Aleksandar Tišma - The Use of Man

Sredoje was fascinated. He admired them for being so sure of themselves, so composed, for being able to take their pleasure so deliberately, matter-of-factly, without fuss. But what really enchanted him was the thought that their being in this tavern, this evening, was transitory, that tomorrow they would be in another town, or in a battle, and would be killed. Sredoje sensed that they would all die, for now the conflict with the vast Soviet Union had begun, and there was no doubt but that eventually Germany must go down in defeat. Yet this only increased his admiration for them: warriors condemned to death. He felt the need to talk to them, to offer his assistance in understanding what for them was an unfamiliar language, to make friends with them, and learn, from the horse’s mouth, where their strength of character came from. But he never approached them; that would have drawn upon him the hostility of his compatriots, who blinked at those uniformed intruders with an affability that masked the same contempt and hatred that they in turn inspired in Sredoje.

In any case, Sredoje’s wish was soon fulfilled, and without any effort on his part, because the German soldiers — the officers, particularly — found out that articles of value could be bought “under the counter” from his father and began to come to Dobrnjac Street. At first the lawyer did not like to let them into the apartment, but his reluctance disappeared after several profitable deals. Since he spoke no German, on such occasions he did not dismiss Sredoje with a cough. Sredoje began to translate for his father: simple sentences that were easily repeated in the other language. “How much is it?” “Can you make it a little less?” “What else do you have?” But the lawyer was delighted with this modest demonstration of his son’s knowledge. Several months later, even after he had picked up enough of the language to bargain with the Germans himself, he still insisted on Sredoje’s presence. During the negotiations he would sit to one side, deep in the shadow, and from there, nodding his head in satisfaction, would watch and listen as his proposals and answers were turned into foreign words and finally into an agreement.

His opinion of the Germans underwent a change. Sometimes, after a customer departed with a piece, having paid well, Lazukić would compare German gentlemanly largesse and Serbian tight-fistedness, occasionally going so far as to regret his earlier prejudice, for which— he maintained — the local Germans of Novi Sad were responsible; they were dull and small-minded, obviously degenerate, not like these “real” Germans.

He took a special liking to Captain Dieter Waldenheim, who appeared on the scene as a buyer in the following year, 1942, shortly before the lawyer received the news that his wife, Sredoje’s mother, had been killed in Novi Sad during an air raid. The death of that meek woman, whose whole life was lived in the service of her family, lay between father and son for days, like a black cloud. They had given her too little in return for her devotion and, by leaving her, bore some of the blame for her death. Waldenheim sensed something wrong the moment he stepped into the apartment, where he was no longer a stranger, and asked what was the matter. Lazukić mumbled and waved his hand; Sredoje was silent. But Waldenheim, as he examined the articles the lawyer had set out on the table, asked again, until Sredoje, with no prompting from his father, blurted out what they had heard. Lazukić began to weep. Waldenheim, who was a lawyer, too, did not rise from his chair to express condolences or try to console them; he simply asked if the news was certain, then offered to find out the truth of the affair through his official contacts in Hungary. Lazukić, distressed, thanked him warmly, and after Waldenheim left, he even entertained the hope that by some miracle he would hear from the German that his wife was alive. But that was not to be. Two days later, a soldier rang the doorbell, saluted crisply, and delivered a folded piece of paper, on which was written, in tiny handwriting, in German: “The information has been verified and is unfortunately correct. Waldenheim.”

The next time the captain put in an appearance, with no mention of the message or of what had passed between them, he was received as a family friend. He, too, felt this unmistakably and visited Lazukić more often, not only to see what was for sale and also to buy, which he did without haggling, and sometimes just to talk. He came with a bottle of slivovitz under his arm and a box of foreign cigarettes. He would take a comfortable position in the armchair, cross his legs, light a cigarette, and, sipping brandy from the glass Lazukić poured for him, ply his hosts with questions. What were they doing? What was new in the neighborhood? In the world of business? How did Sredoje occupy himself? Gradually, Waldenheim penetrated to their past — their life in Novi Sad, Lazukić’s career as a lawyer, and his politics. But he spoke little of himself, and when Lazukić reproached him for that, he laughed. “What you find out about me will be of no use to you. I am not a typical German. I do not drink beer. I do not carry with me a photograph of my wife and children; in fact, I have no wife and children.” And he went on to discuss the character of his countrymen, their habits, even their defects — above all, their coldness and arrogance. “We are still provincial,” he said. “We are not mature enough to rule. Instead of earning respect, we often arouse hatred through ill-considered actions.”

It was Waldenheim’s view that the Germans should win the confidence of the people they had recently begun to rule by adapting themselves to the local ways of life. “Like the British,” he added. If the talk turned to the shooting of hostages and to arbitrary requisitions, he would sigh, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. He didn’t hide the fact that as an intelligence officer he had to take part in reprisals against the resistance movement, which was gaining ground in Serbia, and in an almost humble tone he begged his new friends not to take part in any disturbances, especially Sredoje, whose youth could easily lead him astray. Lazukić was touched by this expression of concern for them, but Sredoje laughed to himself, because in his wanderings in search of carnal pleasure it had never occurred to him to shoot at the Germans. He wondered if he should confide in Waldenheim, tell him of his secret love for Germans, but he never had the chance to be alone with him, and besides, he didn’t completely trust him. Even physically Waldenheim was different from the Germans Sredoje saw in the streets or in the remote taverns on the outskirts of town. Blond, stocky, and not particularly neat in his dress, with cigarette ash on the pockets of his creased jacket, he had a gentle, almost mocking smile, which played around his full lips and twinkled in his wide blue eyes. Whereas the other German officers and soldiers ignored the civilians in the streets, or kept their distance from them with a disgust they did not bother to conceal, the captain’s blue eyes, looking slightly misty, rested on Sredoje with warmth and attention. But somehow this acted as a warning instead of inspiring confidence.

However, when, at the beginning of summer, it was his age group’s turn to be enlisted in the Serbian National Guard, which he had not the slightest wish to join, Sredoje, at his father’s insistence, approached Waldenheim for help. The German once again was understanding and discreet, passing over in silence the young man’s motives for getting around the law, and said that he would look into it. The next time he called on Lazukić, he had a solution: he could get Sredoje, who knew German, a job as a police translator, which, because of the service’s importance, would exempt him from the grueling and perhaps even dangerous duties of the National Guard. Father and son looked at each other and hesitated — the police under the Occupation were despised as traitors — but this consideration was outweighed by the evident and immediate advantage, and they accepted the offer gratefully. Waldenheim took a calling card bearing only his name and rank from his pocket and wrote “Sredoje Lazukić” on the back in his familiar small hand. The next day, Sredoje presented this laconic recommendation at the Police Department, which was located in a grimy old three-story building.