Peter Vansittart - Secret Protocols

His smile barely a twitch, he handled the crucifix as he might rare porcelain, his voice now fatigued, like his pallor and drooping shoulders.

‘One sees, of course, people praying, but too often this is wheedling, a trespass on human dignity. In Hebrew, you remember,’ – a trace of amusement showed he knew that I did not – ‘prayer is better understood not as a plea but as self-ramification, relating one’s needs to one’s deserts and, I suppose, to those of others. So, not useless hesitations but techniques to restore self-assurance, which, if not overcoming hell, at least softening its impact.’

Rebelliously, I thought of Friedl, sacrificed in Wolf’s Lair and lost his next remark, until recalled by his sudden emphasis. ‘We, or at least I, know little of Jesus. A few months recalled with doubtful accuracy. Much is surely mythical, but in that, would you not say, is its credibility. Myth distils the essence, refines attitudes, sheds the topical or makes topical the past. Patterns standing the test of time. Therein lies not eternal life, for myself, if not, perhaps, for you, but life eternal, spirit eternal.’

He spread hands, apparently bored with propositions he considered drearily platitudinous. ‘Jesus’ comments may be cryptic, playful, paradoxical, untranslatable, sometimes mischievous… I see him as something of a comedian… at times bleak. But they linger. His opinion of our trouble over this girl might have sounded sardonic, indifferent, even callous. Or very simple, the wisdom of the wise booby, mystical ignoramus. The Saviour who outwits Attila and outlives Tamerlane, forgets the world is round and stands it on its head, reverses the rules, mocks the merely possible.’

He had resumed the playfulness ascribed to Jesus. ‘Meister Eckhart defines the mystic as one who, having stared into the heart of the sun, sees the sun in everything.’

As usual, he qualified any suggestion of the sententious by self-deprecation, equivalent of a wink. ‘Not everyone would agree. If they did, there would be less politics. And, dear Lord, fewer potatoes!’

Almost intimate, we moved to the window, and, for the first time, I realized myself the taller. I had always, in so many ways, looked up to him. Soon an old creature with alligator teeth loped past, using his stick as a crutch. Creakily, he bowed to Wilfrid in a way conforming to Wilfrid’s conception of Jesus, sardonic, mischievous, antagonistic to rules and suggestions. Other figures shuffled after him, and a woman’s voice called angrily to a child.

‘What’s that, Kurt? Are you hungry?’

‘No, I’m hungry.’

Several youths, Acrobats by nature, heads together, plotting, sniggering, complaining, clustered at the pump. Or bargained for the girl, meek behind them, jug in hand. ‘She looks’, Wilfrid said, ‘almost virginal. Rare though not inspiring. Well, the sadness and mad hopes of the young! I once met a Malayan girl with an impressive-sounding name that, in the vernacular, meant “my Father wanted a boy”!’

He was meditative, then returned to his chair. ‘It’s been said, too often, that a young face resembles a rose. You might prefer a heliotrope. But any flower, even wild by the roadside, refutes the zealot instructing us to refrain from feeding the hungry and clothing the naked, in order to hasten the end of the system and gain absolute power. Absolution for the unforgivable. Instead, you and, more problematically, myself, are learning to love the unlovable. As for little Friedl, unworthy of troubadours and lyricists… our companions, brave, loyal, unselfish, reliable, nevertheless contemplate what they call mass assault. The ancients symbolized our problem as the Gordian Knot. Alexander, in his greatness, or because of his greatness, lacked patience. He died young, you remember. An imbecilic treatment of life.’

The message I imperfectly understood, though it must counsel restraint. But then what? High thoughts, well-adjusted patience, would not unlock Wolf’s Lair or withstand the Russians.

Before I left him he selected a book from a neat pile, sought a particular page, then, as settling the matter beyond dispute, read out: ‘You’ve seen anger flare, two boys huddled into a ball of what was mere hate, and roll upon the ground… But now you know how such things get forgotten, for there, before you, stands the bowl of roses.’

Though the war was surely ending, a German advance in Bavaria was rumoured. I cursed Friedl. A little scared, at a loss, I was over-strained: spots in my eyes, unhealed scratches, coughs. The one-sided talk with Wilfrid rankled, I rebelled against his habit of uttering the controversial as if it were a truth clear to all but the wilful. At such times he was not Xenophanes but Robespierre, overclean, ineffable, not quite human, or a clever professor enjoying giving unexpected answers to questions routine or not always asked.

Vello ignored us, chances of a deal receded. From Wolf’s Lair a scream, whether or not faked, was heard at night, like tearing calico. Again, we must wait on Wilfrid.

He was refreshed, at ease, and, overalls removed, almost smart in trim blue jacket, well-washed open green shirt. ‘I have often thought that shabby compromise is an arrangement unjustly maligned. It may be possible for me to reach it.’

Protests were strenuous. ‘Wilfrid, you can’t…’ But he could and was already leaving, passing through the camp with his habitual nods, small greetings, enquiries, making for the gates, at which, trailing behind, we had, at his brief order, to remain, the crowd around us whispering, nervous.

He reached the barn, huge, patchily thatched, rotten, a woman gripped my hand as the door opened, then slammed, the sound like a gun-shot. ‘It’s a rat warren,’ the woman breathed as he disappeared.

Throughout the long afternoon, under a sun round and yellow, like a poster, the crowd swelled, now subdued, now muttering. Some thought that Wilfrid had deserted us, would ride with Vello to seek the British and their General Monty. In myth, so recommended by Wilfrid, there could be wordless desire for the downfall of the beloved – Baldur, Achilles, Caesar. People, oppressed by tensions and the warm, sickly air, sank into hopelessness. Once a stir passed over like a breeze as Vello appeared at the door, surveying us, his stare, bludgeon nose, twisted mouth, his metal belt, his fists, compressed into the stiffness of pine or gallows.

Trained on the barn door, we were held together by fantasies of the upshot. Purple melodrama has its truth, paring the moment to death or deliverance, the abject or proud, sunlight or midnight. Several, fainting, praying or in hangdog nothingness, were on their knees. Moments slouched by or ceased altogether, as in other tales, when the lord lies wounded, crops wither, dancers’ feet, harpists’ fingers, drinkers’ hands, freeze. Heavy as Hindenburg, the atmosphere was about to split when Friedl suddenly slid out quietly, faintly, as if through a crack in the great door, one cheek bruised, eyes looking nowhere, but head and shoulders defiant, demanding credit, until she half ran to a side-gate, the crowd parting, then enclosing her.

Shamed by my own inactivity, I had scarcely thought of her. The barn remained fixed in its very lack of commotion, its morgue isolation, until, neither unobtrusive nor histrionic, Wilfrid walked out, his smile large, barely natural – the Pole said later he had rubbed himself with air – and, in a general gasp, we saw he was wearing an Egyptian tarboosh, red, tasselled, jaunty. He could as well have sported a cap and bells and painted stick, for a comic dance. Feeling we should applaud, we did nothing, overtaken by relief, astonishment, sensations of unreality. He would of course explain nothing, never mention it, the incident was as personal as confessional or medical examination. He might have done no more than told them a story, implausible but adroit. It might one day supply me a larger story of my own, written not from knowledge but ignorance, bending, colouring, or spoiling language, striving not for the sublime but the unusual.