Boys and murderers, p.9
Boys & Murderers, page 9
“Gentlemen,” the hunchback continued, “believe me, it rends my heart to think how bravery, service, sacrifice and loyalty are rewarded! I’ve happened to learn of a case, without knowing the names of those involved, however. An aging officer is being followed, hounded with investigations. Why, I ask you, why? Because those who hounded the old gentleman during the time of his service shy away from nothing in their persecution, not even the modest, unassuming happiness of his peaceful retirement. Why? Because they hate the righteous man who, rather than submit, preferred to shed the uniform worn in honor! Herr General, I respectfully beg your pardon for saying so much without permission. I am almost done. I am compelled to say what I believe. Gentlemen! I believe that Herr General also knows the matter I have hinted at and that his noble heart feels compassion for the innocent victim of ambitious intrigues. That is why Herr General is silent. Or perhaps, gentlemen, he thinks: what befalls you today, comrade – how easily might the victim have been the comrade of his bravery, one who stood by him in the hour of death on Europe’s battlefields! – what befalls you today, comrade, can befall me tomorrow! And who will stand by me when I am attacked? Gentlemen, pledge Herr General your loyalty! He can be sure of my devotion. But what use am I to him, a hairdresser? You hold respected positions. Rise, approach this worthy man, solemnly pledge that you believe him and will stand by his side. We owe it to him, all of us. Without him the enemy might have ravaged our homeland and slaughtered us as youths and boys.”
The hunchback paused. And the gentlemen rose and one at a time, with solemn tread and grave expressions, they went up to my father and shook his hand. At first my father seemed to have no idea what was going on, and he rose from his seat in great confusion. All at once he began to cry.
When they had all shaken his hand, the hunchback resumed:
“And I, too, Herr General, even if I am only a barber and was never, due to my body’s infirmity, found worthy of wearing even as a foot soldier the uniform Herr General wore through the decades, I respectfully beg permission to be the last to clasp and shake Herr General’s hand.”
He went up to my father, looked at him gravely and steadily and shook his hand:
“The hand of a worthy man!”
My father wiped the tears from his cheeks:
“Yes, yes,” he said. “All the same.”
They sat down again and started drinking. My father’s spirits had lifted, perhaps from his companions’ declaration of trust, perhaps from the wine. The others were in high spirits, in anticipation of the entertainment which this evening, so promisingly begun, might have in store. The barber, seeking to illustrate the world’s ingratitude with a prominent example, spoke of Benedek.
“A man we’ve all heard of!” he said.
“We’ve heard’f,” my father mumbled.
“From Benedek?” asked the hunchback. “Herr General has heard from ... ? Benedek wrote Herr General?”
“He wrote, dear Haschek.”
“I beg respectfully, a letter?”
“Wrote a letter! Eight days ago a letter.”
“Gentlemen, did you hear: Benedek – eight days ago – wrote Herr General a letter. Must have been an old brother in arms, seeking consolation, a friend, perhaps ...”
“Perhaps, yes, yes.”
“Herr General, I respectfully report, Herr General told us nothing of this.”
“Told nothing, my dear Haschek. But all the same. Old comrade! Many a night, dear Haschek, slept in one bed, drank from one bottle, gentlemen, shared the last drop.”
“And now, two such men,” cried the hunchback, wringing his hands, “they send them packing, instead of letting them serve on for all of us, why, they even have them shadowed!”
“Yes, gentlemen, worthy men and they have them shadowed!” said my father, his speech already slurred. “Worthy men! Battles, gentlemen, skirmishes, looked death in the eye! They shy away from nothing! How Benedek wept when he told me of the investigation into the finances. Three hundred guldens, gentlemen. All paid up, but they shy away from nothing, they’d like to break his saber in the very grave.”
“Investigation? Against Benedek?” asked the hunchback. “I beg respectfully, Herr General, when did he tell you this?”
“Eight days ago, gentlemen! Eight days ago. I can’t believe my ears. What do you want? What do you want from a worthy man unaccustomed to keeping books, whose breast should be covered from top to bottom with the highest decorations,” my father had risen to his feet, “yes, it should be covered from top to bottom with the highest decorations, this breast!”
At that moment the stranger entered and made straight for the table where he ate his supper every day. But my father turned and followed him. His feet dragged on the ground and he swayed. But he held himself erect.
“Yes indeed,” he cried, looking at the stranger, “what do you want! This breast should be decorated with medals, sir, yes indeed, the breast of an old officer, yes indeed, all the same ... the breast of a worthy officer. Why are you persecuting him, sir, why are you persecuting him! How many campaigns, before you even saw the light of the world ... yes, and you, what are you sneaking after him for? Believe him, he’s innocent, he wants nothing, nothing, only peace, sir, peace, leave him in peace, let him be, I implore you, let him be!”
My father stood right in front of the stranger’s table. Now his voice seemed choked with tears.
“All the same, a worthy officer! ... Witnesses? Here they sit! They will defend me. Come, my friends, the time has come, come closer, defend him now, your friend. For that he is, your friend, and a worthy officer, all the same.”
The stranger gazed in astonishment at my father, whom he must have taken for a madman. When my father leaned closer and closer to him without stopping, he rose, no doubt to put an end to the awkward scene, and quickly walked past my table into the kitchen. My father, his arms outstretched as if to embrace the stranger, stood motionless, staring after him in alarm and astonishment. For a moment my father’s face twisted once again in that helpless forgiveness-seeking smile, then he collapsed sobbing upon the chair where the stranger had been sitting a moment before.
Then the hunchback rose and went up to my father. –
I come now to the description of the deed and the events immediately preceding it. Everything happened quickly, in the space of a few hours. I can do no more than describe the actual events as they happened. For it all happened so quickly. In these hours, joy, pain, passion, disgust, calm and hatred filled my heart in such succession that it is impossible for me to discover and explain their sequence. I feel that in this brief span of time all my life’s forces were astir, good as well as evil. And I hope that those who understand me from this account will grasp it all, both what I say and what I cannot say because it is hidden from me as if by darkness. And understand why I shall attempt to describe the course of events as coolly as possible.
It was several days after that last scene at the inn; I was rolling down the shutters of our shop in the evening to go home. Milada and the barber had already left several hours before.
Our shop lay on the upper end of the market square. I walked slowly down the slightly sloping square. It was the last time. A few hours later I was under arrest.
When I had come about halfway, I saw my father hurrying across the square. I had no doubt that he was heading for the inn. Yet I stood where I was, gazing after him. And indeed he strode quickly toward the inn. At the door he stopped and looked all around. He seemed to hesitate, then darted into the house as if in sudden resolve.
I started on my way again, then stopped in alarm. Suddenly, perhaps because I was struck by my father’s strange behavior, a thought came to me, immediately lodging in my mind and refusing to let me go. In fact, I thought, he didn’t actually go into the taproom, he went upstairs! And already I had turned and was running toward the house into which my father had vanished.
I wanted to prevent my father from humiliating himself in front of the stranger again. I felt completely devoted to the stranger now, and after he had seen me as a sadistic cat-murderer, I did not want him now to behold my father in his profound debasement. I did not want my father to shame me anew in front of the stranger.
My hunch had not deceived me. As soon as I entered the broad carriage-entrance of the inn, I heard my father’s loud voice above. I ran up the stairs and went through the door without knocking.
The stranger, dressed in elegant pajamas, stood facing my father in apparent bafflement. I saw at once that my father had been drinking. A little kitten playing in the corner caught my eye, and I was glad to see it. But at the same time I glimpsed a woman’s clothing on an armchair, and saw that someone was hiding in the bed. I knew who it was.
The stranger looked at me happily, as if I had come to rescue him. I sullenly avoided his eyes. I knew what he was afraid of: that the woman in his bed might be discovered. At that moment I felt repugnance toward him, risen just now from this woman’s side.
My father also seemed glad to see me.
“You see!” he cried out tearfully. “My son, my poor child. If you have no pity upon the father, spare his poor, unfortunate, innocent son!”
I went up to my father.
“Be silent, sir!” I said angrily.
“But what do you want?” asked the stranger. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing but pity, mercy! Stop what you are doing, I beseech you, and spare me! Yes, I am guilty! But you, you are young ... you don’t know! Don’t sit in judgment! Over a worthy, battle-tried ... Believe a battle-tried officer! A gray head, a poor child, sir, have mercy, promise me ... !”
“But my dear sir, it is not for me to pardon ...!”
At that my father fell to his knees before the stranger. He stretched his hands out toward him. The stranger fell back a step.
“Mercy, spare me, a gray head, sir, a gray head. Have pity, sir, on the child, sir, on the child!”
Sobbing, he slid toward the stranger on his knees and reached out his hand for the stranger’s hand. But the stranger pulled it away. Then my father bowed his head as if to kiss the stranger’s shoes.
Trembling, I grabbed my father by the arm.
“Stand up, sir, and come with me!” I said.
My father looked at me sullenly and tried to break loose from my hand. I shook him as if to rouse him.
“Stand up, Father!” I was angry and ashamed.
“No, no,” my father cried, “first pardon me. I’m guilty, but pardon me. I won’t get up until you do. Mercy ... my gray hair!”
Again my father bent down sobbing to the stranger’s feet, shod in red slippers.
I dragged my father into an upright position and looked him in the face. I saw tears trickle from his eyes and into his beard.
“Come!” I shouted, and when my father went on crying, I hit him in the face.
At that my father stood up. Suddenly his face was grave. He seized me.
“Come!” he said, and we went.
When we stepped outside, my father stopped, still holding me.
“You struck your father,” he said. “It will be your death. Come!”
We crossed the square to our house, and I was not afraid. There was no doubt in my mind that my father would kill me now, and yet I was not afraid. I was filled with joy. I thought that now my father would take from the cabinet the old service pistol I had often cleaned, load it and turn it upon me. I rejoiced and thought of Roman commanders who had killed their sons.
My mood changed as I climbed the dark stairs to our apartment, my father still dragging me by the sleeve. I heard voices and recognized Milada and the barber. They sat in our living room. Bottles and glasses stood on the table. Milada no longer seemed sober. Probably my father had been drinking with them before he went to the stranger.
As soon as we entered the room my father said:
“He struck his father. He must die!”
“Struck his father? You!” The hunchback shoved me in the chest. “Did you hear, you’re going to die!”
I don’t believe the barber would have let it come to that.
Drunken Milada pressed up against me. I pushed her away. She was pregnant, and that increased my loathing of her.
My father had taken his pistol from the cabinet. His hands trembled so violently that he was unable to load it. The hunchback had retreated to the back of the room. He was afraid of firearms. So I loaded the pistol and laid it on the table. Now Haschek came back out of his corner.
“Let’s drink!” he said.
“And him?” My father pointed to me.
“He must die. But first let’s drink!”
“Let him watch,” cried Milada, “watch us drinking. Let’s tie him to the door! Let’s tie him!”
She crowded me against the open door of the bedroom. The hunchback found a rope. They wrapped the rope around my feet, pulled it tight and tied it around the door-hinge. At first I swayed, unable to stand. But then I got used to it, however badly my feet hurt, and held myself upright.
They yelled and drank. My father had fallen silent, but he drank a great deal as well. He sat on the old sofa until he fell over. Milada swore at me constantly. One time she got up and spat in my face. When I tried to wipe away the spit, she threw a wine glass at me, making my forehead bleed. I covered my face with my hands. Then she cried that I shouldn’t cover my face and tried to pull my hands away. Her gravid body touched mine and made me shudder. She called over the hunchback to help her. I did not resist the hunchback. But her I pushed away.
At that she cried out, ordered the barber to hold me and tore jacket and shirt from my body. She punched my naked chest until my breath failed me. Then she opened my pants so I stood there naked. I writhed in the barber’s hands. Milada felt me.
“A man,” she cried, “look, a man already!”
She laughed.
“He’s excited! Let’s cool him off.”
She poured wine over my member and laughed.
She laughed harder and harder, spasmodic, ghastly laughter. The hunchback let me go. I pulled up my pants.
But Milada began to twist and scream. Then she tore off her skirts and dropped to the ground with a scream.
It happened that she went into labor.
The hunchback quickly cut my hobble.
“Keep an eye on things!” he said. “I’ll run and get a doctor.”
Unable to walk at first, I fell to the floor. Then I rose. Milada lay on the floor, writhing, legs splayed. She had raised her shift and held the hem clenched in her teeth, exposing her distended body. I saw blood between her feet. She tossed in agony. I took the pistol from the table. My eyes fell upon my father.
My father lay on the black sofa with his eyes closed. His head hung to the side. A thin green ribbon of phlegm and spittle trickled from his open mouth. For a moment I felt that I must kill my father at once. I would have shortened that poor man’s life by just three days.
Milada, whose feet I heard drumming the floor, cried out. Then it was quiet.
I went up to Milada.
A filthy bloody gob lay between her feet in a puddle of blood and foul-smelling liquid. I looked at the baby. It whimpered so thinly that one could scarcely hear it. It made me think of very young kittens. I was still holding the pistol.
I heard steps on the stairs and thought it was the hunchback returning. A knock came at the door. I did not answer.
Then the door opened and the stranger entered the room.
I looked at him in alarm. He was wearing patent leather shoes, pressed pants, a snug winter coat and a green felt hat. I stood there between a father drunk out of his senses and a newborn child that lay in blood and filth between the splayed legs of the unconscious mother, not yet severed from her. My torso was bare and beaten bloody. The stranger could see my flat chest and my crooked back. I thought of his red slippers. I raised the pistol and shot.
The stranger collapsed without a cry. I took some of the cotton-wool my father stuffed into his ears every day, dipped it in water, and carefully washed Milada’s child.
The hunchback entered with the doctor. They stumbled across the stranger immediately.
“Who did that?” asked the doctor.
“There.” The hunchback pointed at me, smiling.
“Call the police!”
“Don’t be afraid!”
They bent over Milada.
“She must be put to bed,” said the doctor. “I’ll fetch my things and tell the police at once.” His eye fell upon my father. “What’s this?”
“Stinking drunk” said the barber.
“And ... the pistol there?”
“You can leave it where it is. Nothing will happen. I’ll stay here.”
When the doctor had gone, the hunchback took a bill from his pocket.
“Run away,” he said.
But I did not run away. I sat down by the window and waited.
Colbert’s Journey
Colbert’s Journey
Colbert began his journey in 1910. He died in 1911 from its attendant excitations. Modlizki had disappointed him too bitterly. Colbert’s grave can be found in the town cemetery. It consists of a white marble cross and bears the simple inscription:
Here lies Josef Colbert
born March 14, 1859, here,
died May 7, 1911, in the very same place
According to this, he lived to the age of fifty-two.
His journey finds no mention in the inscription.
What made Colbert’s disappointment all the more bitter was that Modlizki had grown up in his household since early childhood. Modlizki was of lowly birth – his father was a drunkard and had departed this life in ignominious fashion. He was caught at a burglary, fell from a ladder, and died at once without receiving absolution for his final sin. Modlizki did not bear him in fond memory and bashfully avoided discussing his origins.
Colbert, by contrast, boasted French blood. His great-grandfather, he said, had emigrated from Nancy. Colbert claimed to possess a document to that effect. He smiled patronizingly at his fellow citizens’ manners and mores and let his superiority show outwardly. He wore his goatee in the French style and twirled up his moustache at the ends. He washed his head with fragrant colognes that were said to make his bald pate gleam tender and rosy and feel as soft as a fine velvet cloth. And Colbert interlarded his speech with French words, even if he possessed no large assortment of them. He deemed this proper for a man of the world, and held that it gave one’s eloquence a cosmopolitan touch. He discussed the point at length with Modlizki, who listened attentively and from time to time expressed his agreement with a respectful nod, not daring, out of a perhaps misguided notion of modesty, to ask his master and benefactor for a fuller explanation of this view.
