The sergeant lived with his wife Mira in a modestly appointed room of a villa near the railroad tracks … next to the Falcons’ gymnasium … Aside from a wardrobe chest and their bed, the only furniture consisted of several big, gray-green wooden suitcases with heavy locks … The fact was the officers and NCOs were constantly on the road, first in one Yugoslav province, then in another … They had big, embroidered sheer curtains on their windows … I was amazed to see that military commanders had such poorly furnished homes … It bothered me that they lived in accommodations as makeshift as ours … It would be fine if these were fortifications, shacks, guard posts at the front, or in disputed territory … But to live like this with all their dress uniforms, sabers, braids, and medals … The sergeant had a friend who was also a sergeant and who enjoyed seeing Clairi … I didn’t see that either one had a pistol, a machine gun, or an automatic rifle … They hung their sabers over the knobs on their night tables. What kinds of commanders were these?… They had big diplomas, solemn oaths in frames hanging on their walls … with the royal coat of arms in gold and crossed swords … “I will defend and protect the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes, the Yugoslav homeland …” I stood looking at these, full of admiration and doubt. How was it possible that they had these solemn vows on their walls for all to see, when all of them were against the king and the state … when they had no intention of protecting and defending the border when Hitler attacked … When all of them supported him … I looked at both sergeants and others who came to visit them … These couldn’t be real soldiers, commanders … True, they wore the uniform, but more the way any woman wears a fur coat. I didn’t want to believe this … I found out that they did in fact have pistols, which they would take out of boxes to clean the hammers, polish the barrels with oiled cleaning rods, and shoot with, too … I saw one of those decorated commander’s uniforms come off once, revealing skin like other people had … vaguely disgusting, white human flesh with black bristles, devoid of taut muscles, tendons, any firmness at all … a kind of lazy, disintegrated human machine like the bodies of ice cream parlor attendants or cooks … And finely articulated hands with polished nails, as though they never did any work and just picked their noses or something. These were supposed to be warriors?… I couldn’t believe it … but then they got back into their coarse uniforms, put on their belt straps and sabers … the soldiers outside the house saluted them, all turned to stone, as though they had gods in front of them! I was full of doubts … they gnawed at me … everything was so fuzzy, double and triple … If these weren’t actual, loyal soldiers, they weren’t actual sworn enemies, either. If they were traitors, they couldn’t have been true friends of the enemy, either. They were nothing … neither civilians nor soldiers, not people, not men, not priests, not Gypsies … I still enjoyed going to visit them, because I kept hoping that everything I’d seen on my previous visits had just been an illusion or a deception, and that any day now … I was going to stumble onto their true image as warriors … firm, decisive, hardened men, full of plans and concerns … old Indian souls who had a vision of life and could show you the right way: Sky … Earth … Clouds … But instead …
One Sunday all five of us had our picture taken under the arch of the railway viaduct, so that it looked like we were standing in front of some fortress made of hewn rock … At least they would have that to point to … Then we went down to the restaurant next to the quarantine hospital … along the way the other sergeant kept putting his arm around Clairi, but she gave him no sign of encouragement. Soldiers were like Gypsies for her … completely undependable people … plus they could get killed at the front. “Heute da, morgen Gott weiß wo …”§ The tavern was noisy and smoky. Someone was playing the accordion. And they were singing. And dancing. All of them had faces as red as tomatoes. Even Jože was here in his best suit, with Tončka. Clairi’s friend Marica from the ice cream parlor with her big, fleshy fiancé, an insurance salesman. We ate pretzels and they gave me a glass of wine to drink … All three women kept talking about dying their hair. For the first time I felt a cloud in my head and something as hard as a rock pressing against my forehead … I mumbled the songs that the others were singing … Jože and Marica’s fiancé asked me to sing something … Over a full ashtray that still had smoke coming out of it, I sang the aria from Carmen that Zdravko had taught me … “Toréador, en garde, toréador, toréador …” and when I finished half the tavern applauded …
*
The cheap vegetable season
†
Well what do you know … You don’t say … Is that possible?
‡
We want to do everything necessary to make sure that the species called human being remains nothing more than an accident, a transitional phase.
§
One place today, God knows where tomorrow …
One Day
ONE DAY a small package containing a wristwatch arrived from Basel. Margrit had sent it. The watch had a gray wristband and was packed in cotton. I put it on when I went to school in the morning … Now I was almost like the other students. If I’d had boots, corduroy knickers, a light blue sweater with a white shirt, a leather briefcase and a Pelikan fountain pen, I would have attained the ideal … But I had a pair of Vati’s old trousers, a shirt that mother had made for me from one of her blouses but that still looked like a girl’s shirt, and the same old canvas backpack for books … Worst of all were my shoes, which a nun at the St. Vincent’s conference had given to me. They had high, narrow heels and you fastened them with little hooks way up over the instep, practically over the shin. And if you added my strange accent and the way I mixed up genders and cases when I talked … which made my classmates laugh … I wasn’t just funny, I was hilarious, a regular laughingstock … The heels on the boots from the nun were so high that I rubbed clay on them to make them seem shorter, so that people at least wouldn’t tease me around town, because I was as wobbly walking in them as I would have been wearing stilts … Now I had a watch … All my schoolmates came flying like bees to honey to look at it on my wrist. This watch was the height of fashion, even though it told time the same as any other watch … One morning mother asked me to leave it at home, because they didn’t have any other timepiece. I reluctantly took it off my wrist. She hung it on the nail in the wall, which was where she kept the electric bill … When she hung it up, I wanted it back, but she soon got me to change my mind … Every day when I came home from school, the first thing I did was look at the nail over Vati’s head, to see if it was still hanging there by its band … One day the nail was bare. I broke out in a cold sweat … “Sie wollte nicht mehr weiter. Wir mussten sie zum Uhrmacher tragen …”* mother said … That exquisite watch had broken down?… I didn’t know what to do. “Wann wird sie repariert?…”† “In einer, zwei Wochen …”‡ It took a long time … A week passed. Which watchmaker had they taken it to? I asked … if they had taken it to the arcade under the Skyscraper, the repair would cost a fortune. “Die Frau Guček hat sie zu einem befreundeten Uhrmacher in die Altstadt getragen …,”§ mother said. Mrs. Guček, that crazy old loon whom you couldn’t trust with a pin …