Kaputt (30 page)

A few days earlier, on Good Friday, I had been with de Foxá in a Beli Ostrov trench before Leningrad. About five hundred yards away, behind the barbed-wire entanglements, behind the twin lines of Soviet trenches and casemates, two Russian soldiers were openly walking through the snow, along the edge of a wood, carrying a pine log on their shoulders. They walked in step swinging their arms with a certain air of defiance. They were tall Siberians, with their large gray Astrakhan fur caps on their heads, sand-colored coats that reached the heels of their boots, and rifles slung over their shoulders. They seemed to be magnified into giants by the dazzling reflection of the snow struck by the sun. Colonel Lukander turned to de Foxá and said, "Would you like, Minister, to have a couple of shells fired at those two men?" De Foxá, clumsily wrapped in a white ski costume, gazed at Colonel Lukander from beneath the peak of his hood. "It's Good Friday," he replied. "Why should I on this particular day burden my conscience with those two men? If you really wish to please me, don't open fire." Colonel Lukander looked very surprised. "We are here to wage war," he said. "You are right," replied de Foxá, "but I am a mere tourist." His tone, as well as his gestures were unusually brusque and they made me wonder. His face was extremely pale and large drops of sweat stood out on his brow. What made him shudder was not the thought that those two men would be offered up as a sacrifice in his honor, but the thought that they would be killed on Good Friday.

Colonel Lukander, not fully understanding de Foxá's emotional French, or else intending to honor him, or else mistaking his refusal for a conventional gesture of politeness, gave orders to fire a couple of shells at the two Russian soldiers. The shells burst a few steps away without hurting them. When de Foxá saw the two Soviet soldiers resuming their march without dropping the pine log and swinging their arms as if nothing had happened he smiled, and sighing with relief said in a regretful tone: "Pity that it is Good Friday! I would have gladly seen those two fine fellows blown to pieces." Then with his arm stretched out over the parapet, he pointed at the huge dome of Saint Isaac's Orthodox cathedral in Leningrad that seemed to swing above the gray roofs of the besieged city and added: "Look at that dome, how very Catholic it is, isn't it?"

Facing the ironical and smiling Westmann with his lean, light features, sat the fleshy and florid de Foxá with his full red face, resembling the Catholic devil who, in the
autos-saciamentales,
sits on the steps of the church before the silver-garbed angel. His witty impishness was occasionally weighted down with something sensuous, maybe by that persistent assertion of pride that hinders and often restrains spontaneous reactions, deep urges, and a free and easy play of the intellect in the Latins and particularly in the Spaniards. I discerned a teasing suspicion in de Foxá, a fear of revealing himself, of stripping bare some secret part of himself, of exposing himself, of being vulnerable to a sudden wound. I listened in silence. The ghostly reflection of the snow, where the pink fire of the candlelight faded away, and the cold glow of the glass, the china and the silver endowed the words, the smiles and the glances with something peremptory and abstract, with a feeling that a trap was always set and always evaded.

"The workers are not Christians," said de Foxá.

"Why not? They, too, are
naturalister
Christians," replied Westmann.

"Tertullian's definition is not applicable to the Marxists," said de Foxá, "and workers are
naturalister
Marxists. They do not believe in Heaven or Hell."

Westmann stared at de Foxá with eyes full of mischief: "And what about you? Do you believe in them?" he asked.

"Not I," replied de Foxá.

Suddenly, there appeared on the table a large chocolate cake, a large monk-like cake, round like a wheel, ornamented with a flowery embroidery of sugar and pistachios, so green and springlike against chocolate, the color of a monk's habit. De Foxá began to talk of Don Juan, Lope de Vega, Cervantes, of Calderon de la Barca, Goya, Federico Garcia Llorca. Westmann spoke of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, the sweets they make, their embroideries, their prayers in French in that honeyed French, rather old-fashioned in tone, that is a direct descendant of the
Princesse de Cleves
rather than of Pascal. "Of the
Liaisons dangereuses
," de Foxá added, "rather than Lamennais." De Foxá spoke of the younger generation in Spain,- of their sporting interests, their Catholicism, their religious fervor,- of the Blessed Virgin, the saints and of sport and of their Christian ideal—not the ideal of St. Louis with a lily, nor of St. Ignatius with a stick, but of a young syndicalist or communist worker from the Madrid or Barcelona suburbs in a cyclist's or a football player's sweater. He told us that during the Civil War in Spain, the football players were mostly Reds, and the bull-fight fans were Francoists almost to a man. The spectators of the
corridas
were Fascists; those of the soccer matches all Marxist.

"As a good Catholic and a good Spaniard," said de Foxá, "I am ready to accept Marx and Lenin if, instead of having to share their theological, social and political views, I may worship them as saints."

"Nothing prevents you from worshipping them as saints," countered Westmann, "you certainly would kneel before the King of Spain. Why shouldn't one be a communist by divine right?"

"That's precisely the idea behind Franco's Spain," replied de Foxá laughing.

The night was well advanced when we rose from the table. While we sat in the deep leather armchairs in the library in front of the large windows overlooking the harbor, we followed the flight of the seagulls around the ships gripped by a floor of ice. The reflection of the snow struck against the windowpanes with the cold and soft wing of a sea bird. I watched Westmann as he moved lightly and noiselessly in that ghostly light, like a transparent shadow. His eyes were of an extremely light blue, like the white glass eyes of ancient statues; his silvery hair outlined his forehead like the frame on a Byzantine icon. His nose was straight and thin, his lips narrow, pale and rather weary, his hands small with long slender fingers, burnished by a life-long contact with the leather of reins and saddles, with the coats of thoroughbred horses and dogs, with precious materials and china, with pitchers of old Baltic
tenn,
with Lillehammer and Dunhill pipes. What horizons of white snow, deserted water and limitless forests are in these blue eyes of a man of the North! What serene boredom in that clear, almost white gaze—the noble and ancient boredom of the modern world, already aware of its death! What loneliness on that pale brow!

There was something transparent about him. His hands, caressing the bottles of Port and whisky and the clear crystal glasses, seemed to melt into the air, they appeared so light and fleeting in the ghostly reflection of the snow. He was like a shadow, a gentle ghost flitting through the room. His fingers followed gently the curves of the furniture, of glasses, bottles and backs of leather armchairs. The scent of Port and whisky mingled with the warm aroma of English tobacco, with the old weary smell of leather and with the lean smell of the sea.

Suddenly there came from the square a panting and mournful voice. We stepped out on the porch. At first the square seemed deserted to us. The frozen plain of the sea was stretched out before us. Through the diaphanous whiteness of the snow were vaguely outlined the islet with the Yacht Club, the other islands, and further away, the Suomenlinna fortress, stiffly gripped by the icy edge of the horizon. The eyes rested with a feeling of repose on Observatory Hill and on the trees in Brunnsparken, their leafless branches covered with a glistening shell of snow. The harsh moan that came from the square became a smothered howl, a cry of pain in which the stag's moan gradually turned into the neighing of a dying horse. "Ah, cursed
culebra!"
exclaimed de Foxá with superstitious terror. But by degrees, as our eyes grew accustomed to the dazzling reflection of the snow, we made out, or we thought we made out, a dark blot on the wharf in the port, a vague shape that, at our appearance, sent forth a piercing scream that subsided into a panting silence.

It was an elk. A superb animal with huge antlers rising like bare branches of a tree in winter from its broad, round forehead covered with short, thick reddish hair. Its eyes were large and dark; moist, deep eyes in which something glistened—the glitter of tears. It was wounded. It had broken a thigh, probably in falling into a crevice in the marble floor that covered the sea. Perhaps it had wandered from Esthonia, across the desert of ice of the Gulf of Finland, or from the Aaland Islands, or perhaps from the shores of the Gulf of Bothnia or from Karelia. Attracted by the odor of houses and by the warm odor of man it had dragged itself as far as the wharf of the harbor. Now, it was lying panting in the snow and gazing at us with its deep, moist eyes.

When we went near it, the elk tried to rise, but it fell back on its knees with a moan. It was as large as a huge horse; its eyes were tame and mild. Sniffing the air as if it recognized a familiar scent, it dragged itself over the snow across the square toward the palace of the President of the republic, went through the open gate of the parade ground, and stretched itself out at the bottom of the steps, between the two motionless sentries who stood with their large steel helmets and their rifles held at attention on either side of the door.

The President of the Finnish republic, Ristu Ryti, was certainly asleep at that hour. A president of a republic sleeps far more lightly than a king, and President Ristu Ryti, awakened by the moans of the wounded elk, wanted to know what that unusual and peculiar noise was. Soon afterward Colonel Slörn, the President's senior aide-de-camp, appeared on the threshold of the palace.

"Good evening, Minister," said Colonel Slörn, surprised at seeing Westmann, the Minister of Sweden.

Then he recognized Count de Foxá, the Minister of Spain. "Good evening, Minister," said Colonel Slörn, more than ever surprised.

Then he saw me. "You too?" he asked looking at me with amazement. Turning to Westmann he added, "I trust this is not an official call?" and he hastened to go and warn the President of the republic that the Ministers of Sweden and Spain along with a wounded elk were at the gate of the palace. "Along with a wounded elk? What can they possibly want of me?" asked President Ristu Ryti with great surprise. It was one o'clock in the morning. But in Finland the care of animals is not only a moral obligation fulfilled by an entire people in a generous spirit, it is a law of the land; very soon President Ristu Ryti, wrapped in a heavy wolf coat and with a high fur cap on his head appeared on the threshold. He greeted us cordially; then he approached the wounded elk, bent over to examine its broken leg and began talking to it in a low voice, stroking its neck with his gloved hand.

"I bet you," said de Foxá to me, "that the President's gloves are made of dog skin."

"Why don't you ask him?"

"Right you are," replied de Foxá, and going up to the President of the republic, he made a slight bow and said, "May I ask whether your gloves are dog skin?"

President Ristu Ryti, who speaks no French, looked at him with surprise and embarrassment and silently appealed to his aide-de-camp for assistance who, just as surprised and embarrassed, softly translated for him the odd question asked by the Minister of Spain. The President of the republic seemed amazed and pretended he had not understood. Perhaps he could not fully grasp what the Spanish Minister wanted to know and was trying to understand the real meaning of the strange question, as well as detect any secret political significance it might have.

While President Ristu Ryti knelt on the snow by the side of the elk and looked with embarrassment at de Foxá, now and then glancing at his gloves, there chanced to drive through the square on their way to Brunnsparken, the Helsinki diplomatic quarter, the Minister of Brazil, Paulo de Souzas Dantas, the Secretary of the Danish Legation, Count Adam de Meltke-Huitfeldt and the Secretary to the Vichy France Legation, Pierre d'Huart. One by one, the entire diplomatic corps gathered round the wounded elk and the President of the republic. The line of cars was continuously growing longer. The unusual sight of a large group of people and of the cars with diplomatic licenses standing in the middle of the night in front of the palace of the President of the republic attracted the attention of the foreign diplomats who were crossing the square on their way to Brunnsparken. They stopped, alighted from their cars and joined the group of people whom they greeted in voices full of curiosity and uneasiness.

While Colonel Slörn was calling a veterinary colonel at the cavalry barracks, the group was joined by the Minister of Romania, Noti Constantinidu with one of the secretaries of the Legation, Titu Michailescu,- the Minister of Croatia, Ferdinand Bosnjakovi with a secretary to the Legation, Marijan Andrasevic and the Minister of Germany, Wipert von Blücher.

"Ah, those Blüchers!" said de Foxá softly. "They are always on time." Then turning to the German Minister, he said, "Good evening" and raised his arm in the Hitler salute that is also the salute of the Spanish Falange.

"What is this? You, too, are lifting your paw?" asked the Secretary to the Vichy French Legation, Pierre d'Huart in a low voice.

"Don't you think it is better to raise one hand, than to have to raise both?" de Foxá asked him with a smile.

Pierre d'Huart gracefully acknowledged the thrust and replied, "I'm not surprised. Once upon a time men worked with their hands, and greeted one another with their hats,- now, they greet with their hands, and work with their hats—
on travaille du chapeau,"
he said in French.

De Foxá laughed and replied: "Well said, d'Huart! I bow before your wit." Then he turned to me and asked me in a low voice: "What the devil does
travailler du chapeau
mean?"

"It means that you have a bee in your bonnet," I replied.

"One can never finish learning the French language," said de Foxá.