John Wray - The Right Hand of Sleep

— We cared for her. . ah, each of us in different ways. Each in keeping with our particular, ah, relationship. . Ryslavy looked from one to another of them, breaking into a grin. — As for me, I loved her something like a stepson.

Loud murmurs arose. — That makes some of you piss your pants, I know, Ryslavy said. He looked over at Voxlauer and guffawed.

— This man is drunk, the priest said, stepping forward.

— This man paid your fee, grandfather, said Voxlauer, taking the priest’s arm. — You let him alone.

—. . like a cherished aunt, Ryslavy was saying, untroubled now by the priest or the mourners, slurring his words together. — Better yet, a governess—

— That’s enough, said Gustl violently. Five SS were behind him. Ryslavy stopped in mid-sentence and stood half turned, regarding all of them with calm disdain.

— You’ve had your turn to speak already, Uncle, Voxlauer said.

— That’s as may be, Oskar. That’s as may be—

— A disgusting misuse of the occasion, all considered, the SS officer behind Gustl interrupted, stepping forward impatiently. Voxlauer recognized him now as the towheaded clerk from his visit to the Polizeihaus. — A pretty little Jew speech, he said shrilly, turning to address the crowd. He stood parallel to Ryslavy, just at his shoulder; the two of them might have been joint speakers at a lecture. Ryslavy was leaning away from him now, watching him, the expression on his face set and unchanging.

— The love of Yids and Gypsies for our wives and mothers is well known, the officer said. Someone in the crowd began to jeer. Voxlauer stood still one brief instant longer, looking from one face to the other. No one seemed to be laughing yet, or even smiling. Ryslavy had fallen back into the crowd, watching with the rest of them. Those who had made a show of leaving during his speech had returned and now crowded in on all sides, craning their necks to see. There seemed to be many more of them than before. The older mourners stared at the stage in simple disbelief. Gustl was nowhere to be seen. The officer had just taken a breath and was about to go on.

Voxlauer stepped over to him. The officer checked himself and looked up into Voxlauer’s face, smiling. Vaguely Voxlauer was aware of the other men pressed close around him.

— If you say one more word over my mother’s body, I’ll kill you, Voxlauer said.

The officer’s smile widened. He wants me to do this, thought Voxlauer, looking into the narrow face, reddening subtly along the jawline. He wants me to do this and I will. I will do what he wants.

— Herr Wiedehopp! Herr Wiedehopp! Please! It was Gustl’s voice, close at hand, sycophantic. Voxlauer could see nothing but the flush-cheeked face in front of him. The face turned slightly.

— Since when have you called me by that name, little comrade? the face said, not smiling any longer.

I will hit him, thought Voxlauer. Let it happen now. He saw the events of the last five months running together like rails dovetailing into a station, converging inevitably toward the moment and the act, concrete and inescapable. — Go away, Gustl, he said.

Gustl ignored him. — Please, Herr Oberführer. Look at all the people. The officer glanced grudgingly about him. — I’ll stop this now. This minute. Please. Move the boys away, Herr Oberführer. I’ll put an end to it.

There was a brief pause. Gustl still stood between them. The other four SS were nothing now but a circle of starched black cloth and silver buttons. Voxlauer peered out between the uniforms, looking for Ryslavy. He felt calm in that moment, almost content. Ryslavy seemed to have gone. Gustl and the officer were talking together quietly, their heads almost touching.

After a time the officer looked up and moved away from Gustl. — Disperse this crowd, he said, stepping past Voxlauer indifferently.

The three men from the diocese remained behind, waiting for Voxlauer beside the casket. Voxlauer moved tiredly to his corner and took hold of it and they began to walk. They walked measuredly, entirely alone now, down the canting rows of headstones with the casket heavy and awkward between them. At the grave it was laid on joists of unvarnished yellow wood looped together with canvas strips. After a perfunctory pause the joists were pulled away and the casket lowered. One end touched bottom before the other and made a soft thump, like the jostling of a boat against a pier. Sliding on the cushions, Voxlauer thought. The priest appeared again and made a slow baroque sign of the cross over the opening.

— Dora Anna-Marie Voxlauer, said the priest with his reedy voice. — Pulvis es, et in Pulverem revertaris. Amen. He lowered his hand and left without glancing once at Voxlauer. The three attendants lingered, waiting for the customary schilling, then finally left as well, grumbling to each other.

Voxlauer looked down at the casket with the canvas runners still trailing onto the cemetery lawn. — Far away from here, he said.

A few minutes later Gustl came puffing down the row. Passing the grave, he glanced down briefly, then took Voxlauer by the shoulder. — Come along now, you godforsaken lunatic. Let’s you and I find us a mug and a table and sit down behind it and have ourselves a conference. A little meeting of the minds.

Voxlauer blinked. — Haven’t you given up on me yet, officer?

Gustl didn’t answer but steered him quickly down the row and out the cemetery gate. Voxlauer let himself be pulled along by the crook of his arm like a truant schoolboy, past the lumberyards and the mill and across the mill brook and the canal, past a long row of lumber trucks idling on the road above the gymnasium. — Where could those trucks be heading, I wonder? Voxlauer said.

— Great plans are afoot, Gustl said, tapping the side of his nose. — There’ll be great work to be done soon. Man’s work, Oskar. Construction .

— I see. Voxlauer was quiet for a time, looking over at the trucks. — What is it we’re to be constructing, Uncle?

— The future, said Gustl, beaming.

— The future, said Voxlauer. — Who would have guessed.

— Don’t play the innocent, Oskar. It’s not attractive in a man of middle years, this coyness.

— I’m not playing at anything, Uncle. I don’t have the spirit for it.

Gustl looked at him crookedly. — Not still waving the Red flag, are you, nephew?

— The Red flag? said Voxlauer, smiling in spite of himself.

—Nobody thinks your way anymore, do you understand? Not a soul. You must see that yourself. Today, at least, you must have seen it. You nearly got yourself plucked and gutted.

— They didn’t think my way back in Cherkassy either, if it makes you feel any better, Uncle. Nobody has ever thought “my way,” as you put it so nicely. Not even in Red Russia. I’d be a bigger fool than even you think to expect anybody to start now.

— I like to think I’ve thought your way, said Gustl slowly. — I’d like to think I have some notion of your take on things.

— Would you, Gustl? Voxlauer stopped short in the middle of the road. — What exactly would it get you, you old arse-licker?

Gustl reddened. — Go on! Have your fun with me, a tired old man. I know how you think. You think like your father, that goddamned tea-sipper. A man of the people, are you, because you made faces at your French tutors? Not for one minute. You’re another would-be lord of the manor without a house and stables. Another bed-wetter. Another holy martyr. He spat passionately onto the curb. — Know what the people want, do you? You don’t know any more than he did, with his blessed goddamned Kaiser and his tailored pants.

— You can think what you like about it, said Voxlauer.