Good People (34 page)

By now Thomas was approaching their residential compound. On weekends the tenants would take chairs and tables out to the courtyard and amuse themselves with cards and ballgames. They smoked pipes, read newspapers and played quoits. Several tables were always littered with warm bottles of beer. The previous Saturday they had held a
wrestling contest. Weller surprised Thomas by winning several matches. ‘Wrestling is an old hobby of our clan,' he announced while stretching his limbs, and boasted to Thomas that a beloved cousin of his had received the Reich Sport Medal for wrestling.

Dwelling on the heritage of his ancestors was an easy escape for Weller from the troubles of the present. Every time he uttered the words ‘our clan' he swelled up like a turkey, as if declaring its achievements: we served Wilhelm and Bismarck, we formed alliances that made Europe dizzy, and, having no other choice, we smashed them. We waved armies off to war and brought prosperity and peace to Germany. We were drunk on splendid victories, and mournfully heard about battlefields that reeked with our friends' corpses—and you, which suburb of shopkeepers do you come from?

At those moments Thomas was proud of the Führer, the way he had abolished the privileges of those Prussians, who had eroded the foundations of society for generations. Jack Fiske had understood that better than most Germans: at their meeting after the New Year's Eve party, Fiske had said, ‘My father was a man who worked hard and never achieved anything, just like your Führer's father. In my estimation, a new Germany that dilutes the privileges of the nobility will do well for you. Because, Thomas, and I've already told you this, you're the most talented German I've met!' Despite himself the memory flooded him with warmth, exactly as if he were standing in the Milton offices now, and his spirits rose so high that he was almost tempted to sing a love song to his former employer. That was the last time he had spoken to Fiske; he'd done well not to say more than ‘Heartfelt thanks'.

One of the buildings cast a shadow, and with enchanting movements, as though hovering, the three sisters emerged from it. Every time he wandered through the city he hoped to get a glimpse of them. They were always hurrying away somewhere. He recognised them by their tight black dresses, their silk stockings and their fashionable hats. When they drew near, he lowered his gaze, but he couldn't resist watching them move away. Two walked with a rocking gait, typical of young women who just had begun to wear high heels, like Clarissa. Now
they walked into the sunlight, and their white napes gleamed. Shimmering light fluttered on their stockings like butterflies. They grew distant, and Thomas felt a sadness that surprised him with its force, an eye-blink of orphanhood.

He had inquired about them. Their names were Wanda and Maria, but the third one had a strange name that flew out of his memory. When he saw them approaching, he amused himself by guessing: was the one in the feathered hat Wanda? Once, when he was drunk, he wanted to call out ‘Maria' to see who turned around. At night, in bed, when his imagination made the shout louder, all three turned around. They were friendly with officials and officers, and Weller grumbled that they slept with all sorts of high-up men, who, in return, protected their father—who ought to have been driven out of Warsaw long ago, ‘if not worse'. Thomas didn't like Weller's cruel tone. The scion of a good family wasn't supposed to lose his manners upon seeing such pretty and delicate women. But he had long observed the effort Weller had to make to maintain his restraint. A kind of belligerence seethed within him, and it would flash out from time to time only to disappear immediately.

Thomas passed through the dark passageway and listened with a smile to the cheerful echoes from the courtyard. That tunnel always gave an extra muffled buzz to the voices. The commotion heartened him. Recently he had taken to spending time in groups: being alone with Weller oppressed him.

There he was again, standing in the centre of the courtyard with his back to Thomas, negotiating about some stupid matter with the men in charge of grilling the meat. Thomas couldn't help focusing on Weller's thick neck.

‘Herr Weller, there isn't enough for your Slavs,' a short man protested and stabbed the roasting meat with a fork.

‘Obersturmführer, we have a simple rule: once a week they get meat,' Weller replied.

‘Rules, rules. With meat you have to show some flexibility!' laughed one of Weller's friends. He was apparently drunk, sunning himself on
a sheet, wearing only a pair of shorts.

Thomas inspected the stairs leading down to the basement doors, which were nailed up with heavy beams. The deathly silence of those little rooms—he had never even heard a cough from them—bothered him. Fifteen Polish workers, whom Weller had obtained with great effort, were forced to lodge in their cellar, because Weller was afraid someone would steal them from him. Every morning at seven they were sent out to work: removing rubble from buildings that had been bombed in the previous year, pulling weeds from between paving stones, planting all sorts of seedlings that, according to Weller, would give beautiful spring flowers. Towards evening, at five, those doors were locked, and the key was deposited with the officer on duty in the compound.

Weller had managed to get work permits for them. ‘I sweated blood for them,' he told Thomas. ‘They should thank me to their dying day. If it weren't for me, they would be in labour camps now.'

‘That cellar isn't exactly the Bristol Hotel,' Thomas spat out. ‘The ceilings are barely a metre-eighty, and they don't even have a window.' ‘We drilled air holes in the walls,' Weller insisted, ‘and they only work ten hours a day and get a good food ration.'

Thomas hadn't raised the matter again, but every time he saw those steps, he cursed Weller. The Polish workers were the source of trouble: the week before, an officer had left them locked in the basement. The following morning Weller discovered that they had been down there for thirty-six hours in a row. They could hardly breathe, a few had fainted and one young man had died.

Weller's preoccupation with trifling details had begun to bother Thomas. Intending to avoid him, Thomas clung to the wall, planning to join the happy group at the end of the courtyard. But Weller noticed him, his sunburnt nose shone and he beckoned him with a finger.

‘I saw that blond, bronzed Standartenführer in the street,' Weller said to him. ‘Maybe we should invite him over for a drink. He's influential, and people say he has a weakness for attractive men.'

‘Good idea,' Thomas nodded.

Maybe Weller wasn't so bad after all. Even when he was immersed in trivia he didn't miss the heart of the matter—there was no need to judge him harshly. In his diplomatic dynasty, everyone was probably like that: formal, polite, fastidious about appearances.

‘I see that you've taken a liking to Kresling,' Weller added in a malicious tone that didn't suit his clown's face with its beet-red nose.

‘A worthy man,' said Thomas, ‘and very knowledgeable about art.' ‘How could that not be the case?' Weller tutted in disdain. ‘After all, his main job is to increase Germany's national culture by means of robbery and plunder! The representative of the greatest robber of the Reich certainly ought to understand something about art.'

‘Kresling is an excellent man,' Thomas retorted.

Look around you, my dear friend, he wanted to tell Weller. You're no longer the proprietor; Bismarck wouldn't have stuck your grandfather in an embassy to read telegrams; it's Ribbentrop, the Henkell champagne salesman, who put you there. A man of value is supposed to eschew honours derived from his high social status and to strive for respect by virtue of his abilities and achievements. In this new age, we all start at the same point, and maybe you didn't notice, my friend, but I've already left you behind.

The officers spoke to Weller with more drunken resentment, and he listened to their nonsense patiently. Thomas took the opportunity to rush over to the happy table, where bare-chested officers sprawled on sheets, smoking pipes, their shoulders reddening. Their debauched slovenliness and laziness angered him, but he also envied them. They were so free and natural; compared to them he was decked out like some old attendant in an amusement park. He and Weller were the only ones in the courtyard dressed in their best clothes. He removed his tie and stuffed it into his pocket, rolled up his shirtsleeves and undid his top two buttons.

His new friend Wolfgang Stalker, a young Sturmbannführer who had recently been transferred to the
Haupttreuhandstelle Ost
, stood on the table. ‘Interim conclusion,' he announced. ‘Fischer from the Gestapo bet two hundred and fifty on 10 June to 12 June. If the Wehrmacht
conquers Paris at one minute past midnight, his money's gone. Our friend Moltke, representing the Wehrmacht, is more optimistic: nine-fifty on 9 June. I, gentlemen, have more faith in the Frogs: two-fifty on 17 June to 19 June. Is anyone buying 14 June to 16 June?'

Excitement about the Wehrmacht's campaign in the West had swelled in the compound. Every night they toasted the most recent victories, and around ten they would thrust their drunken heads out of the windows and shout together, usually conducted by Wolfgang:

They also sang love songs with fawning melodies. He would listen and wonder why he wasn't also elated by victory. He already foresaw defeat—not for political reasons and perhaps not for another fifty years—because defeat awaits every victor. Though he had learned to fool his colleagues with gestures that would please them, their relentless ardour, and Clarissa's too in her letters, seemed to have been forged in a world inhabited by different people—believers. If he were young like Clarissa, perhaps he, too, would fall under the same magic spell she described in her last letter:

But it wasn't just the young. Older people walked around Warsaw giddy with pride. Whereas he, who had striven for success as much as anyone, was not visited by even a single elevated moment; instead he was curious about the measures the German government would take in occupied France. Why? Where was Erika Gelber when he needed her? He hoped she had succeeded in leaving Germany or hiding somehow. He hadn't been able to inquire about her fate without risking the loss of his job. He was here, and she was there, or elsewhere.

‘I repeat: two-fifty on 16 June!' Wolfgang called out and scratched the boyish fluff on his chest.

Thomas roused himself. ‘Here's two-fifty marks.'

‘Thomas, my dear!' Wolfgang crowed. ‘Did you miss me? I had some business in Cracow.' He stuffed the money in his pocket, swayed with theatrical grace and sat down next to Thomas. ‘It was dreadful.'

‘Did your business go well?'

‘I hope so. Every moment I was there I thanked Herr Kresling in my heart for transferring me to his office here. Those bores in Cracow sat me down for a discussion with the moron who replaced me.' Wolfgang's laughing dimples turned into a puzzled expression. ‘I realised he had no interest in hearing what I was doing now. Do you see? The great goal has fallen apart. Every organisation is in its own little box. On the train I remembered Schiller. Those people in Cracow only listen to the monotonous noise of the wheel they're turning.'

Thomas nodded in encouragement: it was the same tedious rhetoric
about government efficiency. Besides, a tormented expression didn't suit Wolfgang, a young, handsome and privileged officer from Hanover who had honey-coloured hair and blue eyes. Putting on serious airs, he behaved frivolously, and made jejune pronouncements about things whose complexities he could barely understand. Thomas was fond of him because of his good nature, his infectious cheer and the fact that he seemed to have been born for others to manipulate.

‘Just now I had a meal at the Bristol with your Herr Kresling and a few friends,' said Thomas offhandedly. He could do an offhand tone better than anyone. ‘He said that you're the most devoted adjutant he's ever had.'

‘Kresling has a great future.' Wolfgang's eyes sparkled. He rolled his undershirt across his belly and wiped the sweat from his face. ‘He's praised your model several times already. And Kresling knows how to give compliments, if you grasp what I mean.'

‘I propose a toast,' Thomas chuckled. He didn't grasp it at all, but he didn't intend to ask. ‘To Kresling's compliments!'

And then Thomas understood. He looked at Weller, who was holding his glasses. Without them he looked weak and lost. He was saying something measured, as if he were presenting a speech to the heads of the Foreign Office, appealing to the reason and decency of the two red-chested officers, and they were responding with drunken shouts. The equation solved itself: Weller was the portrait of the past. The future was Kresling.