Good People (51 page)

They walked across the bridge and left the city, heading for the woods she wanted to show him. She planned to hold a joint luncheon there for the senior officers of the two armies. Fishermen sat on rocks surrounded by weeds that waved in the wind, boys raced around them and scattered breadcrumbs for the swans, and on the bank across from her a gilded triangle spread and then gathered in the black thicket.

In the forest the city was only a rumour. There was the rushing of the water, the rustling trees, cawing crows, the gaiety of the birds. He loosened his tie, took off his jacket and hung it over his arm. They walked on rustling leaves, passed under a tunnel of vines bent by the wind, and entered a clearing surrounded by birches and oaks. In the morning the sun was hidden by cloud, but now, towards noon, it was spreading its bright glow. The light plunged into Alexandra Weissberg's eyes and wove golden strips in their grey gleam. She pointed at the treetops. ‘Look, they're like lions.'

‘A poet's imagination,' he teased her. ‘From a pointed spire, a bell and a bird, you create architectonic visions.'

She was proud of their achievements, and he agreed with her, and when he felt she was relaxed he told her that indeed they saw the first stage of the parade eye to eye, but as for the subsequent stages, he was sorry to say that the plan didn't seem right to him: clinging to history was, in his eyes, merely an empty quotation. What good would the masses derive from these gestures? Unlike Goethe and Croce, he did not believe that knowledge of history was liberating; it shackled us and restricted our imagination. Instead of describing the future, the parade
would force the masses to look backwards. And what landscapes did we want to present to them? A pile of mangled corpses, the treaties that were violated? Two years after your great military parade, Napoleon, against whom the emperors had joined forces, reviewed battalions of the French and Russian army with Czar Alexander, and the Russian army helped its former enemy to fight against the Austrian Kaiser, with whom Alexander had surveyed their splendidly arrayed regiments. Nor did that treaty prevent further deaths a few years later with the French invasion.

‘Why shouldn't the parade represent, for example, the history of the movement of merchandise in Europe; we Germans bought some planes from the Americans; other American planes, from the same manufacturers, are now bombing the cities of Germany, and the President of the United States condemns us. But American companies are still trading with us. My father, who worked in the Junkers factory, built planes for you Russians. Advanced models of them might soon kill German boys. Why not show that history in the parade?

‘The preoccupation with the past is one huge fixation. History speaks in the primitive language of blood, and it's abuse of school children to force them to study those horrors. After all, history is at everyone's service. That's all well and good, but our parade has to be more elevated. Germany and the Soviet Union stand on the brink. I am sure you know about the forces on the border: four million soldiers on both sides, maybe more. Our goal is to fire everyone's imagination with the opportunities for peace.'

While he was speaking, she grew pale, her shoulders sank and her eyes, which had once terrified him, lost focus. She hugged her coat to her body. Then she stiffened, and stared proudly at him.

‘I do not mean to belittle your impressive work,' he said quickly.

Contempt showed on her face. ‘There's no need for compliments. We're here to do the best for our shared purpose. These matters aren't personal.'

Indeed, he concurred. They could easily resolve their differences. With her permission, he would like to tell her more about his suggested
model of the world's fair. He had been to the one in Spain, in Seville, and in his opinion, if you hadn't seen the splendour of the Iberian fair, you'd missed out on the world at its best. He told her about its fabulous artifice, which contrasted with the faded face of Seville, about the Mexican, Brazilian, Portuguese and Guatemalan pavilions. Wandering around there, he felt that he was walking across a map of the world. He couldn't resist telling her the story about the final Moorish ruler: in 1492, after losing the battle for the last Muslim fortresses on the Iberian peninsula, he had wept in the ship as it sailed away from Granada. His mother reprimanded him: ‘Don't cry like a woman for a place that you couldn't defend like a man.'

‘When was that fair?'

‘In 1929. You must have heard about the other fairs too, which have been held all over the world, in Chicago, New York, Paris.'

‘Did you go to the Paris fair?'

‘Unfortunately, no.'

‘But you've been to Paris?'

‘Of course! We had an office there.' Her tone was heartbreaking; she struggled to subdue the longing in her eyes. She was a little girl-woman who had never left the Soviet Union. He cleared his throat. ‘In any case, our peace event should not include military stunts or history. It has to charm the people.'

Here was his plan: a ring of eight pavilions to be built around Brest; six of them would represent the armed forces—land, air and sea—and he could imagine children climbing on tanks, pressing buttons in cockpits, clambering around a decommissioned warship.

He leaned wearily against a tree. It felt like the feeling had been cut off in his fingers. This day was exhausting him. The sunlight shattered on the leaves. Grey dust hung in the air, and in some places under the trees the darkness of evening had already fallen.

‘You are actually planning a circus,' she said. ‘Don't you want a battle of elephants?'

‘The details aren't important,' he said, ignoring the provocation. ‘I also propose two joint pavilions: one of Germano-Soviet art, and
another of peace and fraternity.'

‘And what will we exhibit in the pavilion of peace and fraternity?' she asked.

‘What a question!' he called out in cheerful surprise. ‘Things connected with peace and fraternity.'

He expected to savour the familiar taste of victory, but he realised that his answer didn't reflect his thoughts. The clarity of his words had diverted him from his intention: to present his solution to her sincerely. He was struck by the uselessness of his actions—his pattern of behaviour remained set even when his intentions changed; his behaviour preceded his will.

Had he come to the second meeting and risked what he had risked just to rid himself of the gaze that tortured him? Every morning he had got out of bed to harness all of his abilities, both exalted and contemptible, in service of the parade. This woman was the only other person in the world who believed in it. The problem was that Mademoiselle Weissberg was floating in a dream, hiding in the map room the way his mother and Frau Stein had hidden in the bedroom. He had to bring her back to the world of action. Yet it was hard for him to believe that this young woman would have the courage to be his partner in such a freewheeling plan.

He heard her saying: ‘I arrive here in a confused state, and here my doubts are resolved. In the forest the grip of external forces is weakened. Here I came to understand that the parade is my fate.' After a brief silence she added, ‘And I hope that it's yours, too.'

An entreaty whose meaning he didn't understand was woven into her words. When he looked up, the city and the sky had disappeared. The sky was tangled with the foliage, and it was already hard to distinguish between them.

‘Gospozha Weissberg, nashi raznoglasya dolzhni bit raznersheni yeshcho svodnya!'
*
He had decided to surprise her and speak to her in Russian. Maybe French was keeping them apart; the time had come to get closer
to the truth. Her face betrayed nothing. Maybe she had read in some report that he spoke Russian. ‘I'll support any reasonable plan for the parade,' he went on. ‘In fact, the plan isn't the main thing. We share a common goal, and we might be the only people in the world who believe in this goal, so we have to do everything we can to attain it. My strong recommendation is that, starting from tomorrow, our only goal is for the parade to win over our Foreign Offices. The date that I propose for the Germano-Soviet parade is 1 July 1941. Does that sound good to you?'

‘Herr Heiselberg,' she answered, and her voice was distant and cold. ‘You've acquired a fine Moscow accent. But I have to say that our differences of opinion about the content of the parade are profound and apparently touch upon deep-rooted differences between the nations we represent. I suggest we schedule another meeting to reach a decision. Until then, let's seek a proposal full of inspiration.'

She was completely ignoring the urgency of his words. The armour that she had donned was impenetrable.

‘We have to present our plans for the parade to our superiors immediately,' he protested.

‘It's better to present the plans when they're ready.'

‘You understand that by then it might be too late!' He lost his composure.

‘Why do men talk about war all the time? There's no inspiration in that,' she said with a facetious expression.

There it was, the word ‘inspiration' again, as if she were labouring over a work of art. ‘Miss Weissberg, we'll make all the decisions today!'

‘How will we do that?'

‘How will we do that?' he asked bitterly. ‘Here's an example: I accept your entire proposal word for word!'

‘Mr Heiselberg, is this a game for you?' she shouted. Furious wrinkles formed between her eyebrows. ‘Don't you understand that your capricious behaviour is endangering our entire mission?'

Between the trees the violet sky showed, spotted with a few stars, like a cracked glass dome. Time was running out. The second parade
meeting was about to end, and it was clear that Weissberg's only goal, the only thing left in her arsenal, was to end on a note of hope.

‘Miss Weissberg, I will speak now with the utmost sincerity.' He had no alternative but to threaten a little. ‘If we don't decide that within a week we will present our plan for the parade to our superiors, I will have to report to the German Foreign Office that the second parade meeting came to a dead end.'

‘You aren't going to do that,' she declared. But her eyes showed fear. ‘We have to stay united.'

They climbed up towards the bridge over the black river. Every step demanded an effort. His breath whistled, and the fatigue he had been combating for the past few hours overwhelmed him. Weak light flashed from the windows of the first houses on the edge of the city, and a flame spiralled up from the saw mill. The bridge sloped down to the bank, but the closer they got to the city, the weaker his body became: they were both small, too small, staggering through the sand like two crabs, here was the city before them, and beyond it other cities—Lublin, Moscow, Warsaw, Berlin—fates were decided there, no one remembered them there. He felt like a little pin that was making oversized dreams dance on its head. He wanted to be among the trees again where the world could not pounce on him. He had lost the confidence that protected him at Milton—the company was a bit like that forest—the confidence that he could predict outcomes and plan his future. How could he have known, for example, that the model he had sketched out in Berlin would be used to eliminate the archaeologists in Warsaw and Lublin? It didn't matter how much he mocked his feeling of guilt—in his dreams the archaeology class still taunted him. Sometimes they shouted, as befitted the future generation, and sometimes they mourned, as expected of orphans: ‘Teacher Thomas! Remember us, please. We want to see your parade. Orphans like parades too!'

Outside the market, merchants had gathered under the streetlamps. A child was running among them, holding a large fish head against his chest. She broke their silence and told him that the city committee
had punished residents who had spread poisonous rumours about war, and expelled them from the Party. ‘We deal severely with warmongers.'

‘I have no doubt.'

‘People find it easier to believe in war than in our peace march.' Her words rang out fondly to him, as if the two of them had been dancing at a ball. ‘But I have no doubt they'll come to admit we were right. Every great deed in history has run into naysayers.'

‘Well said.'

‘Differences of opinion between us are natural,' she said. ‘We're both so devoted to the goal that every detail is crucial. I see our discussion as a fertile pathway that will lead us to the truly great idea. I feel it in my bones: we're close.'

‘To the truly great idea?'

‘To the truly great idea.'

There was an evening breeze. He put on his jacket, but he was immediately awash in sweat. The cloth was too thick. Spring was lurking: the chill had vanished, the sky was brighter at night. It was still raining but it was the last rain. Dread swept through him. Didn't she understand that the earth was ripe for war?

‘Miss Weissberg,' he said, renewing his oath for the sake of the parade. If a fool was needed, there was one in front of her. ‘In my view, when this is over, in another ten years, or maybe more, people who believe in great ideas will be locked away in padded cells. Maybe it will turn out that our plan only accelerated war and death, but right now, according to my best judgment, the parade might prevent the deaths of millions of our countrymen. If we don't do something exceptional, something that's hard to conceive of, I fear that the only place where the Germano-Soviet parade will happen is on your maps.'

It didn't appear that she intended to answer him.

‘This meeting isn't really official. In Germany they've lost interest in the idea. The last two telegrams you received, confirming our appointment, were sent on my own initiative. In fact, they're forgeries.'

He spoke in a rush. He focused on the horizon.

‘I don't understand,' she said miserably. ‘You're here…'

‘I'm here to give you letters from the German Foreign Office confirming the parade and its date, and I want you to circulate them as soon as possible along with the plan of the parade. These letters will create turmoil in both our governments. In the first stage, your Ministry of Foreign Affairs will receive the letters and will announce the march, annoying the Germans. At the same time we'll exploit the confusion reigning in Poland, and certain organisations will receive orders from Berlin to prepare for the parade. In the second stage, your General Pavlov and our Generalfeldmarschall von Bock will receive the plan for the parade along with an urgent order to meet to plan the final details…there are four more stages.'