Iron Gustav (83 page)

And he was already homesick for Berlin. He hadn't ever left the city since his early adolescence. And the Berliners, their ways of thinking and talking, their streets and squares, the stands for the cabs, the police – all that had become the air he breathed, the nourishment for which he now longed. Once, when they struck up some Berlin hit song about Unter den Linden coming into leaf again, he had to run into Grasmus's stable to hide his tears – he who could not remember ever having wept.

But this passed, and what remained was the applause. He drove through it all. He was old; he looked at it from afar. Dimly he felt that it acknowledged the purpose in his life. Despite his descent from employer to driver, despite the failures with his children, the wrecking of his hopes, and despite the fact that they were young and he old, they cheered him, cheered him because he had carried on, because he was of iron, because he had never given in, even when things had gone badly.

They had affirmed his life, and he theirs.

They had cheered him – and he had driven on.

And now he was nearing the border.

At Diedenhofen he, for the first time in his life, left German soil. And lo! There he was again, Grundeis, the young fellow from the newspaper. ‘Well, Father Hackendahl, today's the day, what? Can I report that we're crossing the border?'

‘Yes, why ever not? Of course! What the devil else?'

‘You're not afraid? You won't see me again before you have reached Paris!'

‘Afraid? Afraid o' what? Nobody'll bite me. But I have ter ask you ter buy me a curry-comb an' a horse brush an' charge it to expenses.'

‘Why, is it going to be as bad as all that?'

‘Lor no! But the last village where Grasmus an' me put up for the night the pigs ate 'em. Scoffed 'em up, that's the livin' truth! You feed yer pigs in a damn funny way here, I told the people: if you ever slaughter that pig, I told them, you needn't give me any of it.'

Laughing, Hackendahl drove towards the little house with the French soldiers and Customs officers. There was no question of nervousness – he had shown that young man.

‘Bonjour!' he said to the French, after long and careful preparation.

They laughed. ‘Guten Tag,' they replied. ‘Guten Tag.'

Grundeis was watching from the barrier. And had immediately to intervene, for linguistic abilities were exhausted on both sides. Customs duty also was not so easy to arrange. A sum of money had to be deposited as guarantee that carriage and horse would leave France within six months at the outside. Undertakings had to be signed, and Iron Gustav shouted over the barrier, ‘If I kick the bucket before then you'll have ter bring the cab back yerself, Grundeis.'

‘I'll do it. But you're immortal, Hackendahl.'

And Grundeis watched the cab roll on into France. Grundeis was no longer a newspaper apprentice. He had shot up like a shooting star. Someone else must now write the little fillers …

However, compared with what had to be achieved, little had been. Grundeis prayed fervently that the old man would reach Paris. The Paris reception, his articles about Paris, would outstrip anything ever written. If only we get to Paris! Please! Please! Grundeis begged fate, staring at the cab disappearing into the distance.

Hackendahl drove on and on. One needn't have worried. The people here were Lorrainers. They spoke German. They would understand him. None of the jubilant receptions that there had been in his own country of course – all took place in a minor key as if the
war lived on here ten years after it had finished with greater might than in Germany itself, which was said to be the vanquished.

Not alone in the faces of the inhabitants did Gustav Hackendahl see how much more present the war was from Conflans-Insray to Châlons-sur-Marne. For days on end his cab rolled over battlefields, through shattered villages, between unending cemeteries. Verdun. Once that name had been mentioned every day in the newspapers of the world; that place, Verdun, was etched in the hearts of all as the site of unparalleled striving and sacrifice. And now it was only a townlet of twelve thousand souls. But around the living still dwelled the dead. Five hundred thousand graves now threatened the dwellings of twelve thousand living souls.

He drove on. Day after day. By now he knew that the black crosses were German graves, the white crosses the French. Cemeteries lined the roads. Wherever he looked the graves spread over hill and valley. And how many black crosses there were!

It was inevitable that he thought of Otto, who had once been his son. He too had fallen here, was resting in this foreign soil … And he tried to recall the place. Many were the names impressed on his memory by the war communiqués – Bapaume, Somme, Lille, Péronne … But the name of Otto's burial place he could not remember – if ever he had known it.

Sometimes he stopped Grasmus and, climbing awkwardly from the box, over the ditch, went into one of the cemeteries, any one, and walked along the endless intersecting alleys, it did not matter which. Occasionally he was approached by gardeners who tried to discover what grave he was seeking, but he shook his head. His son had never been so dear to him that there must be an individual grave for him to find … All of them lying here were much younger than he when they had to die. He was infinitely older than them. And now they had become immortal, and he was still mortal. And he almost wanted to ask why?

As he stood there, tourists came past him in droves, led by guides, speaking in all languages. And when he drove off again, the cab swaying along the grey ribbon of road, great charabancs raced past packed with English and Americans, their guides trumpeting
through megaphones. In bands, or solitary, the inquisitive drifted by, the mourners, the vacant, the ones absorbed by their grief … The widow's veil still caught the breeze, mothers still knelt at the graves of their sons.

He drove on and on. He drove through ruins, artificially preserved ruins, because the tourists should have something to look at other than graves. On the signposts it says: ‘To the battlefields'. And, so that the mourners could stay near their dead, hotels had risen alongside the cemeteries, near ground that was still being combed for weapons and shells; and dead bodies were still being found, skeletons which entailed the further enlarging of the cemeteries. By the wayside squatted hawkers selling pencils, vases, and ashtrays made from cartridge- or shell-cases. Here there was no ploughing, sowing or harvesting done – for the dead supported the living, supported an entire province which lived on a war that was over and yet not over.

Here the people did not prepare a joyous reception for Hackendahl. They scarcely looked back at the Berlin cab – they were used to the oddest figures, visitors from all over the world, sightseers from Australia, mourners from Asia, dark faces from Africa.

In the inns, Hackendahl had to muck in like any other visitor. It was often difficult to find a stable and food for Grasmus. He had to pay like everyone else.

Frequently he met Germans and they nodded to him. Yes, one had read about the old man. And how long had he been on the road? Well done! Yes, and now they had to move on, they had to look for their dead. It was so difficult to find a particular man among all these graves so alike. Had he anyone here? A son? Yes, of course. Hardly a family had been spared. Had he found the grave? Well, he'd find it all right; the people here readily answered enquiries.

However, he didn't look for it any more. What did it matter now? thought Hackendahl. All graves look alike. Dead men were all alike. His sadness came from the infinite number whose courage and sacrifice had resulted in nothing but collapse, misery and strife.

Slowly he drove on. Never before had he felt so old and worn-out as now, an old man still living amid the millions of young men long dead.

On 4 June, two months and two days after his departure from Berlin, Gustav Hackendahl made his entry into Paris, and Paris, repeating the enthusiastic welcomes of Germany, received him like a prince. The jubilation of his journey through Germany repeated itself. The Parisians could not do enough to honour the old man. The streets were full to overflowing; the cab drivers hailed their Berlin colleague; the Paris students unharnessed Grasmus and pulled the cab in triumph through their city. Enthroned on the box was old Hackendahl and in the seat of honour at the back sat young Grundeis.

Everything was joyous, vibrant, intoxicated. It wasn't like that in Germany! Here, they didn't greet an old man who had survived bad times without losing courage; here it was like a game between brothers. What was celebrated was the journey itself, and a foreign people. There were splendid banquets, some dignified, some lively; Grundeis had been hard at work. Reception at the Embassy, reception by the Anglo-American Press, addresses of welcome. And also light-hearted student feasts. The presentation of the Order of the Golden Horseshoe to be worn on a chain round the neck, with Grasmus permitted to stand in the large hall and look on, a many-course dinner of oats meanwhile served to him in a porcelain manger …

Hackendahl blossomed out. The melancholy of old age vanished, his fame shone anew. He composed the couplet: ‘What Lindbergh accomplished with his aeroplane, Gustav with his cab brought equal fame.'

But he was outdistanced by Grundeis, photographed sitting in Cab No. 7, with this caption: ‘How do you get from Berlin to Paris? Take a cab!'

Laughter, cheers, excitement. Bouquets – two hundredweight of them – in the hotel bedroom. Present upon present. Souvenirs for Frau Hackendahl. Regiments of champagne bottles. A flight for the seventy-year-old in an aeroplane. He took part in everything with unquenchable good humour.

How about something special? Something quite special?

So, at a very convivial lunch was born the idea of a race between
the oldest Berlin and the oldest Paris cab driver. The course to be three hundred metres long.

Splendid!

Splendid? There were doubts. Who would win? Who should? Susceptibilities were so easily hurt. Was the German to vanquish the Frenchman in the capital of France itself? Impossible! But was it permissible to defeat a guest of seventy years of age who had just performed so blameless a feat? Equally impossible!

Endless deliberations. Schemes. Missions. And at last the solution, sealed by vows of strict secrecy, the opponents bound on their word of honour to arrive simultaneously at the goal.

‘Understand, Hackendahl, we can't do it otherwise. Don't embarrass us! Rein in Grasmus! Think of our ambassador … the French nation … there could be tensions which might harm diplomatic relations which have officially improved a little … Don't you see?'

Hackendahl understood. He gave his word of honour.

The other gave his word of honour too.

The Champ de Mars is roped off. In their thousands the spectators are kept in order by the police, including many students with their girlfriends. As the two competitors drive up in their ancient vehicles everybody breaks into a cheer. The one raises a black top hat, the other a white top hat. Then the two cabs draw up side by side. Hackendahl's opponent has a long-legged white horse. Betting favours Germany …

‘You remember what you promised?' Grundeis once more implores Hackendahl.

‘You should have talked ter Grasmus, Herr Grundeis. He's frisky. They give him so much to eat and he's hardly left his stable. I can barely hold him in.'

‘Don't let us down, Hackendahl, I beg of you.'

‘I'll do what I can, Herr Grundeis. You c'n depend on that.'

Both drivers are handed a glass of champagne. They wave to one another. Reaching over from their boxes, they shake hands. Grasmus sniffs his rival, not so much out of curiosity as out of greed – he would like to eat the other's garland. But the white horse flattens his ears and bares his long yellow teeth.

Cheers.

The starting shot rings out. ‘All right, off you go, Grasmus,' says Hackendahl, holding the reins tight, so that the chestnut shan't get away too quickly.

The Frenchman is also holding back his horse. Each driver keeps an eye on the other so as not to get in front, but equally so as not to be left behind; the race couldn't be slower.

Laughter and shouts, cries of encouragement …

I don't trust him, thinks Hackendahl, his eye glued on the Frenchman. Later on he'll sprint an' I'll win second place. Take it quietly.

The enemy thinks just the same and thus there ensues a competition in slow motion.

Cries … ‘Get on with it! Foul play! Put-up job!'

Grundeis, red in the face, appears beside the cab. ‘Get on, Hackendahl, you'll have to get a move on. Drive, man!'

‘I don't dare. Once Grasmus starts …'

‘Trot, just trot, Hackendahl, I beg you.'

‘There he goes!' A student has thrown his cap at the eyes of the white horse, which gives a surprising bound and then races forward at full speed.

‘Scoundrel!' cried Hackendahl. ‘Cheat!'

Grasmus now feels the whip. Hackendahl is standing up. ‘That's certainly not the bet we took. We Germans are damned if we'll let ourselves be beaten by you lot! Go on, Grasmus!'

Blow on blow, from Hackendahl, from the Frenchman. Forgotten is the plighted word. The drivers urge on their horses, the people urge on the drivers. ‘Come on, Hackendahl,' Grundeis shouts, ‘Germany to the fore.'

And his antagonist, the other contracting party to a word of honour, shouts furiously in Hackendahl's face: ‘Vive la France! En avant la France!'

‘Germany!'

‘France!'

‘Come on!'

‘Faster, Hackendahl. Give it him!'

How the old cabs jog and sway! With what courage they rush
along, the horses straining at their harnesses, the drivers standing up flourishing their whips! The chestnut gains ground, the white horse slackens …

‘Don't you see, you lying oaf!' shouted Hackendahl angrily.