Walter Kempowski - All for Nothing

And although the man had already taken off his boots, and kept saying that he didn’t like the thought of the way back by night, in the snow, eighteen degrees below zero is definitely nippy, and he thought he’d drunk a little too much, they brought him his coat all the same. It was a case of retreat! The soldier wrote his army postal address on a piece of paper, so that Fräulein Strietzel could reach him at any time, and said he could take the sledge back to the field hospital with him. Then that problem would be dealt with.

Wouldn’t he feel silly, a soldier pulling a child’s sledge along? Oh, well, it was dark.

The soldier put his army scarf round his neck, had another liver sausage sandwich, and Fräulein Strietzel took him out into the cold and the darkness. It was some time before she came back, with snowflakes in her hair. The soldier carried a love token in his pocket, but Fräulein Strietzel had put it back there for him.

Perhaps they’d meet again some time? When she entertained the troops in Bavaria? Why not? People said Munich was a beautiful city.

Or after the war, she could simply visit Bavaria, and again why not? There’d be no problem in peacetime, would there?

Auntie herself thought there’d be no problem about going to Munich or anywhere else in peacetime. Maybe even Switzerland or Italy?

Perhaps she herself would see her own beautiful native Silesia again some day.

Fräulein Strietzel put the violin away and lay down on the sofa, and Auntie covered her up warmly with several blankets. Was there anything else she needed? A book, maybe, just in case? Something by Ernst Wiechert, who had been born near here? No, but thank you all the same, she told Auntie; then she’d have had to take her hands out from under the blankets.

If Fräulein Strietzel was not blissfully happy, she was content to be lying here in the warmth, looking at the flames and hearing the hissing, or sometimes it was more like rushing, that came from the fire. Like the voices of poor souls very far away.

Who’d have thought she could spend such a nice evening in this starchy aristocratic household? The soldier’s name wasAlfons Hofer, and why shouldn’t they meet again some time? Shed no tear, oh, shed no tear / the flower will bloom another year. She sighed. A pity she hadn’t unpacked her long dress; that would have put a finishing touch to the evening. That would have made it unforgettable.

She enticed the dog over, and he lay down on the floor beside her. It was pleasant for him, too, not to be alone at night in the dark hall. She looked at the flames on the hearth, and rubbed her itching knuckles. Dancing was banned, yes, dancing was banned for the German people, but did that count for private parties? Would she be in trouble if it came out that she had been dancing here? Had been dancing happily when there were soldiers fighting and bleeding to death?

She had better keep her mouth shut.

When you leave, say softly, ‘See you!’

Not farewell and not adieu!

Words like that can only hurt.

Meanwhile, far away in Mitkau, the sirens howled, as they always did at this time of night. The population here was far from the firing line; the sirens meant nothing.

Next morning they all said goodbye. The reserved Katharina took the violinist in her arms, and Peter watched for a long time as she went away.

Under her cardigans Auntie wore a limp dress, dark blue with small yellow flowers on it, now here, now there, as if they had been tipped at random out of a cornucopia. She had pinned a gold brooch on her dress. The brooch had golden arrows sticking out on all sides and a cornelian in the middle, and was a memento of her mother.

In the evening Auntie usually filled herself a hot-water bottle in the kitchen. Part of the stove acted as a boiler; it kept the water hot for a long time, and had done so today. The top of the stove had not been scoured; the maids had forgotten again, although she had reminded them heaven knew how many times. Auntie suspected that they had stolen off to the Polish carter’s room. Plump Vera was particularly fond of flirting with the thoughtful Vladimir, and she didn’t understand why he felt more attracted to slim Sonya. Sonya wound her braid round her head like a wreath, but her nose was always red.

Hadn’t there been a pan with what was left of the fried potatoes standing on the stove? Auntie had fancied finishing them now, but someone else had got in ahead of her. And sugar had been spilt in the pantry — it crunched underfoot. Moreover, a sausage had gone missing yet again.

Auntie locked the door to the farmyard outside and hung up clean tea towels. Then she picked up the newspaper, tucked the hot-water bottle under her arm, listened at the door to the main hall — all was quiet, the violinist was already fast asleep — and climbed the stairs.

She also listened at Katharina’s door. Was there any movement in there? Why did Katharina always lock herself in? Strange woman, she didn’t suit Eberhard a bit, always so quiet, when a little cheerfulness would have done the poor boy good. On his last leave he had kept asking her: would you like to come to this or that with me? The answer had always been no. You couldn’t really call her grumpy, just quiet and introspective, as if she had a heavy burden to bear. Or a great grief?

And yet she lacked for nothing. Did she?

The way Katharina always locked her door puzzled Auntie, making her wonder whether all that secrecy was intended for her. Anyone could have come into her room at any time. In fact she’d have welcomed anyone who walked in saying, ‘Oh, Auntie, can I sit with you for a bit?’ and then told her their troubles. Surely she, Auntie, could have understood everything.

But even Eberhard didn’t always show his best side. He could be gruff and pedantic. It was those financial matters that caused trouble. The steel shares in England, the rice-flour factory in Romania — according to Eberhard, the managers were scoundrels to a man. Only his officer’s salary kept the whole show on the road.

Auntie had the long, narrow gable room behind the pediment, with the now dilapidated finial of the spiked mace above it, and in keeping with the architecture of the whole house the ceiling was a tunnel vault.

Under the round window from which, in earlier times, the flag had been flown — first the black, white and red flag; then, of course, the swastika banner — there was a raised platform in the old style, divided from the rest of the room by a wooden rail. A desk and an old armchair stood on it. When the spinning wheel purrs so softly / In Granny’s room by the fire … A crochet-work antimacassar on the back of the armchair kept the cover from getting greasy.

From this place, which she called her lookout post, she could see the new development, house beside house, all of them the same as each other. It was on the other side of the road, so you saw any cars driving by, and sometimes it was interesting to see what went on around those houses: children playing, women hanging out their washing, drunks staggering from place to place. Last year Peter had spoilt the look of the great oak outside the manor house by building a tree house in it.

‘Do you have to do that, boy?’ she had asked. But Eberhard had said, ‘Leave him alone. He wants to be high up.’

If she leaned a little way forward she could also see the yard of the manor house, with its stables and the cottage near them. The Pole who joked with the maids more often than strictly necessary sawed up the firewood there.

Whenever she looked out of the window she counted the chickens and geese running round the yard. The milk cart came in the morning, and the bus, a clumsy-looking vehicle powered by wood gas, passed twice a day.