An enemy armed car! That was serious. But I dodged it; I also escaped the witches in the sunflower fields. Bursting through a ruined palisade, with my gun high in the air, and running across a burning field whose crops were dead tanks, toward a destination utterly obscured by smoke, I felt so frightened that I wasn’t even scared.
After a long time I saw light on the horizon, a hellishly familiar light, but it wasn’t from tracers or explosions; when I got closer I saw that it was metal; to be exact, it was a wall of metal plates—hatchcovers, shields or battleship decking. And this wall was polished so that it shone like fire.
Well, I was a telephonist; nobody could fool me; I knew about this sort of signal. Even if I hadn’t seen it, I’d read about it. There’d be a sleeping Valkyrie on the other side. All I had to was unhelm her and… But what did I care? Every Valkyrie flies away someday, even if she’s been a loving wife for seven years. She craves war. Even if I knew how to make jewels for her, she’d leave me. They always leave me, because I’m nothing but a telephonist.
Straining to encode myself into something, I became prescient. I could almost feel the fingers of their reconnaissance goblins on the back of my neck. Now I could receive the signals of a nearby cave of monsters! Here came the first of them, a T-34 with its round twin hatch-covers open to vertical like astonished crab-eyes. And I knew that it was expected of me at Europe Central that I brave these T-34s in order to win the Golden Princess, and I even had some notion of how to go about it (first, get the command tank, the one with the radio transmitter; the other tanks can only receive), but hadn’t I already done enough? So I ran forward toward the wall, which shone ever more brightly, like a mountain of snow. Really I was running away from the T-34s, but when you flee one menace for another, the world will call you brave.
Oh, it was getting icy all around me! That armored car was chasing me again, but it skidded on the ice and overturned; the last I saw of it, it was spinning round and round on its back, until a great steel eagle with Klieg lights for eyes came speeding down and carried it off. Now what about those T-34s? Better not to look!
I see you shining, my beloved, chaotic, all-knowing, heartless Russia. Stalin’s daughter Svetlana wrote that. She was referring to this wall.
Cubes of concrete half-sunk into prisoner-dug hills of ice gave me magic lurking-places as I made my serpentine way forward; I didn’t want to be the enemy in the open, the one which Comrade Bukharin unmasked. Meanwhile, the wall had grown so bright that I no longer needed to open my eyes to see. At last I understood what it must be like to be a sleepwalker.
The wall was guarded by a man made of steel; he was as stern as Colonel-General Hoth, whom I’d once seen, maybe in Front, maybe in Signal; as I recall, he was peering through a twin-necked rangefinder at the Slavs although there were probably no Slavs in sight; I experienced the pleasure of watching Rüdiger shake his head over that color picture of Colonel-General Hoth, whom we never met. As for this other man of steel, he resembled a Teutonic knight and was sitting with his metal hands between his knees; the ankles of his steel boots were glitteringly articulated like a nickel-alloy shower hose; our time gave birth to men like that; in future decades I was going to keep seeing more and more of them. I don’t mind confessing that he was too fearsome for me!
He saw me. He came striding forward. If I’d had a grenade I would have thrown it at him.
Fortunately, there happened to be a mucky bloody hole under the wall—perfect for a wretch of a telephonist!
So I wormed myself under and now I stood in front of the castle, which rose as infinitely high as the black smoke which boils up through the hatch of a dying T-34.
I should have asked someone what to do next. But whom? Not that old cripple who knew everything and kept insinuating that I just had to trust him; not the old witch or the talking skull. I’d tried to ask Allfather, but you know how that turned out. LINA might have known. Once she even took a trip to the East; she’d been studying linguistics. But LINA and FREYA were both out of commission now. In short, I had nothing; I was nothing.
All the same, my Golden Princess was waiting for me in the doorway, alone.
Why? Why does a woman ever do anything for a man who’s not a hero? Because she was sorry for me.
When one gazes up at the victory goddess atop the Siegessäule one perceives her graceful femininity; the way she outstretches the golden garland is simultaneously tender and regal, but what’s the expression on her golden face? She’s too high, too far away. That’s how I’ve felt about each woman in my life. For their part, women have tried to understand me, but what is there to understand? I am nothing more than I am. When on a windless Sunday in the Tiergarten sunlight moves like flames through the leaves of a seemingly motionless oak, there’s no explanation. Why can’t I feel the wind? Why can’t I see the leaves twitching? With women and me it’s exactly the same. Rüdiger, my double, never knew women, either. That’s why femaleness summed itself up for him in the semi-masklike face of Lisca Malbran. Lisca Malbran in “Young Heart,” smiling directly at me, with white, white speckles of glare on her glossy grey lips, wasn’t she the Golden Princesss? Lisca Malbran’s soft and naked shoulders, Lisca Malbran leaning demurely forward, gazing at the cinema hero with her chastely alert eyes; Lisca Malbran in yet another calm, half-smiling, semi-formal embrace with Harald Holberg in “Between Two Fires” (Rüdiger used to say that he hated Harald Holberg more than the Slavs, because it wasn’t right that any man should touch her); Lisca Malbran in Signal magazine, wearing a pretty white sailor miniskirt which I myself for all my lack of masculinity longed to rip off of her—she held a coil of rope in her right hand while nipping at her lower lip with a smile of sweet determination—seventeen-year-old Lisca Malbran was certainly a victory goddess, a Goldelse, I should say, for that is the nickname of the golden figure on our Siegessäule. Lisca Malbran used to get mentioned almost every hour, back when Rüdiger and Volker and I were standing in the road in our shiny boots, smoking real tobacco or singing songs as we watched another village burn.
Well? said the Golden Princess, with her hands on her hips.
No doubt I should have asked her to give us a V-weapon so that we could end the war on our terms, preserving all victories and triumphs. At the very least I should have saved Berlin. (But what is Berlin supposed to be, but cobwebs and chestnuts?) Any decent German would have wanted that. But I wasn’t decent. I don’t believe that Rüdiger would have wished for a V-weapon, either; his heart’s desire would have been some kind of carnal knowledge. (Her hair was as dark as the Vltava River on a cloudy spring day.) But I wasn’t even man enough for that; I was only a telephonist!
How could I bring her back to the Reich? What would FREYA and LINA say, not to mention my father? Wouldn’t ordinary life disappoint her? No, let me say it straight: Wouldn’t I have disappointed her? I was so accustomed by then to receiving and transmitting the messages of others that when I dreamed erotic dreams about anybody, even LINA, I found myself watching private film of her when she was young, I mean really young like Lisca Malbran, and she was sitting pale, soft and perfect with her thighs spread and her eyes closed and her neck-tendons straining but her lips almost parted as her thumb pressed down on the base of her belly and her other fingers worked frantically to bear her to orgasm. Where was I while she was doing that? Plugged into a telephone bank! Perhaps she might have saved me with her love, but that was crazy, too, because if she made too much of me, I’d fail to live up to her; how could I be a Golden Prince? I wasn’t better or worse than everyone else, and everyone else was getting slaughtered, so how could I possibly be saved? In short, what would I do if she placed me, or I placed myself, in a position of trying to be supernaturally noble? I’d only kill myself.