since his family hadn’t moved there till after the war, they wouldn’t question Anton about the past. When the trolley swerved into the Hout, he caught sight for a minute of the former Ortskommandantur. The trench and barbed wire had disappeared; there was nothing left but a dilapidated abandoned hotel, its windows nailed shut. The garage (a restaurant before the War) was now in ruins. Probably his friend had no idea what kind of establishment this had once been.
“So you came after all,” he said as he opened the door.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Never mind. Did you have trouble finding it?”
“Not really.”
In the garden behind the house a long table stood under the tall trees. It held potato salad and other delicacies, bottles, stacks of plates, silver. On another table were the presents, to which Anton added his book. The guests stood and sat about the lawn. After he had been introduced to everyone, he joined the slightly inebriated group that he knew from Amsterdam. Holding their glasses of beer in front of their chests, they formed a circle by the edge of thewater. Like Anton, they wore blazers that hung loose on their boyish frames. The leader of the group was his friend’s older brother, a dentistry student in Utrecht, who wore a huge, shapeless black shoe on his right foot.
He was holding forth: “The fact is, you’re all softies; that’s natural. All you’ve got on your minds, except for jerking off, of course, is how to avoid the draft.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Gerrit Jan. They obviously don’t want you, with that paw of yours.”
“Well, I’ll tell you something else, you jerk. If you had one ounce of guts, you’d not only join the army, but volunteer to go to Korea. None of you have any idea what’s going on over there. The barbarians are storming the gates of Christian civilization.” He wagged his index finger at them. “Compared to them, the Fascists were mere boys. Just read Koestler.”
“Why don’t you go yourself? Kick in their brains with that ridiculous shoe of yours, Quasimodo.”
“Touché!” Gerrit Jan laughed.
“Korea is getting to be just like the University of Amsterdam,” commented another. “A haven for misfits.”
“Gentlemen,” said Gerrit Jan, raising his glass, “let’s drink to the downfall of Red Fascism, at home and abroad.”
“I do keep thinking I should have joined,” said a boy who hadn’t picked up the drift of the conversation. “But apparently there are lots of former SS-ers in the army. I heard that if they enlist, they get off scot-free.”
“So what? There’s more in it than that for the SS-ers. In Korea they can really get ahead.”
Get ahead, thought Anton. Really get ahead. Between two boys he peered at the opposite shore of the pond, at the peaceful lanes where people bicycled and someone was taking a dog out. Villas were there, too. Somewhat beyond them, though not visible from here, was the nursery school where he used to stand in line at the central kitchen. A bitfarther and toward the left, behind the vacant lots, was the place where it had all happened. He shouldn’t have come; he should never have returned to Haarlem. He should have buried all that, the way one buries the dead.
“A certain dreamer is peering into the distance,” said Gerrit Jan, and when Anton looked up at him, “Yes, you, Steenwijk. Well, what’s your opinion?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are we going to face up to the Communists, or are we going to pussyfoot around them?”
“I’ve had my share,” said Anton.
At that moment someone started a record on the veranda: “Thanks for the memory …” He smiled at the coincidence, but when he saw that the others hadn’t noticed, shrugged briefly and walked away from them. The music blended with the dappled shade below the trees and somehow stirred up his memories. He was in Haarlem. It was a warm autumn day, perhaps the last one of the year, and he was once more in Haarlem. This
“So you came after all,” he said as he opened the door.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Never mind. Did you have trouble finding it?”
“Not really.”
In the garden behind the house a long table stood under the tall trees. It held potato salad and other delicacies, bottles, stacks of plates, silver. On another table were the presents, to which Anton added his book. The guests stood and sat about the lawn. After he had been introduced to everyone, he joined the slightly inebriated group that he knew from Amsterdam. Holding their glasses of beer in front of their chests, they formed a circle by the edge of thewater. Like Anton, they wore blazers that hung loose on their boyish frames. The leader of the group was his friend’s older brother, a dentistry student in Utrecht, who wore a huge, shapeless black shoe on his right foot.
He was holding forth: “The fact is, you’re all softies; that’s natural. All you’ve got on your minds, except for jerking off, of course, is how to avoid the draft.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Gerrit Jan. They obviously don’t want you, with that paw of yours.”
“Well, I’ll tell you something else, you jerk. If you had one ounce of guts, you’d not only join the army, but volunteer to go to Korea. None of you have any idea what’s going on over there. The barbarians are storming the gates of Christian civilization.” He wagged his index finger at them. “Compared to them, the Fascists were mere boys. Just read Koestler.”
“Why don’t you go yourself? Kick in their brains with that ridiculous shoe of yours, Quasimodo.”
“Touché!” Gerrit Jan laughed.
“Korea is getting to be just like the University of Amsterdam,” commented another. “A haven for misfits.”
“Gentlemen,” said Gerrit Jan, raising his glass, “let’s drink to the downfall of Red Fascism, at home and abroad.”
“I do keep thinking I should have joined,” said a boy who hadn’t picked up the drift of the conversation. “But apparently there are lots of former SS-ers in the army. I heard that if they enlist, they get off scot-free.”
“So what? There’s more in it than that for the SS-ers. In Korea they can really get ahead.”
Get ahead, thought Anton. Really get ahead. Between two boys he peered at the opposite shore of the pond, at the peaceful lanes where people bicycled and someone was taking a dog out. Villas were there, too. Somewhat beyond them, though not visible from here, was the nursery school where he used to stand in line at the central kitchen. A bitfarther and toward the left, behind the vacant lots, was the place where it had all happened. He shouldn’t have come; he should never have returned to Haarlem. He should have buried all that, the way one buries the dead.
“A certain dreamer is peering into the distance,” said Gerrit Jan, and when Anton looked up at him, “Yes, you, Steenwijk. Well, what’s your opinion?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are we going to face up to the Communists, or are we going to pussyfoot around them?”
“I’ve had my share,” said Anton.
At that moment someone started a record on the veranda: “Thanks for the memory …” He smiled at the coincidence, but when he saw that the others hadn’t noticed, shrugged briefly and walked away from them. The music blended with the dappled shade below the trees and somehow stirred up his memories. He was in Haarlem. It was a warm autumn day, perhaps the last one of the year, and he was once more in Haarlem. This
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