Читать книгу A Piece of Me - Beatrix Ost - Страница 11

Over and over, my father would tell stories of Africa. Benghazi, Tubruq, Aidabiya, Darnah. I still taste those exotic names in my mouth like bonbons. Perhaps, at first, he was thrilled to be there. Away from the familiar names, away from the artificial enemy, the love of his Adi warm in his heart, accompanied by the illusion that it would only be a matter of months now.

Numbed by the general intoxication and uproar around him, he arrived with his comrades at the harbor of Benghazi. My father was named City and Harbor Commander of Tubruq, giving him a quasi-civilian identity. Perhaps they had placed him in this responsible post to be rid of him on the one hand and to keep him busy on the other.

In photographs he stands before a tent, the shadow of his tropical helmet hiding half his face. The moustache sits smugly on the swing of his upper lip. His chin has its dimple in the middle. He wears a short-sleeved khaki shirt and khaki shorts, his hands dug into the pockets. Behind him a few figures sit on the floor in the tent’s dusky interior. He has stepped into the sun to be photographed.

He loved sun. He liked the heat that jumps at your throat, pressing the wind out of you. One needed only dress reasonably, preferably just like the Arabs—in a caftan.

In these photos he still looks happy, smiles. There must have been wine, for he often wrote how glad he was at least to be able to rinse down the misery.

Africa spoke to him. He took an interest in the city, indulged his natural love for people, strolling through bazaars, giving in to the enchantment of colorful carpets, keeping in mind the exotic effect they would have on the wooden floors of cold Bavaria. He brought back oil lamps, metal jugs, ashtrays, water pipes, side tables that mingled with the baroque and Jugendstil in our rooms. My war booty, he rejoiced.

When he stepped into a shop, the owner would call for strong hot coffee with lots of sugar. My father would sit in the middle of the situation, attentive. No word, no gesture escaped him. There was a pow-wow, demonstrating the best wares, examining materials, rubbing wool between one’s fingers, enjoying the quality of the design, listening to stories. For Fritz, the situation must have been exotic, like his later horse dealings with the gypsy Buchs. The protestations, the extravagance, the mimicry, the gamesmanship, the cunning close of the deal. And of course the fun of taking one another for a ride, at least trying to, or simply sitting together, smoking, nodding.

Fritz was very gregarious and had a fine instinct for making himself liked. He was easygoing, and it was easy to forget his uniform. And Fritz was a paterfamilias whom the shopkeeper had to convince, who had to fall in love. He must not return from the hunt without prey. Unwritten laws, unwritten rites. This was about the head of a household, the master, the patriarch of the clan, furnishing his rooms without input from his wife. He had to be served in a fitting manner. The largest possible purchase had to be concluded.

Fritz took great pleasure in bargaining, forgetting the hated war. In these hours he was happy, sipping his coffee, so strong and sugary that the teaspoon stood upright in it.

Later he told stories about it all, with ever-changing elaborations, drawing in new characters, living out his impulses as his mood dictated. Only he had been there—and he was a superb liar.

•

My father stood on his balcony. Africa, you untamable bird. On the coats of the camels, on palm leaves, the dew gathered. The cold of night saluted the dawn of heat. A red sunball labored across the hills beyond the city of Tubruq. A pink cloth fell across the desert. In the oases the dogs shook themselves dry and stretched out their paws. The yard below swarmed with swallows. The muezzin climbed the tower. Someone came running from the harbor, bringing the general cacophony with him.

Fritz remembered the dream of the previous night quite clearly. He ran through it again and again.

In their bedroom at Hemmingen, Adi has been startled from the marrow of her sleep. Sirens force their way across the city to the park, the ponds, through the gaps in the blinds. In his powerlessness he clearly hears the noise, the howling. He sees Adi reaching for her coat spread across the foot of the bed, her feet searching for the boots that stand ready on the carpet.

She runs into Anita’s room. Wake up, child, we have to get to the cellar. Quick, pull on your coat. She bends over and laces up her daughter’s little boots. Uli is already standing in the doorway. Adi takes Bea­trix gently from her cradle and wraps her in a blanket. Beatrix gives a start at the howling of the sirens and cries all the way down the stairs, down through the door to the cellar, farther into the arched, dungeon-like shelter.

Strangers and neighbors have already found their way there. Benches and chairs, a folding cot. Whispering. Uli sets the suitcase with their valuables next to him. He runs up the stairs once more. I’ll just step outside quickly, Mama, to see what there is to see in the sky. Adi shakes her head, powerless against “the man of the house.”

Boundless, deafening noise. The ground trembles. Up above, the low-flying planes drone toward their goal. Whistling, the crackle of fire. A bomb falls quite nearby. Vrooooooom. Trees break free of their roots, smash into one another. Basement windows shatter. Screaming. Air pressure forces the people flat to the stone floor. Uli storms back down the basement stairs, out of breath, eyes bulging, laughing like a maniac. Adi rocks Beatrix back and forth as she drinks at her breast. My Adi, always so composed. Anita, swaddled in a blanket, lies on the cot and cries. Flashes of flak fire run along the cellar walls.

On the balcony Fritz wiped the sweat from his brow. Between his shoulders ran a sticky little brook. He gulped into his dry windpipe. Beneath him, in the courtyard, jasmine bloomed; a little breeze carried the scent up to him. An orange fell with a thud onto the tile floor. A camel dozed in the archway; behind it the street ran off into jacaranda blue, a woman balancing an urn on her head. White doves hovered in every direction. I have to get dressed, he thought, have to shave, have to tell my boy to have the car ready at eleven sharp. Have to get down to the harbor, have to . . . A spider lowered itself from the banister to the sill. He watched it for a long time, motionless.

Fritz sat in his office, the bottle of red wine next to him, taking swig after swig, looking at the world map on the wall and shaking his head. Ants were running a sugar caravan across the desktop. By evening he had scared off the dream, swallowed it down. Eventually night fell, and sleepless sleep. Here it was again: fear, impotence, a panicked jolt, howling of sirens, clattering, blood seeping through uniforms, satu­rating epaulettes, medals, SS emblems. The German flag devoured by flames. Dead eyes. Mouths distorted with fear. A child without legs. Adi’s forehead bleeding. Little Beatrix, crying in the snow. A tree sinking into a crater. Nothing left of the house but bricks and dust clouds. Uli marches with the cannon fodder, laughing in lockstep, his boyish thighs straining his trouser seams. Red heaven above riderless horses.

My father had nightmares—every night. During the day he dutifully did his dutiful duty, procured wine, visited his friends in the bazaar, drank coffee with them. As an enemy he didn’t amount to much: that, everyone noticed. But the sleepless nights of a pessimist have profound consequences. In the end, he must have been quite mad.

Over his many months in Africa, my father became friends with Field Marshal Rommel. Then something happened. The year was 1943. They must have been alone, standing before the big map of the countries, my father crazy with homesickness and longing for his Adi. He and Rommel were studying the conquests and what remained to be conquered. Whereupon my father supposedly said to Rommel: If you look at the map, Herr Field Marshal, you must admit that the war is lost.

Rommel slowly turned to him, the story goes, looked him in the eye for some time, and said in his Swabian dialect: You know, my dear Ost, at this point I am really supposed to have you shot. My father surely met his gaze and shook his head. Perhaps Rommel laid a hand on his shoulder, then turned away and left the room without saying another word, leaving my father behind like a red warning light. Then the unexpected happened, as if the one man had read and silently accepted the thoughts of the other. Fritz Ost was simply sent home by the fastest route, without any further attention. Nervous breakdown.