Hedi Kaddour - Waltenberg

Second-Lieutenant Dutilleux tries to scribble entries in his notebook, ahead the sky rises like a wall, you see buildings that aren’t there, trees, the shadows of trees, shadows which lengthen, the soporific amble of the spent horses, an officer rides back along the column rapping the men’s helmets or making a point of asking them for their names, and then they go back to sleep. The horses are exhausted, badly shod, saddle galls, forty hours without let-up, the weight of rider plus kit, that means carrying more than 120 kilos, they stink to high heaven, the horses do not have the capacity for mind over matter to help them but they keep on going, with a look of gentle supplication, you could shove your thumb into the eye-sockets sunk deep in their heads, their gummy eyelids droop, on they go, sometimes they get in each other’s way as, as when they see hanging in a tree, three metres above the ground, the corpse of one of their own kind which was blown there by a burst from a 320.

They halt. A peasant. He has pointed out a German position, three, maybe four kilometres off, in a clearing, a wide open space:

‘They destroyed everything that was growing!’

Captain Jourde cried: ‘Contending for Glory!’

Bound hand and foot in his ditch, Hans tells himself he should have been a hero and shouted a warning even if the sabre had left him only time enough to say the first syllable, even if his reaction had served no purpose whatsoever, given how far he was from the sentries. He should have. He is about to die anyway, and without heroism.

Hans is still shaking from having felt the tip of the sabre, from having heard Johann’s bear-like growls change to a gurgle. The wound to Johann’s neck. Hans curls up small. The minute you start looking at rabbits I know what you are going to say, Johann would remark, and then he’d add: it’s a joke, we’re not dumb animals, although if this war goes on a long time…

Johann growling, waddling, turning his growls into an impression of the call of a bear on heat. Johann is gamesome, playful, lustig.

Deep down, Hans knows exactly why Lena and he did not stay together, he told his friends then he didn’t understand why she went away, but he knows full well. A stupid thing. He will see her again. What you want is first and foremost to become a better person. She will smile tenderly when she sees the change in him, better developed physically, better read, bolder, wiser: she will take his hand. No, I should take her hand, know what to do, wait until our hands brush against each other accidentally, exploit the accident, no that’s a bit feeble, I’ll just have to shake her hand.

That’s it, shaking hands. They will both hold out their hands but Hans will take hers and kiss it, the most normal thing in the world. Not a handshake, we’re not cattle merchants. Kiss her hand, lips on her skin and that kiss will contain all the kisses that have gone before.

Hans can picture the scene now, he doesn’t describe it to Johann but he can see it very clearly. Lena is reserved, taken aback, she hasn’t changed her perfume, L’Heure Bleue, either that or she knew I’d be there and wore the same Guerlain as she always did on our dates, as if time has stopped. But why so reserved? Because now that she’s here again she is already regretting wearing that perfume. She wants to make it clear to Hans that he should have no illusions; politeness, she armours herself with politeness. He fluffs the kiss he plants on her hand, makes it the action of a possessive imbecile, and all Lena’s prejudices are confirmed. The imbecile should be throttled, or maybe Lena just wants to leave me feeling unsure; she has chosen to appear reserved, she’s flirting, no, not Lena, in which case it’s politeness, no, perhaps she really is flirting. She is so cold.

She is not sure, that’s it, Hans makes her feel unsure. He has changed so much, and for the better. Now none of that, stop giving yourself the best lines, you were always useless with women, you always strutted and swaggered for them and they were never impressed. The women who will truly love you appear when you’re least expecting them, it’s true, but Lena’s here now.

Respond to Lena’s politeness with even deeper reserve, ask her questions, get her to ask you questions, above all don’t talk about yourself, don’t wear that new suit, be at ease; and avoid trousers that are itchy or too tight.

What interests women? Actually, it’s the fact that you aren’t interested in them. That’s a neat thought, you can try living with it and with those women who come when you’re least expecting them. That said, you never know, the psychology of cheap novelettes may work, but my feelings for Lena aren’t cheap fiction, we’ll see.

So when Lena’s there in the flesh, you do not ask her too many questions and you let on that you have another consuming passion, not another woman, certainly not, rather you speak passionately of what you will do once peace breaks out again, once the Marne has been crossed, it can only be a matter of days, then armistice, return home, the Baltic, wide beaches, the port, the third largest port in Germany, Rosmar.

The beautiful body of a seated woman, half-naked, memory hand in hand with death, Hans stands behind her, has a three-quarter view of her, he will find Lena again, he curls up more tightly, he is afraid, he is ashamed of being afraid. I have never forgiven them for putting me in this position, I knew what war was, hands tied behind my back, legs roped together, a gag over my mouth, you know your comrades are going to get killed and there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s partly my fault that my comrades are getting killed. I should have shouted a warning, but I couldn’t. It turns out that I go on to have a good war, but I stopped believing in it from the very start.

The day he left home, Hans’s mother gave him two pieces of advice. She said:

‘I’m going to give you two pieces of un-German advice. Both are far older than what nowadays go by the name of Germany or France, and I do not want to have to say one day: I’d give both France and Germany for him not to be dead. You know, as far back as you can go in my family, the women have always given their sons two pieces of advice when they were leaving home.’

His mother’s voice is very calm, quiet, slow and distinct.

‘Never volunteer and always keep thinking about the things you love most. I do not ask you to think about me but about whatever you think you love most at the time, I’d be happy if it was me, but I know men are more than just sons, so think about what you really love, that’s what will see you through, and remember: never volunteer for anything.’

Hans crouching, feeling ashamed he hadn’t shouted a warning, a French drummer-boy would have shouted a warning, like in those legends of the French Revolution which their nanny used to tell them back home at Rosmar. Hans and his younger brothers used to laugh at them, to upset Mademoiselle Françoise, the French don’t do things like that, they never have time to be heroic, all they do is drink and sleep and when they wake up they run around like rabbits, they don’t have time to sound the alarm.

Hans and his brothers would laugh, you know, Mademoiselle, at school nobody says the French, they say the rabbits, Mademoiselle Françoise didn’t dare get angry and moved on to other stories, the children said sorry, they really liked that little drummer-boy and when they played games they made him a little Prussian drummer-boy, and they loved Mademoiselle Françoise and the stories she read them, about houses with three attics, mysterious lands with blue hills and wide tree-lined paths, Harlequins, Pierrots, dressing up, pony races and girls with fair hair and painfully sharp profiles.