Read Online The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll by Heinrich Böll - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Heinrich Böll
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slurping and sucking you hear when people think there’s silence. That’s when the dunghill is working, dunghills work all the time, and that’s exactly the sound they make. Listen!” She gripped my arm tightly again, gazing at me intently, imploringly, out of those bleary, swollen eyes.…
But I refilled my glass and said: “I see what you mean,” and although I knew just what she meant and could also hear that curious, seemingly illogical sound of bubbling silence, I wasn’t scared the way she was; I felt protected, although it was pretty depressing to be sitting here in this lousy hole, in this lousy war, drinking cherry brandy with a panicky tavernkeeper at eleven in the morning.
“Ssh,” she said now, “Listen.” Far away I could hear the rhythmic, monotonous singing of the company on its way back to the village.
But she put her hands over her ears.
“No,” she cried, “not that! That’s worse than anything. Every morning at the same minute that dreary singing, it’s driving me crazy.”
“Prost,” I said with a laugh, filling my glass. “Snap out of it!”
“No,” she cried again, “that’s why I want to leave, it’s killing me!”
She kept her hands over her ears while I smiled at her, went on drinking, and followed the singing as it came closer and closer, and it was true, it did sound ominous in the silence of the village. Now the tramp of boots was clearly audible, the barking voices of the corporals in the intervals between singing, and the shouting of the lieutenant who always mustered enough courage and strength to call out: “Come on, men, give us another song!”
“I can’t take it any more,” whispered Renée, on the verge of tears from sheer exhaustion and still doggedly holding her hands over her ears, “it’s killing me, lying like this on the dunghill and listening to them singing.…”
This time I stood alone by the window as they marched past, row after row, face after face, hungry and tired, an almost exalted grimness in their faces, yet still apathetic and sullen and somewhere in their eyes a spark of fear.…
“Come on,” I said to Renée, when the last of them had marched by and the singing had died away. I took her hands away from her ears. “Don’t be so silly.”
“No,” she said obstinately, “I’m not silly, I’m quitting, I’m going to open a movie house somewhere, in Dieppe or Abbeville.”
“And how about us, what’s going to happen to us?”
“My niece is coming here,” she said, looking at me, “a pretty young thing, she’ll brighten up the place, I’ve made up my mind to hand it over to my niece.”
“When?” I asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow?” I asked.
“Don’t worry,” she laughed, “I tell you, she’s young and pretty. Look!” She took a photo out of the drawer, but the girl in the picture didn’t appeal to me at all; she was young and pretty, but cold, and she had the self-same patriotic mouth as the man whose picture hung over the counter with his lifebelt.…
“Prost,” I said sadly, “tomorrow, then.”
“Prost,” she said, filling her own glass too.
The bottle was empty, and I felt as if I were rocking on the bar stool like a ship on the high seas, and yet my mind was clear.
“How much,” I said.
“Three hundred,” she said.
But as I was pulling out the bills she made a sudden gesture, saying, “No, don’t, for old times’ sake. You’re the only one I cared for at all. Spend it all when my niece comes, if you feel like it. Tomorrow.”
“Good-by,” and she waved to me, and as I went out I saw her dipping her glasses into the chrome sink to rinse them, and I knew that the niece would never have such pretty hands, such small firm hands, as hers, for hands and mouth are almost the same, and it would be terrible if she had patriotic hands.…
CHILDREN ARE CIVILIANS TOO
“No, you can’t,” said the sentry gruffly.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because it’s against the
But I refilled my glass and said: “I see what you mean,” and although I knew just what she meant and could also hear that curious, seemingly illogical sound of bubbling silence, I wasn’t scared the way she was; I felt protected, although it was pretty depressing to be sitting here in this lousy hole, in this lousy war, drinking cherry brandy with a panicky tavernkeeper at eleven in the morning.
“Ssh,” she said now, “Listen.” Far away I could hear the rhythmic, monotonous singing of the company on its way back to the village.
But she put her hands over her ears.
“No,” she cried, “not that! That’s worse than anything. Every morning at the same minute that dreary singing, it’s driving me crazy.”
“Prost,” I said with a laugh, filling my glass. “Snap out of it!”
“No,” she cried again, “that’s why I want to leave, it’s killing me!”
She kept her hands over her ears while I smiled at her, went on drinking, and followed the singing as it came closer and closer, and it was true, it did sound ominous in the silence of the village. Now the tramp of boots was clearly audible, the barking voices of the corporals in the intervals between singing, and the shouting of the lieutenant who always mustered enough courage and strength to call out: “Come on, men, give us another song!”
“I can’t take it any more,” whispered Renée, on the verge of tears from sheer exhaustion and still doggedly holding her hands over her ears, “it’s killing me, lying like this on the dunghill and listening to them singing.…”
This time I stood alone by the window as they marched past, row after row, face after face, hungry and tired, an almost exalted grimness in their faces, yet still apathetic and sullen and somewhere in their eyes a spark of fear.…
“Come on,” I said to Renée, when the last of them had marched by and the singing had died away. I took her hands away from her ears. “Don’t be so silly.”
“No,” she said obstinately, “I’m not silly, I’m quitting, I’m going to open a movie house somewhere, in Dieppe or Abbeville.”
“And how about us, what’s going to happen to us?”
“My niece is coming here,” she said, looking at me, “a pretty young thing, she’ll brighten up the place, I’ve made up my mind to hand it over to my niece.”
“When?” I asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow?” I asked.
“Don’t worry,” she laughed, “I tell you, she’s young and pretty. Look!” She took a photo out of the drawer, but the girl in the picture didn’t appeal to me at all; she was young and pretty, but cold, and she had the self-same patriotic mouth as the man whose picture hung over the counter with his lifebelt.…
“Prost,” I said sadly, “tomorrow, then.”
“Prost,” she said, filling her own glass too.
The bottle was empty, and I felt as if I were rocking on the bar stool like a ship on the high seas, and yet my mind was clear.
“How much,” I said.
“Three hundred,” she said.
But as I was pulling out the bills she made a sudden gesture, saying, “No, don’t, for old times’ sake. You’re the only one I cared for at all. Spend it all when my niece comes, if you feel like it. Tomorrow.”
“Good-by,” and she waved to me, and as I went out I saw her dipping her glasses into the chrome sink to rinse them, and I knew that the niece would never have such pretty hands, such small firm hands, as hers, for hands and mouth are almost the same, and it would be terrible if she had patriotic hands.…
CHILDREN ARE CIVILIANS TOO
“No, you can’t,” said the sentry gruffly.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because it’s against the
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