Aleksandar Tišma - The Use of Man

He let Waldenheim lead him back to the Opel. A group of German officers stood behind the car, near a long blue limousine he had never seen before. Automatically, he sat in his usual place next to Hans, and Waldenheim got in behind, next to a tall young officer with a hooked nose. “Let me introduce you,” said Waldenheim, leaning forward, and Sredoje turned around and held out his hand to the cross-eyed officer, who greeted him stiffly. Above the rumbling of the engine, Sredoje heard himself described as “our young friend, who is working for us.” They drove through the streets of the town, which were once more filled with people, people hurrying home, and came out on the dusty, empty highway. The cross-eyed officer directed Hans along country roads. As they climbed into the hills, the sun disappeared for a time; when it reappeared, it lay, weary and distended, upon a low, flat ridge.

They stopped in front of a two-story building of stone and wood, which looked like a hunting lodge. A guard with a rifle stood in front, and beyond him several soldiers, without weapons and bareheaded, ran around carrying crates and light cane furniture. Waldenheim and his companion got out and invited Sredoje to do the same. Sredoje was still unsteady on his feet. In front of the building a wire fence stretched at chest height, and beyond the fence, between it and a country well with a winch, was a yard shaded by ancient trees, beneath which the soldiers were setting out tables and chairs. Still farther back, they had a large fire going. There was the drone of an engine, and around the bend appeared the blue limousine, which parked behind the Opel. Several German officers sprang out and, with loud laughter, hustled the group that had arrived earlier through the entrance in the fence, where the sentry, standing at attention, saluted. The tables had been placed end to end and covered with white tablecloths. A soldier crouching in the grass filled kerosene lamps.

The guests sat down at the tables, the soldiers opened bottles of beer, and from the other end of the yard came the smell of grilling meat. The kerosene lamps were lit and hung on nails hammered in the trunks of the trees. As it grew dark, the officers filled their glasses, clinked, and drank. Sredoje sat at the end of the table, next to Hans, and together, in silence, they sipped their beer. The rest of the company was noisy, celebrating the birthday of the cross-eyed officer with the hooked nose, who sat next to Waldenheim. Perhaps, too, they were showing off before their superior from Belgrade. They praised the beer, praised the spot under the trees, and, when the meat arrived, praised the skill of the military cook, who in answer to the loud summons of all present appeared in a long white apron spattered with grease and blood.

Red wine in liter bottles was brought to the tables, along with clean tall glasses. A young and chubby second lieutenant stood up and toasted his colleague on the occasion of his colleague’s twenty-sixth birthday, and everyone had to empty a glass of wine. The tall, cross-eyed officer responded, announcing that it was an honor for him to celebrate his birthday in the presence of the esteemed Captain Doctor Waldenheim, at which they all again drained their glasses. Waldenheim stood up and quietly, deliberately proposed a toast, and referred to the delicate position in which they found themselves, in a foreign country where there was not yet sufficient understanding of the German aim to introduce a civilized way of life. Everyone applauded and again drank. Sredoje, this time, only wet his lips with the wine, but the chubby second lieutenant shouted across to Waldenheim that his interpreter was shirking, at which Sredoje, with a forced laugh, raised his glass and drained it. Now everyone wanted to speak, to drink, to clink glasses. Sredoje suddenly felt the wine rising in his throat; he broke into a sweat, and his stomach began to churn. He got up and rushed to the far end of the lawn, to the well, around it, and to the wire fence, where by a wooden post he vomited in one dense stream. Now he was empty, sober, but exhausted.

He stood panting, pulling himself together, wiping the sweat off his face, as the soldiers eating around the spit and the grill watched him. The officers’ wild laughter reached his ears. He had to return. He walked back in the shadows cast by the fading fire and came into the lamplight right next to his seat. A full glass was waiting for him, and the second lieutenant, the minute Sredoje sat down, clinked glasses with him, winking. Sredoje shook his head; he could not swallow another drop. The second lieutenant called across to Waldenheim, who, conversing with the cross-eyed officer, turned distractedly to Sredoje and raised his hand. Everyone fell silent. “You’re not feeling well?” he asked Sredoje across the table in a soft voice. Sredoje shook his head. At that, Waldenheim snapped his fingers, called over one of the soldiers serving at the table, and whispered in his ear. Then he turned to Sredoje with a look full of understanding. “He’ll show you to bed. Is that all right?” At Sredoje’s thankful acceptance, he turned to the other officers and said, “Our young friend is not accustomed to ordeals of this kind,” and clinked glasses with his neighbors. Everyone was now shouting, drinking. No one paid attention to Sredoje, who got up and followed the soldier.

He thought they would go to the lodge, but the soldier led him out through the gate and by the fence that went parallel to the tables. He walked at the soldier’s side, taking care not to stumble in the shadows of the tall trees. They left the circle of light, plunged into darkness, and the air was suddenly cooler, fresher. Sredoje breathed more easily. But he could see nothing until the soldier switched on a flashlight, revealing an uneven path. The sound of laughter grew fainter and, after they rounded a small hill, ceased completely. Only their own footsteps and breathing could be heard. The soldier stopped, swept the darkness with the flashlight, and its beam fell on a small house, on the door of the house. He pushed a key into the lock, and the door creaked open. When they stepped inside, Sredoje almost fainted from the hot air that hit them. But the soldier seemed not to notice. In the room, the only pieces of furniture were beds and a small white chair next to each, like the chairs on the lawn of the hunting lodge.

Turning, the soldier said over his shoulder to Sredoje, “If you need to go outside, go while I’m here.”

Sredoje was surprised. “No, I don’t need to. But why do you ask?”

“Because I’ve been ordered to lock the door.” And then, as if to justify it, he added, “We don’t mount guard here.” He waited for a moment to see if Sredoje would change his mind, then murmured “Good night” and left, taking the flashlight with him and slamming the door shut.

Sredoje heard the key turn and the soldier’s footsteps receding. In the silence, he was sorry he hadn’t asked the soldier to wait by the open door a while, for the room to air, but it was too late now. He looked for a window, though he did not remember seeing one in the brief sweep of the flashlight. He felt along the walls with his hand and came upon wooden shutters. He groped for the bolt, found it, turned it, but the shutters would not open. He pulled it, rattled it, but nothing happened. Passing his fingers along the edges of the shutters, he discovered that they had been nailed in place with large nails. He gave up with a groan. His legs shook with fatigue; his head was swimming. He walked to the middle of the room, felt around for a bed, sat down. He took off his jacket, threw it across the back of a chair. The revolver he carried in his inside pocket knocked against the seat. He took off his trousers and shoes, collapsed onto the pillow, and was instantly asleep.