“Do you get it? ‘The Blue Danube’: Strauss, of all things. Do you understand me?”
Wilhelm laid his calming hand again on the Private First Class’s leg and said, “It can’t go on much longer.”
And again Rudolf turned, again he took his friend’s arm, again he shook him and made his plea, as desperate as it was unnecessary: “If they get me, Wilhelm! I mean if they get me! You’re sure you’re listening to me?”
Wilhelm nodded and said, “There’s no need to worry.”
“Wilhelm. Swear to me. Cross your heart. Look me in the eyes. If they get me, do you know what you have to do then?” Wilhelm acceded for the umpteenth time. He knew that Rudolf would never rest until he’d taken his hand and sworn and promised something that to Wilhelm went without saying.
“Fine. I swear it. If they get you, then I’ll take care of your Berta,” and he smiled at his friend good-naturedly. “But honestly, Rudolf, it’s an unnecessary and ridiculous thing to swear. I think it’s more likely they’ll get me. That would make more sense. If I’m gone, no one will notice.”
Rudolf brushed off his objection. The gesture was curt, but brimming with contempt. “Go tell Goebbels that. Maybe he’ll see the contradiction between making babies and waging war … You’ll never be a proper soldier, you know. You can’t use logic to win a game of chance. Not your kind of logic, in any case!” Private First Class Rudolf began to pontificate as if he were once again Music Teacher Rudolf, in the days when he’d pronounced upon the arcana of harmony before his students’ baffled eyes: “The front has its own logic, and it’s as simple as can be. Them or us. Period. If a single one of them is left, that’s one too many. Whoever grasps that has grasped the essence of the matter. Do you see, Wilhelm? This is the secret of politics by other means.” And Rudolf chucked his friend on the chin, snickered, and concluded, with something that nearly resembled mirth: “No, you’ll never grasp that. You could never understand a thing like that.”
Wilhelm answered gently, “If I understood it, I would stop it.”
At this new instance of Wilhelmish logic, Rudolf cackled and threw back his head.
“That is what I would do. If it had a logic, I mean. Because in that case, a person could stop it by being logical. That seems reasonable,” Wilhelm continued.
Now it was Rudolf who patted Wilhelm’s thigh: “You clearly think madness has no logic. But that’s a decisive misapprehension! Everything has its logic. Everything, understand? But let’s leave that aside for now …”
Wilhelm was well aware of his friend’s disdain for his inferior intelligence, and knew Rudolf considered any attempt to think about the war to be far too difficult a task for Wilhelm’s brain. Because he was so proud of his friendship with this clever man — a music teacher in a secondary school, not just a common trade school, but one where Latin and Greek, French and English were taught — he was able to forget the insults Rudolf was wont to lob at him each time Wilhelm made the least attempt at independent thought.
“Maybe we’ll both make it out alive. Then you can come with me to Donaublau. I’ll get you a job at the secondary school. As a janitor or something. Let me take care of it. I get along well with the principal. Let me take care of it.”
Wilhelm revered Rudolf, and he liked the idea of going to Donaublau with him, it sounded nice, peaceful. He was familiar with Rudolf’s tendency to swing from irate rebellion at the interminable madness of those years to soft, tranquil daydreams — and then to the naked fear he felt for Berta, the alpha and omega of his sentimental daydreams.
“Don’t forget the ‘Aquarelles’! Or the ‘Blue Danube’ either! You have to learn to play the fiddle. Swear to me. Cross your heart. I can feel it — I’m not going to make it back. There’s no use saying otherwise. I know.” As he said this, the Private First Class pointed at his temple. So firm was his belief that the assembly lines of war had already manufactured the decisive bomb or bullet that would bring his life to a close, that at times even Wilhelm came to think his friend’s survival unlikely.
Wilhelm never promised Rudolf he’d learn to play the fiddle; he was too old for that, he felt. But he did repeatedly swear, whenever Rudolf demanded it, that he would look at Berta through Rudolf’s eyes. It wasn’t hard to do: Rudolf could paint an aquarelle of Berta with words, so convincingly that Wilhelm could never see her except as Rudolf did, even if he tried.
And he knew he was thinking with Rudolf’s mind when he concealed from Berta the particulars of his friend’s death. But Wilhelmine insisted on wheedling it out of him.
It hadn’t been easy, but he’d managed to make his way to Allerseelengasse. Building 13 was the only one remaining that was halfway habitable. On the fourth floor, he’d knocked at door 12 and seen Berta with Rudolf’s eyes, a thing that wasn’t hard for him to do.
And Wilhelm kept the oath he had sworn to his friend. He stayed.
He even tried to learn the fiddle, but gave it up after a time. Berta started crying, utterly bewildered, when she heard the violent moans and groans he coaxed from the instrument; at last she took the fiddle away from him, saying, “Leave it, Wilhelm. Put it in the dresser. Leave it alone. It’s out of tune. I can’t tune it and you don’t know a music teacher who can. Just forget about it.”
“Be patient with me. I’m learning. Believe me, I really am,” he objected, and Berta simply smiled.
This smile he attributed to whimsy rather than contempt. And with time, Berta managed to convince him that she wouldn’t trade him for any man in the world. Not even for the best fiddle player.
BERTA’S ANSWER
Wilhelm shook Berta more and more violently, and his breath came faster and his face twisted.
“Why? Berta? Why?”
Berta giggled. “So. So,” she said, and her eyelids began to flutter open and closed, open and closed.
WILHELMINE ON HER WAY
Wilhelmine was restless, pacing back and forth in the courtyard. Her eyes scanned the north and west sides of the fortress. There was no sign of Wilhelm anywhere.
Wilhelmine was indignant, highly indignant. So great was her indignation that she waddled past the porter to see for herself whether everything in the fortress was in order.
She wheezed up and down the staircases, one hand balled into a fist, the other clutching her handbag.
Her indignation propelled her forward, and it was not until she became aware of the conflict between her movements and her indignation that sensible thoughts were able to once more work their way into her head. All the doors were closed, she saw; she was merely marching upstairs and down. So she waddled back to the porter, though it was difficult to track him down in this labyrinth. From him she learned that in order to get to Berta she had to take one specific staircase. She found this one staircase, wheezed her way up, sucked in several deep breaths while standing outside the door to the ward, then pressed the button, and the door opened.
She zipped past Sister Franziska Querbalkener, who called after her, “Hello! You! Madame! Where are you trying to go! That is against the rules! Hello!”
Once more, Wilhelmine stopped for a moment to catch her breath, and she used this moment to give Sister Franziska Querbalkener an annihilating stare: “I must be admitted to Ward 66, to see a certain Berta Schrei,” she said, in a tone that said quite clearly: “Don’t hold me up with your needling. I’m in a hurry!”