Danish-Austrian descent and as good as naturalized Scandinavian, he consented. "I spent a number of years of my youth in that little country in the North. An oasis in the middle of Europe. Let's hope it will be spared, and if it is, then go and settle there as soon as you can."
For her morning gift she got Romanian treasure: a silk nightgown with real lace, two sets of gossamer-thin undies, five pairs of real silk stockings and a ring Porta had got me. It was a gold ring with a big sapphire in the middle of tiny diamonds. Altogether the things were worth a fortune on the black market.
I have only fragmentary recollections of most of the last day:
"What does the silly war concern us? We know we have each other."
"No, no, no, you must promise me. If anything happens. You must promise me to get rid of it. We must wait till the war is over and see what the country's like."
"Darling! Do you remember, you said nothing but 'darling' in Vienna. Now it's I who says 'darling' and nothing but 'darling.'
"Promise me that you will take good care of yourself. Stop volunteering for everything. Promise me that you will write really often. Oh, Sven, Sven!"
"There, there. You mustn't cry now. There, there."
"Good-by, Sven. Have you remembered..."
Ursula, Ursula. A white face receding, faster and faster now. Ursula, Ursula. Ur-su-la, dum--dadum, dum--dadum, wheels, whe--els...
The telegraph poles were going the other way. The compartments were overfull. People talked and talked. They believed the reports of successes, and that, perhaps, made me feel more depressed and foreign than did the parting. To which of these gabbling, thoughtless, well-broken creatures could I explain that a perfect military machine like that of the German generals was going to come to a miserable end before long? Which of them could I tell that in the first place the perfection was not really so very perfect; that it consisted only of conditioned reflexes cultivated to perfection: the ability to stand at attention; that could not lay claim to any respect whatever, nor had they the cleverness not to demand anything more than perfection in standing to attention. What was utterly lacking was the ability to know and value the path down which one was marching in step. You were told to go this way, and you went that way.
The machine was marching at an enemy who possessed that which gives victory: moral superiority.
It was only to people like The Old Un and Porta that I could have said that we were just rotten old boots; but they knew that already. You had to keep that sort of thing to yourself in those years.
----
"For my part," answered The Old Un, "it was a very nice leave with my wife and the kids. Lovely--but what use are a few days? The wife's become a motorman on the 61 route. That's always better than being a conductor. Now they can make the money go round at home all right. Hellish that one has to come back to this filth. If only one could have the luck to have a leg sent flying, then one would be done with this rotten Nazi war."
"An arm would be better," said Porta.
"We have not even been in it yet," said I. "But, good Lord, perhaps we'll come through."
The Old Un hid his face in his hands. "I think we've been in enough," he whispered. "I'm not asking for any more. I am in no need of magnificent victories. I'm in need of peace. Come through! Who will have anything to do with us when we have come through? No one. Not even we ourselves. Hell take it."
Porta put the flute back in its case. He had not played it.
----
Porta's Leave
"They can take their report and ---- it. Before it comes in I shall be in the desert, and I should like to see them doing anything to me there just because a snotty railwayman received a well-deserved kick in his strawberry."
Porta blew his nose in his fingers and spat at the wall, hitting a notice announcing that spitting was forbidden.
"I've been darned unlucky with my leave. I had scarcely got inside the door before
For her morning gift she got Romanian treasure: a silk nightgown with real lace, two sets of gossamer-thin undies, five pairs of real silk stockings and a ring Porta had got me. It was a gold ring with a big sapphire in the middle of tiny diamonds. Altogether the things were worth a fortune on the black market.
I have only fragmentary recollections of most of the last day:
"What does the silly war concern us? We know we have each other."
"No, no, no, you must promise me. If anything happens. You must promise me to get rid of it. We must wait till the war is over and see what the country's like."
"Darling! Do you remember, you said nothing but 'darling' in Vienna. Now it's I who says 'darling' and nothing but 'darling.'
"Promise me that you will take good care of yourself. Stop volunteering for everything. Promise me that you will write really often. Oh, Sven, Sven!"
"There, there. You mustn't cry now. There, there."
"Good-by, Sven. Have you remembered..."
Ursula, Ursula. A white face receding, faster and faster now. Ursula, Ursula. Ur-su-la, dum--dadum, dum--dadum, wheels, whe--els...
The telegraph poles were going the other way. The compartments were overfull. People talked and talked. They believed the reports of successes, and that, perhaps, made me feel more depressed and foreign than did the parting. To which of these gabbling, thoughtless, well-broken creatures could I explain that a perfect military machine like that of the German generals was going to come to a miserable end before long? Which of them could I tell that in the first place the perfection was not really so very perfect; that it consisted only of conditioned reflexes cultivated to perfection: the ability to stand at attention; that could not lay claim to any respect whatever, nor had they the cleverness not to demand anything more than perfection in standing to attention. What was utterly lacking was the ability to know and value the path down which one was marching in step. You were told to go this way, and you went that way.
The machine was marching at an enemy who possessed that which gives victory: moral superiority.
It was only to people like The Old Un and Porta that I could have said that we were just rotten old boots; but they knew that already. You had to keep that sort of thing to yourself in those years.
----
"For my part," answered The Old Un, "it was a very nice leave with my wife and the kids. Lovely--but what use are a few days? The wife's become a motorman on the 61 route. That's always better than being a conductor. Now they can make the money go round at home all right. Hellish that one has to come back to this filth. If only one could have the luck to have a leg sent flying, then one would be done with this rotten Nazi war."
"An arm would be better," said Porta.
"We have not even been in it yet," said I. "But, good Lord, perhaps we'll come through."
The Old Un hid his face in his hands. "I think we've been in enough," he whispered. "I'm not asking for any more. I am in no need of magnificent victories. I'm in need of peace. Come through! Who will have anything to do with us when we have come through? No one. Not even we ourselves. Hell take it."
Porta put the flute back in its case. He had not played it.
----
Porta's Leave
"They can take their report and ---- it. Before it comes in I shall be in the desert, and I should like to see them doing anything to me there just because a snotty railwayman received a well-deserved kick in his strawberry."
Porta blew his nose in his fingers and spat at the wall, hitting a notice announcing that spitting was forbidden.
"I've been darned unlucky with my leave. I had scarcely got inside the door before
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