Switzerland
As strange as it may seem, there are no holes in this nation. This is because all individuals living in this location who have the need to dig a hole do so in a foreign country, bringing only the excess soil from such a hole back to their native land. Over the eons this behavior has led to the formation of a large mountain chain, the Alps, to which the Swiss attribute most of their fame and a majority of their culture. Few countries have taken note of this object lesson but unless one enjoys rocky, snowcapped mounds of foreign soil there is little reason to do so.
The Narrative Resumes Only to Find That Steiner’s Situation Has Grown
Desperate
Steiner is escorted down a long dark hall into a small room. He is forced to strip. His large buttocks are reddened from the long sit. He is indignant but reserved. Sensitive but not shy. He has rarely exposed himself to men and his hands show a concern for his condition. He is made to bend forward, inhale deeply, then probed. He protests but the search continues. A guard explores his genital area, and he vacillates between embarrassment and humiliation. Then, the search complete, he is placed in a cell adjoining the room under the careful eye of two guards. There is a cigarette from one of them. A simple gesture between human beings. Then Belinski enters and Steiner is stripped again and beaten. A length of rubber tubing is used. The neck, back and soles of the feet are targets. Steiner is rendered unconscious. Belinski orders the abuse stopped leaving Steiner naked and, for the moment, alive.
The main supposition here is that life is somehow historical
That Forest Again
The woods are quiet. It rained a few hours before, nothing much, just enough to ease the spades as they turn the earth. Belinski has selected the spot himself. A soldier informs him that all is ready and salutes smartly. Four bodies are placed in blankets, wrapped snugly and secured with leather thongs. Leather takes four years to rot; blankets are never the same after three months. The bodies are placed in the shallow, roughly hewn graves. Reverence for the human being is still upheld — Belinski sees to that. There is a moment of silence. Belinski clears his throat to break it and the deaths are now officially over. All evidence must be suppressed so leaves are spread over the site lest the Germans discover their dead. Revenge is inherent in their kind and whatever qualities they lack as humans beings they more than compensate for by the tenacity to which they avenge injury to their kind. Hence Belinski takes part in the cover up, smoothing the soil by hand as a child playing in a schoolyard.
In 1939 even the very little ones looked so much smaller
What About Belinski?
Belinski spent his lifetime in pursuit of success and fortune. Only a fool would attempt this in a bureaucracy but, nevertheless, Belinski has tried. In the early years he dispensed useful information from behind a small desk in Warsaw: lavatory directions, transportation schedules, the location of various offices, that sort of thing. He did this menial job in such a way as to be noticed. He never nodded a perfunctory direction and never gave way to anger by the many redundancies of the day’s inquires. No, Belinski was quite polite; his manner friendly and extremely efficient. A train schedule always included the wish for a pleasant journey. Each day’s weather carried with it a certain conversational uniqueness which Belinski was quick to seize upon to anyone who passed by. As might be expected, important officials noticed his attitude.
From that obscure information desk it was to the licensing bureau and from there to the censor’s office where, after a short stay, he was attached to Colonel V., the minister of the frontier. Yet Belinski was never a creative thinker. His main asset was that of plasticity, and with Colonel V. being the brute of a man he was, Belinski soon molded himself into a brute as well. Violators of V. (the famous July Papers called them traitors) were tortured and their signed confessions brought to V. by Belinski personally, further creating a bond between the two. Then V. abruptly left the scene for another post and in his place came Gervitz, a former professor of literature. Belinski then read poetry. Volumes of Dryden and Keats were left clumsily on his desk and Gervitz, noting this, soon took Belinski into his trust.
Times change. Gervitz moved on. Belinski is now in charge of this section of the border and there is no one to copy. Paperwork takes up much of the time. Pleasures are few. Belinski has reached a point where his digestion limits the grand meals he sought so hard to afford. His prostate has blown to the size of a large mushroom and his piles castigate his bowel movements such as they are. Pleasing others was once a pleasure but now personal safety haunts his evenings. Germany is on the move. One only needs to read between the lines in the papers. Like kitchen ants they have secretly been crossing the border through these forests and fields while Poland has been tending its window boxes. Soon something will break, and Belinski will have the distinct honor of being the first Minister of the Frontier to lick German boots. He wonders if their ilk read poetry as Gervitz did. It would be of some compensation.
As fond of mercy as daybreak
That Same Forest: In a Hole, Hauptmann
Hauptmann, the soldier, lies in the forest under a foot of earth. A worm is slowly burrowing its way through his leather boot. Hauptmann is unmoved by the matter. His dedication to life has ended. In a way it’s a relief as dedication for a German is always so much more burdensome than for another. But Hauptmann did his best. It is men like him who, with their unyielding faith in the adjective, always imbue any proper noun they come across with much more dignity than should be the case. Hauptmann was a good German. He was also a man. Many will say that he dismissed the latter and concentrated solely on the former. Either way he is still dead lying in a Polish forest with an energetic worm, now free from the hindering restriction of yarn and leather, gorging itself upon his flesh. Fortunately that good German blood is still warm.
How Is Steiner Doing?
Steiner has managed to drag himself from the floor of his small cell to the front steps of his home in Hamburg. He is dreaming of course, but it is one of the few ways his mind can maintain its sanity. He is now surrounded by comfort, including his favorite white wine amply chilled. Suddenly the door bursts open and Frau Bremmer enters, her face emblazoned with passion and her sultry voice filled with lewd suggestions (he taught her how to talk dirty and now she enjoys it). She has just returned from a triumphal tour of concert halls and lovers but at present her beloved husband Steiner is in her heart and soul. There is an embrace, something perfunctory yet essential to seasoned lovers. Then an impassioned kiss initiates a tumble of clothing and the race for pleasure is on.
Later, when they have spent themselves, Steiner begins his story. He relates the forest and his capture, leaving out his female companion. He recounts Belinski and the terrible beating. As the past is revisited, blows rain down. He weeps and tears stream down his face on to Frau Bremmer’s breasts. She listens. She also weeps. Poor Steiner. She lets loose curses for the Poles in general. She embraces him and, like a small boy, he drifts into sleep in her arms. In the morning she will leave for Stuttgart to begin rehearsing the power of Wagner. She will make love with a French horn player. She cannot help this because sensuality is part of her artistic nature.