Aleksandar Tišma - The Use of Man

She went out into the street, walked to the center of town. She saw shops full of brightly colored goods, saw restaurants and cafés in whose windows waiters moved quickly and elegantly, saw huge machines demolishing ruins and driving into the ground iron piles for future buildings. Streetcars, trucks, buses whizzed by, everything shaking, everyone hurrying, working, or relaxing in taverns that had childishly cheerful names, such as Beim vollen Tisch. Vera recognized that cheerfulness, the same cheerfulness that had produced the signs in the camp, the names for blocks, compounds, houses of pleasure, and that accompanied the marching of the guards or the training of the dogs to tear the flesh of insubordinate prisoners. All Germany, she felt, was an enormous madhouse, where thousands upon thousands of people, in total agreement with one another, spoke words, performed actions, carried out ideas that were beyond comprehension, cold, inhuman; construction that was insane but logical, like a bare concrete wall that served no purpose. And there was no escape from that merciless wall.

Despairing, she hurried home. Perhaps there she might find some voice of reason, some crack in the wall of madness. In the deserted tavern — Liese had lowered the blinds before leaving — Vera’s mother, her head resting on her arms, sat next to Hermann Arbeitsam, he with a fixed smile, the two forming a grotesque tribunal. They scolded Vera for coming home late, asking themselves (eyes raised to the ceiling) why they worked so hard if Vera was unappreciative of their toil. The tavern, her mother went on, was very successful, and she planned to open another one soon, under the same name, in another part of town, a cosy, intimate place with a small selection of good, homemade dishes and a homey atmosphere. She had even chosen the location, an iron-monger’s shop that was soon to close because of the competition from the big stores. All business in Germany was growing; the small shops were disappearing, crowded out. Tereza Arbeitsam warmed to her subject, pleased to be present in a revolution that was shaking the whole country, particularly since it spared the tavern business. In all other trades, she said, the trend was toward large-scale concerns and mass production, but here the consumer wanted something small and personal, where after the wearying crowd he could relax in the old, familiar way. She thought (here her blue eyes, made smaller by her fat cheeks, sparkled cunningly) that, with an increase in pay, Liese could take over the preparation of food in the old establishment, and the two of them, mother and daughter, provided Hermann kept them supplied, could work in the new premises. What did Vera think of that, she asked, but then exploded, because she could see, she said, that Vera was looking down her nose at the idea.

Why, then, did Vera think, was she feeding and keeping her? For the fun of it? When she was Vera’s age, she worked and earned her living, she pulled herself out of poverty, acquired a family, a fortune. The war destroyed all that, it took her only son, her Gerd, who, had he lived — here she could no longer hold back two large tears, but wiped them away with the back of her hand and continued — would certainly have been worthy of her sacrifice. Yes, she was unhappy, in spite of everything. She dropped her head on her folded arms, her shoulders heaved; Hermann awkwardly moved a mug of beer toward her, pulled her head up, and urged her to take a few sips. “Don’t let yourself go, Mamma! Think of your health!” he said to her, which may have been what he hoped Vera would say. But Vera had no thought of consoling her mother, of making promises; she had not even heard her mother’s words, but merely watched the mouth as it opened, closed, twisted, making words and tears, tears and words, like a machine out of control. Vera was overcome by fear, gasped for air, felt the blood rushing to her head, swayed and almost fell. Hermann leaped toward her, attempted to help her to a chair opposite her mother, who looked surprised, but Vera, in a panic, asked to be allowed to go to her room.

Following this scene, Tereza and Hermann, evidently by mutual agreement, no longer spoke to Vera about working. They left her alone and when she came down for meals, discussed other, more remote, projects. Tereza began to question Vera about her expenses back home: how much lunch cost, how much an evening meal, how much dresses and shoes — in her mind converting the prices to marks. She was amazed to learn how cheap everything was there. She examined Vera’s clothes closely, fingering the material, scraping the sole of a shoe with a fingernail, asking her daughter again if she had indeed bought it in Novi Sad and at the price quoted. She was interested in Vera’s housing arrangement and was pleased to hear that she paid no rent. Couldn’t Vera get the whole house back, or receive compensation for it? Vera knew nothing of such matters and shrugged the question off, but her mother threw a look at Hermann and suggested Jacob Bernister as a source of more reliable information. Bernister was an important factor in her calculations, anyway; through him, Vera could receive financial help, which could be paid back to his brother in Hannover. Five hundred dinars a month, for example, when reckoned in marks, would still be a lot less than her expenses in Germany. In any case, Vera didn’t like it in Germany — wasn’t that true, she asked, with no reproach in her voice, taking Vera’s answer for granted. All that was left was to agree on the date for her departure; the middle of May would be just right, for the purchase of the new tavern would be completed by the first of June, at which time she and Hermann would have so much to do that it would be difficult for them to take care of her. Suddenly Tereza was generous; she left the tavern in Liese’s and Hermann’s charge for a morning and went out shopping with Vera. In a department store she bought her a coat, an umbrella, underwear, and as they were leaving, in the basement, at the last moment, a gold ring with a coral inset, to remind her now and then of her mother, she said. The packing was done. In addition to the suitcase she had brought with her, Vera was given a soft travel bag of waxed tartan canvas in which to put her newly acquired belongings. “Look, I dirtied it a little around the edges,” her mother pointed out. “You mustn’t tell Customs that you have anything new, otherwise they’ll skin you alive.”

The three of them took the streetcar to the station, the same one they took when she arrived half a year earlier. The tall buildings with shops on the ground floor and the empty lots between them went by. At the station Hermann carried her luggage into the train and placed it in an empty compartment; they now waited for the train to leave. “Do you ever see any of Gerhard’s friends?” Tereza Arbeitsam asked unexpectedly as her lips twisted tearfully. Vera thought for a moment, mentioned two or three names, but there was no more time to talk; the conductor told the passengers to board the train, mother and daughter kissed quickly, and Hermann shook Vera’s hand and bowed abruptly. Vera went into the compartment, stood by the window waving to her mother and Hermann as they walked along the platform, until the train picked up speed and they disappeared from sight.

Alone at last, Vera threw herself on the seat with a sigh of relief. As the train rolled on, she felt as if she were withdrawing backstage after an exhausting performance, which she felt her stay with her mother had been. Towns with tightly packed buildings passed, factories, orderly farms, everything spick-and-span, but, to her, impersonal. And unfamiliar, as if she had not traveled along that same route in the opposite direction with her heart thumping. She dozed off while it was still light, and was awakened by the conductor, a red-faced, rotund man who, businesslike and polite, asked for her ticket. Then she closed her eyes, shading them with the curtain, and went back to sleep. The train stopped from time to time at deserted stations. Occasionally someone peeked into the compartment, only to continue along the corridor looking for one that was empty. The Customs officers knocked on the door, checked her passport, whispered something to each other, asked what she had in her luggage, but did not search it. The night was cool; she wrapped herself in her new coat. They were now riding through tall mountains, the trees swaying nervously in the wind. The train stopped at a station with a large, brightly lit yellow building; railroadmen ran around waving little flags and blowing whistles. New Customs officers came on board, Austrians, quieter, slower. They greeted her pleasantly, left, came back again, this time with several Yugoslavs, all of them tall, hardy men who moved like people unaccustomed to being indoors. They called her Comrade and all but clapped her on the back. “Have a good time in Germany?” asked one, showing healthy white teeth. He wished her a pleasant journey, as if congratulating her on going home.