Read Online The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll by Heinrich Böll - Free Book Online
Authors: Heinrich Böll
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feeling to hear the sameold song, coming closer and closer, in the same old sluggish silence of that godforsaken hole.
“There it comes again,” was her invariable comment, “that crappy war.”
And together we would watch the company, the first lieutenant, the sergeants, the corporals, the privates, all marching past the frosted-glass windowpane looking tired and dispirited; we would stand watching the company through the pattern of flowers. Between the roses and tulips were whole strips of clear glass, and you could see the lot of them, row after row, face after face, all sullen and hungry and apathetic.…
She knew nearly every one of them personally, in fact she knew them all. Even the teetotalers and the woman-haters, for it was the only decent tavern in the place, and even the most rabid ascetic sometimes has an urge to follow up a bowl of hot bad soup with a glass of lemonade, or in the evening possibly even a glass of wine, when he finds himself trapped in a godforsaken hole consisting of thirty-seven grimy houses and two rundown châteaux, a godforsaken hole that seems about to sink into the mud and to disintegrate in sloth and boredom.…
But our company wasn’t the only one she knew; she knew all the first companies of all the battalions of the regiment, for, according to some intricately devised plan, after a certain length of time every first company of every battalion was sent back to this dreary place for a six-week period of “rest and recuperation.”
During our second period of rest and recuperation, which we spent in drill and boredom, she was starting to deteriorate. She was losing her self-respect. She usually slept now till eleven, served beer and lemonade at noon in her dressing gown, closed up the place again in the afternoon, because, with the company out drilling, the village was as empty as a drained cesspool—and didn’t open up again till around seven in the evening, after dozing away the afternoon. She had also stopped bothering about her income. She would lend money to anyone, have a drink with anyone, let her massive body be persuaded to dance, bawling out the songs and finally, with the approaching sound of taps, giving way to paroxysms of sobbing.
On our second arrival in the village I immediately reported sick. I had chosen a disease that made it imperative for the medic to allow me to go to Amiens or Paris to consult a specialist. I was in a pretty goodmood as I knocked on her door around ten-thirty. There was not a sound in the village, the empty streets were deep in mud. Then came the familiar shuffling of her slippers, the rustle of the curtain, and Renée’s muttered exclamation: “Oh, it’s you.” A smile flitted across her face. “Oh, it’s you!” she repeated as the door opened, “You fellows back again?”
“That’s right,” I said, throwing my cap onto a chair and following her. “Bring me the best in the house, will you?”
“The best in the house?” she asked, looking somewhat at a loss.
She wiped her fingers on her smock. “I’m sorry, I’ve been peeling potatoes.” She held out her hand; it was still small and firm, a pretty hand. I sat down on a bar stool after bolting the door from the inside.
She was standing rather undecidedly behind the bar.
“The best in the house?” she asked, at a loss.
“Yes,” I said, “and make it snappy.”
“Hm,” she muttered, “but it’s a scandalous price.”
“Who cares, I’ve got money.”
“All right,” she said, wiping her hands again. The tip of her tongue appeared between her bloodless lips, a token of her painful dilemma.
“D’you mind if I bring my potatoes in here to peel?”
“Of course not,” I replied. “Get a move on, and have a drink with me.”
When she had vanished beyond that narrow, scratched brown door to the kitchen, I looked round the room. Nothing had changed since last year. Over the bar hung the photograph of her alleged husband, a handsome marine with a black
“There it comes again,” was her invariable comment, “that crappy war.”
And together we would watch the company, the first lieutenant, the sergeants, the corporals, the privates, all marching past the frosted-glass windowpane looking tired and dispirited; we would stand watching the company through the pattern of flowers. Between the roses and tulips were whole strips of clear glass, and you could see the lot of them, row after row, face after face, all sullen and hungry and apathetic.…
She knew nearly every one of them personally, in fact she knew them all. Even the teetotalers and the woman-haters, for it was the only decent tavern in the place, and even the most rabid ascetic sometimes has an urge to follow up a bowl of hot bad soup with a glass of lemonade, or in the evening possibly even a glass of wine, when he finds himself trapped in a godforsaken hole consisting of thirty-seven grimy houses and two rundown châteaux, a godforsaken hole that seems about to sink into the mud and to disintegrate in sloth and boredom.…
But our company wasn’t the only one she knew; she knew all the first companies of all the battalions of the regiment, for, according to some intricately devised plan, after a certain length of time every first company of every battalion was sent back to this dreary place for a six-week period of “rest and recuperation.”
During our second period of rest and recuperation, which we spent in drill and boredom, she was starting to deteriorate. She was losing her self-respect. She usually slept now till eleven, served beer and lemonade at noon in her dressing gown, closed up the place again in the afternoon, because, with the company out drilling, the village was as empty as a drained cesspool—and didn’t open up again till around seven in the evening, after dozing away the afternoon. She had also stopped bothering about her income. She would lend money to anyone, have a drink with anyone, let her massive body be persuaded to dance, bawling out the songs and finally, with the approaching sound of taps, giving way to paroxysms of sobbing.
On our second arrival in the village I immediately reported sick. I had chosen a disease that made it imperative for the medic to allow me to go to Amiens or Paris to consult a specialist. I was in a pretty goodmood as I knocked on her door around ten-thirty. There was not a sound in the village, the empty streets were deep in mud. Then came the familiar shuffling of her slippers, the rustle of the curtain, and Renée’s muttered exclamation: “Oh, it’s you.” A smile flitted across her face. “Oh, it’s you!” she repeated as the door opened, “You fellows back again?”
“That’s right,” I said, throwing my cap onto a chair and following her. “Bring me the best in the house, will you?”
“The best in the house?” she asked, looking somewhat at a loss.
She wiped her fingers on her smock. “I’m sorry, I’ve been peeling potatoes.” She held out her hand; it was still small and firm, a pretty hand. I sat down on a bar stool after bolting the door from the inside.
She was standing rather undecidedly behind the bar.
“The best in the house?” she asked, at a loss.
“Yes,” I said, “and make it snappy.”
“Hm,” she muttered, “but it’s a scandalous price.”
“Who cares, I’ve got money.”
“All right,” she said, wiping her hands again. The tip of her tongue appeared between her bloodless lips, a token of her painful dilemma.
“D’you mind if I bring my potatoes in here to peel?”
“Of course not,” I replied. “Get a move on, and have a drink with me.”
When she had vanished beyond that narrow, scratched brown door to the kitchen, I looked round the room. Nothing had changed since last year. Over the bar hung the photograph of her alleged husband, a handsome marine with a black
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