Read Online Guilt by Ferdinand von Schirach - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ferdinand von Schirach
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man, but he didn’t care. He had nothing to lose. It was a good business arrangement, and he’d never cooked anyway. He drew on his cigarette and looked up at the sky: not a cloud to be seen; it would get even hotter before evening.
——
He first heard the policemen when they broke down the door. It all went fast, and there was no point in fighting back. He was thrown to the floor, fell over the kitchen stool, and broke two ribs. Then they yelled that he was to tell them where the Arabs were. Because they were so loud, he said nothing. And also because his ribs hurt. He kept silent later in front of the examining magistrate too—he had been in prison too often, and he knew it was too early to talk. They wouldn’t let him go now if he did.
The old man lay on his bed, cell number 178, C block, in the prison where detainees await trial. He heard the key and knew he had to say something to the female guard now, or nod, or move a foot; otherwise she wouldn’t leave. She came every morning at 6:15; it was called “life check.” They were looking to see if any of the prisoners had died in the night or killed themselves. The old man said everything was in order. The guard would also have collected his mail, but he had no one he could write to, and she no longer asked. When he was alone again, he turned to the wall. He stared at the bright yellow oil paint; the lower two-thirds of the walls were painted with it, then there was a white stripe. The floors were light gray. Everything here looked the same.
As soon as he woke up, he had thought about the fact that today was their wedding anniversary. And now he thought again about the man who was sleeping with his wife. His wife.
It had all started with the undershirt. He rememberedthe summer evening twenty-two years ago when he found it under the bed. It was lying there all crumpled up and somehow dirty. It wasn’t his undershirt, although that was what his wife kept saying. He’d known it belonged to the other man. After that nothing was the same. In the end he used it to clean his shoes, but that didn’t change things either, and at a certain point he’d had to move out or else he’d have fallen apart. His wife cried. He didn’t take anything with him; he left the money and the car and even the watch she’d given him. He quit his job. It was a good one, but he couldn’t keep going there; he couldn’t bear it any longer. He got drunk every evening, silently and systematically. At a certain point it became a habit, and he sank into a world of schnapps, petty crime, and social security. He didn’t want anything else. He was just waiting for the end.
But today was different. The woman who wanted to talk to him was called Jana, plus a last name that had too many letters in it. They told him there had been a mix-up, she had applied for a visitor’s permit. She didn’t need his permission for that. So he went to the visitors’ room at the appointed time and sat down with her at the table which was covered with green plastic. The officer who was supervising the conversation sat in the corner and tried not to disturb them.
She looked at him. He knew he was ugly. His nose and his chin had been growing towards each other for years until they almost formed a semicircle, his hair was almost all gone, and his stubble was gray. She looked at him anyway.She looked at him in a way no one had looked at him for years. He scratched his neck. Then she said in a strong Polish accent that he had beautiful hands, and he knew she was lying, but it was okay that she said it. She was beautiful. Like the Madonna in the village church, he thought. As a boy he had always stared at her during Mass and imagined that God was inside her stomach, and that it was a riddle how he’d managed to get in there. Jana was in her seventh month; everything about her was round and radiant and full of life. She leaned over the table and touched his sunken cheek with her fingertips. He stared at her
——
He first heard the policemen when they broke down the door. It all went fast, and there was no point in fighting back. He was thrown to the floor, fell over the kitchen stool, and broke two ribs. Then they yelled that he was to tell them where the Arabs were. Because they were so loud, he said nothing. And also because his ribs hurt. He kept silent later in front of the examining magistrate too—he had been in prison too often, and he knew it was too early to talk. They wouldn’t let him go now if he did.
The old man lay on his bed, cell number 178, C block, in the prison where detainees await trial. He heard the key and knew he had to say something to the female guard now, or nod, or move a foot; otherwise she wouldn’t leave. She came every morning at 6:15; it was called “life check.” They were looking to see if any of the prisoners had died in the night or killed themselves. The old man said everything was in order. The guard would also have collected his mail, but he had no one he could write to, and she no longer asked. When he was alone again, he turned to the wall. He stared at the bright yellow oil paint; the lower two-thirds of the walls were painted with it, then there was a white stripe. The floors were light gray. Everything here looked the same.
As soon as he woke up, he had thought about the fact that today was their wedding anniversary. And now he thought again about the man who was sleeping with his wife. His wife.
It had all started with the undershirt. He rememberedthe summer evening twenty-two years ago when he found it under the bed. It was lying there all crumpled up and somehow dirty. It wasn’t his undershirt, although that was what his wife kept saying. He’d known it belonged to the other man. After that nothing was the same. In the end he used it to clean his shoes, but that didn’t change things either, and at a certain point he’d had to move out or else he’d have fallen apart. His wife cried. He didn’t take anything with him; he left the money and the car and even the watch she’d given him. He quit his job. It was a good one, but he couldn’t keep going there; he couldn’t bear it any longer. He got drunk every evening, silently and systematically. At a certain point it became a habit, and he sank into a world of schnapps, petty crime, and social security. He didn’t want anything else. He was just waiting for the end.
But today was different. The woman who wanted to talk to him was called Jana, plus a last name that had too many letters in it. They told him there had been a mix-up, she had applied for a visitor’s permit. She didn’t need his permission for that. So he went to the visitors’ room at the appointed time and sat down with her at the table which was covered with green plastic. The officer who was supervising the conversation sat in the corner and tried not to disturb them.
She looked at him. He knew he was ugly. His nose and his chin had been growing towards each other for years until they almost formed a semicircle, his hair was almost all gone, and his stubble was gray. She looked at him anyway.She looked at him in a way no one had looked at him for years. He scratched his neck. Then she said in a strong Polish accent that he had beautiful hands, and he knew she was lying, but it was okay that she said it. She was beautiful. Like the Madonna in the village church, he thought. As a boy he had always stared at her during Mass and imagined that God was inside her stomach, and that it was a riddle how he’d managed to get in there. Jana was in her seventh month; everything about her was round and radiant and full of life. She leaned over the table and touched his sunken cheek with her fingertips. He stared at her
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