Walter Kempowski - All for Nothing

She told the pastor how the stranger could get to the path that Drygalski had trodden in the park and climb the picket fence with roses growing over it.

Several times Brahms got confused by her account: Round the house? Through the park? Climb the fence? The question was whether the poor man would be able to climb the fence at all, was he strong enough? And, ‘Trodden path?’ asked the pastor. Where exactly was it? The description was very vague.

Katharina took the red pencil with which the pastor was annotating his Bible, found a piece of paper and did a sketch. Brahms put it on his desk. Then he thanked her, holding both her hands. So now let matters take their course.

When she had climbed up to the driver’s box of the coach, the pastor stood in the road for a little longer. Was he going to shake himself and say, at the last minute, ‘Oh, you know, I don’t think we’ll do this, we’ll find another solution!’ Because those who put themselves in harm’s way may perish there.

No, he didn’t say so.

The gelding looked back and tugged at the reins. How much longer would he have to wait? The animal was so cold that he too wanted to be back at the warm Georgenhof.

And as the pastor returned to his copier, Katharina drove away, clip-clop, the dark-haired woman in her white Persian lamb cap. She skirted the inside of the town wall, and branched off through the dark town itself. Should she look in on Felicitas, consult her? Pour out her heart? What would her friend say about this? That what she was doing was great? Felicitas could understand anything. Would she admire Katharina for her courage? But now, in her condition, she had other worries. And there was her husband in Graudenz, with all those deserters being shot every day.

Or Dr Wagner? Could she go over the whole thing with him, quietly? Wasn’t he a very sensible man? And hadn’t she given him bread and sausage? Couldn’t she discuss matters with him? But the schoolmaster was in his own living room. He had warmed up the sausage broth and eaten a slice of bread and curd cheese with it. He was reading Livy. Perhaps he might venture on a new translation of the historian?

Katharina drove over the marketplace, past the Smithy Inn. The show at the cinema was just over, and people were streaming out, laughing and linking arms. The film had been The White Dream …

Riding on the merry-go-round

With her feet above the ground,

Isn’t she a pretty sight?

A skating star dressed all in white.

The prison. The town hall. Might Lothar Sarkander still be at his office?

She drove past the church again. The desiccated bridal wreath swayed where it hung. Could she still back out? Yes, she could reverse the whole process. There was time for that.

Should she rush back into the parsonage to see Brahms, weeping, crying out, ‘I can’t do it!’ Surely the man would understand? He might be relieved himself.

The pastor stopped what he was doing and listened. Was that woman coming back? No, it was too late for that now.

She was stopped again at the Senthagener Tor. She had to show her identity card once more. ‘Oh yes, Frau von Globig — out and about in this cold weather?’

She didn’t want to know if there was a man sitting in the back of the coach.

The church clock struck six. The pastor turned the handle of the copier: the stranger would soon be knocking at his door. So he must wait. He would send him on into the night, that was all agreed; he would feed him first, reassure him, and then send him on. The sketch of the Georgenhof lay on the table. Nothing could happen now.

Tomorrow evening, under cover of darkness, the man would come back again and then be sent on once more.

What were twenty-four hours?

And in future he could keep well out of such things, couldn’t he?

The Georgenhof lay ahead, dark and menacing beneath the oak trees. Katharina got down from the coach and put her arm round the gelding’s neck.

‘Oh God,’ she said out loud.

The horse put his ears back; everything was all right.

That evening Katharina sat in the hall with Peter and Auntie. The wind was blowing huge snowflakes round the house and whistling down the chimney.

Then it suddenly died down, and all was still. The Ukrainian maids were quiet. They had gone over to the Forest Lodge with little gifts from the pig-slaughtering party — tripe, chitterlings, kidneys — so that the lads there could share the sense of plenty up at the house. The girls didn’t want them to go short. Probably they were already frying those delicacies, with the Romanian playing cheerful tunes on his accordion.

Katharina picked up a cloth and went from picture to picture, dusting the frames, then sat down again with the others, sighing. How much time did she have left? What business of hers was this man who was going to climb into the house? And why was he to do it? Whatever his troubles were, they were probably his own fault.

She could well understand, said Auntie, why Katharina was moping like that. Dear Eberhard so far away, and all the comings and goings of the last few days, all those people! Visitors had been arriving so thick and fast, it was about time to have peace and quiet in the house again.

She could really do with a glass of schnapps, added Auntie, and when she said that there was laughter. Auntie and schnapps! Well, why not after all that had been going on: the crazy stamp collector, the girl who played the violin, the painter yesterday? It would be good to sit back, have a rest and take things as they came.

On the other hand, she wouldn’t really mind if someone knocked on the door now, and another guest arrived, bringing life into this place. Then they might hear what was going on in the outside world.

Auntie wondered whether to mention the strange hints that the painter had dropped. Did Katharina know that criminal things were going on in the brickworks, that he’d seen men beaten up there with his own eyes? A pitiful sight they had been.

And telling her to take down the picture of Hitler. What was the man thinking of?

Didn’t you have to show something like that? If you didn’t defend first principles everything went down the drain. Wasn’t the Führer their ultimate prop and stay?

Katharina had heard about the brickworks too. From Felicitas’s window she had seen the Senthagener Tor being barricaded in the cold. And her friend had told her about the men begging for food, but the SS man had sent them packing. Felicitas’s husband knew such characters from Graudenz. He had said, ‘You don’t want to give such fellows anything, or you’ll never be rid of them. Criminals to a man! They’re like burs, brush them off in front and they’ll cling to you behind. Anyway, it’s forbidden. Give them anything and you’re just storing up trouble for yourself!’ Yes, Katharina had heard about the brickworks, but it was no business of hers, was it?

In a gloomy mood, Eberhard had once mentioned that all was not going well in the east. He had seen certain things when he went there on duty … and if the wind turned, heaven knows, he’d said, what might come our way.

And now duty had landed him in Italy.

Katharina hadn’t known that Auntie had a picture of Hitler in her room. His book Mein Kampf stood in the bookcase, still unread. Uncle Josef had said, ‘The man’s not as wrong as all that.’

Auntie definitely wanted a schnapps. Nothing was easy, as she always said. Katharina took a small bottle and two glasses out of the cupboard and poured some for both of them. Perhaps it would make her feel less like moping. Peter was given a glass of water, and they all drank a toast to each other.