Mavis Gallant - The Pegnitz Junction

“On the subject of German reparations I remain open-minded,” the Norwegian said amiably. “Some accepted the money and invested it, some refused even to apply. I knew of a lawyer whose entire career consisted of handling reparations cases, from the time he left law school until he retired after a heart attack.”

“I am open-minded too,” said Herbert, every bit as amiable as the Norwegian.

The woman in the corner spoke up: “What I keep asking myself is where does the money come from?” She looked at Herbert, as if he should know. “And these payments go on! And on! Where does it all come from?”

“Don’t worry,” said Herbert. “The beneficiaries die younger than most other people. They die early for their age groups. Actuarial studies are reassuring on that point.”

It was impossible for the two strangers to tell if Herbert was glad or sorry.

“It is only right that you pay,” said the Norwegian, though not aggressively.

“Of course it is right,” said Herbert, smiling. “However, I object to your use of ‘you.’ ”

At this the conversation ran out. Christine removed herself from what might have been her share of feeling by opening her book. Instantly little Bert was beside her. “Read,” he said.

She read, “ ‘Bruno lived in a house of his own. He had a bedroom, a living room, a dining room …’ ”

“And a playroom.”

“All right. ‘The living room had red curtains, the bedroom had blue curtains …’ ”

“No,” said little Bert. “Red in the playroom.”

Herbert looked at them both; across his face was written, “It’s working. They’re friends.” The woman in the corner had closed her eyes after the abrupt ending of the last conversation, but her mind was awake. The other couple bought a car when the neighbourhood went. The three blocks weren’t safe, they thought. Sometimes they were late for dinner because someone had parked in front of their garage. Otherwise they were always on time. At first they came just for lunch on Sundays, then got in the habit of staying for supper because Jack Benny came on at seven. The only words my sister-in-law ever learned in English were “Jello again.” Once learned, never forgotten. Before the blacks came we had the Catholics. That was the way it went. Once I was waiting with my sister-in-law to cross the street in front of the house when a lot of little girls in First Communion dresses crossed without waiting for the light. So near you could touch them. I said to her, “You ’ ve got to admit they look nice in the white, like little snow fairies.” One of those little girls turned right around and said in German, “We ’ re not snow fairies, you old sow, we ’ re angels — ANGELS!”

Their train slowed at an unknown station, then changed its mind and picked up speed, but not before they’d been given a chance to see a detachment of conscripts of the army of the Federal Republic in their crumpled uniforms and dusty boots and with their long hair hanging in strings. She saw them as she imagined Herbert must be seeing them: small, round-shouldered, rather dark. Blond, blue-eyed genes were on the wane in Europe.

Herbert’s expression gradually changed to one of brooding. He seemed to be dwelling on a deep inner hurt. His eyes narrowed, as if he had been cornered by beams of electric light. Christine knew that he felt intense disgust for men-at-arms in general, but for untidy soldiers in particular. His pacifism was certainly real — little Bert was not allowed to have any military toys. His look may have meant that even to a pacifist soldiers are supposed to seem like soldiers; they should salute smartly, stare you frankly in the face, keep their shoes shined and their hair trimmed. The Norwegian turned his mouth down, as though soldiering were very different where he came from. He exchanged a glance with Herbert — it was the first that Herbert returned. The woman in the corner opened her little eyes, shook her head, and said “Chck chck,” marvelling that such spectacles were allowed.

The principal of Carol Ann’s school had good ideas for raising money. One was the sale of crosses for one ninety-eight. Black crosses with the words HE DIED FOR YOU in white. Meant to be hung on a bedroom wall, the first thing a child would see in the morning. Character building. First of all my cousin did not want any cross in the house. Then he said he wouldn’t mind having just the one so long as nobody said “crucifix.” He couldn’t stand that word — too Catholic. Then his wife said she didn’t want a black cross because the black didn’t match anything in the room. Everything in Carol Ann’s bedroom was powder-blue and white. My cousin then said he did not want to see a cross with any person on it. Once you accept a cross with a person on it, they’re in, he said, meaning the Catholics. My cousin was stricter than your average Lutheran. His wife said what about a white cross with powder-blue lettering? My cousin was really worked up; he said, “Over my dead body will a black cross called a crucifix and with any person on it enter my home.” Finally Carol Ann got a white cross with no person on it and no words to read. It cost a little more, two forty-nine, on account of the white paint. The principal of that school had good ideas but went too far sometimes, though his aim was just to make people better Christians. The school earned quite a lot on the sale of the crosses, which went towards buying a dishwasher cut-rate from the Flushing factory. All the children were good Christians and the principal strove to make some better .

They were all tired now and beginning to look despondent. Luckily the next station stop was a pretty one, with gingerbread buildings and baskets of petunias hanging everywhere. The woman stirred and smiled to herself, as if reminded of all the charming places she had ever lived in during the past. The Norwegian leaped to his feet. “Good luck,” said Herbert. He had given up trying to find water, toilets, food.

My cousin-in-law never understood the television. She ’ d say, “Are they the good ones or the bad ones?” We ’ d say this one ’ s bad, that one ’ s good. She would say, “Then why are they dressed the same way?” If the bad and the good had the same kind of suits on she couldn ’ t follow .

“Read something about Bruno,” said little Bert. “Read about Bruno not doing as he’s told.”

“ ‘The fact was that Bruno could not always tell right from wrong,’ “ read Christine severely. “ ‘When he was in Paris he whistled and called to other people’s dogs. He did not know that it is not polite to call other people’s dogs, even in a friendly way. He ate everything with his fingers. He put his fingers in the pickle jar.’ ”

“Careful. Our housekeeper does that,” said Herbert.

“Read about Bruno’s sisters and brothers,” said little Bert. “What did they do?”

“ ‘Bruno had five brothers. All five were named Georg. But Georg was pronounced five different ways in the family, so there was no mistake. They were called the Yursh, the Shorsh, the Goysh …’ ”

“Christine, please ,“ said Herbert. “It’s silly. The child is not an idiot.”

“But, Herbert, it happens to be true! All five brothers had five different godfathers named Georg, so they were each called Georg. Is there a law against it?”

He searched and said, “No.”

“Well then. ‘The Goysh, the Jairsh …’ ”

“Don’t confuse him,” said Herbert.

“Oh, God, Herbert, you are the one confused. My father knew them. They existed. Only one survived the war, the Yursh. He was already old when I met him. He might be dead now.”