave
Similar Books
