John Hawkes - The Cannibal

The robed men muttered together at the far end of the room behind the table, and we three, the witnesses, waited while a thin soot from the burning can settled over the floor, the walls, collected on the Colonel’s two musette bags and on the neat small row of cracking army boots. The maps, freshly tacked to the wall, grew darker and the chill in the air grew worse with the promise of snow, soot speckled the grease on the Colonel’s mess tins tied to the bedroll. Once one of the corporals turned, “No talking there,” and we did not understand, for only the Colonel spoke German. Then, after a short silence, the Colonel seemed to remember. “My God, Corporal, get my pistol — and you might bring my pipe.” The young man, holding the black hem above his boots, scowled once at us, the witnesses, and searched in one of the small dirty bags. Then a pause while they fumbled under his gown to arm him and he lit the pipe, his black cassock skirt and tough hands stiff with cold. The motorcycle rider’s white helmet moved back and forth across the window, scattered flakes of snow dropped on his jacket.

“Mayor,” the corporal called, and the frightened old man stepped into the dock, tensed for a dangerous question.

The Colonel took his place and spoke:

“How old are you?”

“Eh, what’s that?”

“Your age, age.”

“I’m sixty-one.” His paper collar wilted, the official sash sagged on his waist, and he was afraid.

“Where were you born?”

“Right here, here in this very place.”

“I understand you keep some sort of civil records?”

“I did, quite true, very fine writing. But they’re gone, burned up, shells hit my house, zip, zip, and in the fallen glass the flames spread, so my papers are all gone.”

“Well, I want to know something about,” the Colonel looked at his notes, “a man named Miller.”

“I’ve known him for years, his wife, children.”

“Now, is it true he was a pastor?”

“Pastor? Ah, yes, pastor.”

“But now he no longer is?”

“No longer? Well, not actively, the war, I don’t think there were many people to listen …”

“Did he want to stop being a pastor?”

“Well, there was a good deal of trouble in this town, we suffered …”

I called from the corner, “He is a pastor.”

“Silence, keep quiet, there.”

Then Herr Stintz came forward, a primer under his arm, smiling, and he edged himself in front of the Mayor.

“If you’ll permit me,” he said.

“Well, what is it?”

Stintz stepped closer, glasses pinching over his nose. “Herr Colonel, I think perhaps you should take into account that there was, you know, a new gospel, the war made a change in what a man might want to preach to the dumb people — other ears heard, the new gospel was a very strong thing, even his wife could do nothing with Miller.”

The Colonel looked for a long moment at the Mayor.

“Is this true? Was there a change in Miller?”

“Well, everyone, the war was a hard thing but,” the old man found himself staring at the eagle on the Colonel’s chest, and it seemed to glow with a phosphorescent sheen, “but I’m alone, I don’t know him that well, he was away …” The eagle grew bright and the old man wiped his chin, tried to fasten the sash tighter, “but I think, maybe, he did change …”

“He did not,” I said.

“He’s a tough one,” whispered the officer to the corporal, pointing at me, and the judges retired. The snow fell harder, the rider covered his bike with a gunnysack. “I think,” said the Colonel, “that the case is closed, but we better be just, it will be excellent to impress them with our thoroughness.” So for the rest of the afternoon, while the snow became thick and we waited in the corner, while one of the corporals took notes and the can ran out of fuel, a long line of civilians was formed and one by one each citizen of the town passed into the dark room, was questioned, and was returned to the raw cold evening. At last the entire population had come and gone, steel slats had been driven across the cellar window where Miller waited, and the Colonel undid his bedroll and lay down in the deep rich fur to sleep out the night. Long afterwards the Mayor blamed everything on the shining eagle, “It had frightful curled claws and a sharp hooked nose with red terrifying eyes. That’s what it did to me.”

The Colonel shook himself awake before dawn, five o’clock by his wrist watch accurate as a micrometer, and in only his grey underwear donned a long sheepskin field coat and stumbled into the day’s work. Moving about in the dark hallway where his riflemen lay, he left a bright blank cartridge by each man and emptied each weapon of its live ammunition, inspecting each oiled chamber and silver whirling bore. Back in the long bare living room he filled the petrol tin and, hunched in the great curling coat, made himself a pot of black coffee, warming, the while, his hands over the small flame. The Mayor, Stintz and I slept together in the corner, the corporals were buried deep in their cots, and in the basement, trapped amid the piles of debris, Miller waited to see the morning through the narrow slats. The Colonel busied himself with a worn grammar, put his mess kit aside to be cleaned, and let his men sleep for another hour. Finally, ten minutes before six, he dug into his gear and pulled forth his best garrison cap, polished the badge with a rag, left it ready for the important hour and then padded out of doors. His were the first prints through the snow in the back yard; he was the first to break the air still heavy as with waiting flakes. The canal smelled strongly of vermin and slapping rubber, a broken rake handle and emery wheel jutted up through the damp snow, no smoke came from the chimneys on the other bank. Plough handles, shafts of wood, caked earthenware, the jaws of a wooden vice, old scraps of leather filled the slanting shed where the jeep was garaged under the tarpaulin, and a spot of thick green oil spread over the dirt floor. Two planks, nailed along one thin wall that was once a work bench, were bare — for all pieces of metal, tools, iron wheels had been melted down for shells— bare except for a pair of faded pink pants left on one end, shriveled to the size of a fist. The door swung shut behind the Colonel, he rummaged about the shed, thought of the Fraulein who owned the pants, caught with long braids and bright smile, then he reached into the jeep and pulled out another rifle, bright and clean. The odor of chickens, old herbs, mold, mixed with the oil, and he heard the slapping of low water in the canal, trickling over layers and shreds of thin ice. He checked the tires, looked once more about the shed, then walked back to his headquarters across the unkempt white garden.

By six o’clock he had waked the men, decided that the roads were passable and had loaded the new rifle with a live cartridge.

“Here now, Leevey,” he called out the window to the still-walking dispatch rider, “you handle the prisoner this morning.” Then, while the three of us sat up and blinked, the Colonel shaved, peering into a mechanical mirror that had crooked collapsible legs. After he was dressed, one of the corporals brushed his uniform, helped him bundle back into the heavy coat, and handed him the cap with the bright badge.

By six-thirty the whole town had been raised and stood crammed together in the garden and the motorcycle rider fastened the red cloth about Miller’s eyes while, he, the prisoner, stood rigidly on the edge of the canal. The Colonel hurried out, followed by the Mayor, Stintz, and me, and his troop, hurried to see that Miller was placed correctly, checked the time. Though the sky was heavy, he was sure it would not snow, and if they got an early start should be able to cover two hundred miles at least. “Come,” he said turning to me, “I need another rifleman. You just take this gun and fall in line with my men.” He handed me the new weapon, the fifth, well greased, light, loaded, then arranged our squad in good order. “Mayor,” he called, “Mayor, come here.” The old man trembled and came forward, his nose grey with the cold, his chest hollow. The Colonel reached into a woollen pocket and brought forth a large white handkerchief, thrust it upon the shivering leader. “Now you hold this over your head, and when you see me nod, drop it.” All right, Leevey,” called the Colonel, “come away from the prisoner.” The water slid by in the canal. Stintz watched carefully, eager for justice, the Census-Taker, drunk, leaned on Madame Snow’s arm and held Jutta’s hand, watched the white cloth drooping in the dull morning.