Brodeck Read online

  On Monday morning, I attended Nösel’s lecture in the Hall of Medals. I’ve never figured out the reason for that name. It was a low-ceilinged, completely undecorated room whose waxed walls reflected our blurred images. The topic of that day’s class was the rhythmic structure of the first part of Kant’z Theus, the great national poem that’s been passed down from generation to generation for nearly a thousand years. Nösel was speaking without looking at us. I believe he spoke mostly to himself when he lectured, carrying on an odd conversation for solo voice without much concern for our presence and even less for our opinions. As he expounded passionately upon pentasyllables and hexameters, he applied cream to his hair and mustache, filled his pipe, methodically scratched at the various food particles on his jacket lapels, and cleaned his fingernails with a pocketknife. Barely ten of us were paying attention to him; most of the others were dozing or examining the cracks in the ceiling. Nösel stood up, went to the blackboard, and wrote two verses that are still in my memory because the old language of the poem resembles our dialect in so many ways:

  Stu pekart in dei mümerie gesachetet

  Komm de Nebe un de Osterne vohin

  They shall arrive in a murmur

  And shall disappear into fog and earth

  At that moment, the door of the lecture room opened violently and slammed against the wall, making an enormous, reverberating noise. We all snapped our heads around and saw bug-eyed faces, gesticulating arms, and mouths screaming at us: “Everybody outside! Everybody outside! Vengeance for Ruppach! The traitors will pay!” There weren’t more than four or five individuals in the doorway, no doubt students—their features seemed vaguely familiar—but we heard behind them the murmur of a considerable crowd, pushing and supporting those in the front line. Then they disappeared as suddenly as they had come, leaving the door open like the hole in a stone sink, and almost all the students in the room, who a few seconds earlier had been sitting around me, were sucked out through that hole as though by some imperious physical force. There was a great racket of overturned chairs and benches, shouts, insults, cries, and then, suddenly, nothing. The wave had rolled on and was now getting farther and farther away, carrying off brutality to spread it throughout the city.

  There were only five of us left in the Hall of Medals: Fritz Schoeffel, an obese fellow with very short arms, who couldn’t climb three steps without gasping for air; Julius Kakenegg, who never spoke to anyone at all and always breathed through a perfumed handkerchief; Barthéleo Mietza, who was deaf as a post; me; and, of course, Nösel himself, who’d observed the entire scene with one hand raised, still holding the chalk. He shrugged his shoulders and went on with the class as if nothing had happened.

  XXVI

  ————

  spent the rest of that strange day inside the walls of the University. I felt protected there. I didn’t want to leave. I heard horrible sounds coming from outside, followed by great silences which dragged on and on, giving rise to uneasiness as intense as what was caused by the noise. I stayed in the library the whole afternoon. I knew Amelia was safe at her place, the furnished room she shared with another embroiderer named Gudrun Osterick, a ruddy-faced young woman with hair like sheep’s wool. The previous evening, I’d promised them I wouldn’t venture out.

  I don’t remember much about the book I was trying to read during those bizarre hours in the library. It was the work of a physician, Doctor Klaus Reinhold Maria Messner, on the propagation of the plague across the centuries. The book contained tables, charts, and figures, as well as striking illustrations that contrasted with the scientific detachment of the inquiry, for they illuminated it with a sort of macabre and precious romanticism. One of the illustrations that I found particularly unsettling showed a narrow, poor city street. Uneven paving stones constituted the roadway, and the doors of all the houses were wide open. Dozens of big, black, hirsute rats ran grimacing from the houses while three men dressed in long, dark robes, their heads hidden by peaked hoods, piled stiff corpses onto the bed of a handcart. In the distance, plumes of smoke streaked the horizon, while in the foreground, as if he wished to escape from the picture, a child in rags sat on the ground with his face in his hands. Curiously, none of the three men paid any attention to him, already considering him as good as dead. The only creature contemplating him was a rat. Standing on its rear legs, it seemed to be addressing a malicious, ironic question to the child’s hidden face. I stared at the picture for a long time, wondering what its engraver’s real purpose had been and why Doctor Messner had wanted it reproduced in his book.

  Around four o’clock, the daylight suddenly grew dim. Snow clouds had filled the sky, and they began dumping their load on the city. I opened one of the library’s windows. Big flakes immediately struck my cheeks and melted. I saw silhouettes coming and going in the streets, walking at a normal pace; the city seemed to have regained its ordinary appearance. I collected my jacket and left the University. At that moment, I didn’t know that I would never set foot in it again.

  To return to my room, I had to cross Salzwach Square, go down Sibelius-Vo-Recht Avenue, traverse the Kolesh quarter—the oldest part of the city, a maze of narrow streets lined by innumerable storefronts—skirt Wilhem Park, and walk past the lugubrious buildings that housed the thermal baths. I stepped ahead briskly, not raising my head too much. I passed many shadows that were doing the same thing and then a group of men who seemed rather drunk, talking very loud and laughing a lot.

  In Salzwach Square and on Sibelius-Vo-Recht Avenue the snow was already sticking to the ground, and the pedestrians left black tracks as they moved along, scurrying like insects. Looking at those places, one could have believed that nothing had happened, that the city had experienced an ordinary Monday, and that the untimely emptiness of the streets was due to nothing more than the cold, the bad weather, and the night itself, which had fallen a little too early.

  But to realize that none of that was true, one had only to enter the labyrinth of the Kolesh quarter. What I noticed first was a sound. The sound of glass, of the broken glass I was treading on. I was on a narrow street littered with broken glass, and glinting shards, here and there half buried by snow, covered the ground as far as my eyes could see. I couldn’t stop myself from imagining that someone had scattered precious stones by the handful all over the Kolesh quarter. The thought gave the little street a new dimension, sparkling, marvelous, magical, like the setting of a fairy tale; my task was to find the plot and the princess. But that first vision vanished at once when my eyes focused on the shop windows gaping like the jaws of dead animals, the looted interiors of the stores, the smashed barrels spilling out marinated herrings, dried meats, gherkins, and wine, the befouled stalls, the strewn merchandise. The sounds of groans and weeping mingled with the crunch of footsteps on the glass carpet. I couldn’t tell where the human sounds were coming from, as there wasn’t a living creature in sight. By contrast, three corpses, their heads grotesquely swollen and bruised from the blows they’d been struck, were stretched out in front of a tailor’s shop. Stuck on the door, which was hanging from the frame by its single remaining hinge, was a piece of paper with the words SCHMUTZ FREMDËR, “dirty foreigner” (but the word Fremdër is ambiguous, as it can also mean “traitor,” or in a more colloquial usage, “scumbag,” “filth”), crudely lettered in red paint. The paint had run on many of the letters, which looked as though they were dripping blood. Rolls of cloth had been piled up anyhow and an attempt made to set them on fire. Some shards of glass were still attached to the window jambs, forming a star with incredibly slender, fragile rays.

  That inscription, SCHMUTZ FREMDËR, was visible in many places, usually accompanied by another, RACHE FÜR RUPPACH, “Revenge for Ruppach.” My mind’s eye kept returning to the three corpses. Dizziness overcame me, and the vision of those dead bodies made confused images return to my memory, images of other corpses sprawled out like puppets, with no trace of humanity left in their features. I became again the little boy wh
o wandered amid the ruins, abandoned among the debris and the rubble, surrounded by small fires, and not knowing whether he was the plaything of an unending nightmare or a victim of the times, which had decided to toy with him like a cat with a mouse. At the same time as those fragments of my past life arose before me, I could also see every detail of the engraving in Doctor Messner’s volume—the plumes of smoke, the countless rats, the child, the robed men, the heap of corpses—and it was as though I were staring at the awful spectacle in the narrow street, the memories of my childhood, and the details of the illustration in Doctor Messner’s book, all superimposed on one another and triply horrible. I staggered and almost fell, but I heard someone calling me; I heard a voice calling me, a weak, broken voice, a voice like the thousands of glass shards on the ground.

  The caller was an old man, crouched in a doorway a little farther on. He was painfully thin, and his long white beard tugged his face downward, making it look still thinner. He trembled as he stretched out an arm toward me. I hurried to his side, and while he kept repeating the same words—“Madmen. Madmen. They’ve gone mad. Madmen”—in the old language that was Fedorine’s native tongue, I tried to set him on his feet.

  “Where do you live?” I asked him. “Do you live on this street?”

  His eyes connected with mine for a few seconds, but he didn’t seem to understand my questions and took up his litany again. His clothes were ripped in many places; his right hand was covered with blood and appeared useless. I put my arms around his waist to lift him, but I’d barely managed to prop him against the door when voices erupted behind us.

  “They’re still moving! They’re taunting us! They’re on their feet, and our Ruppach’s dead!”

  Three men were coming toward us. They carried long billy clubs, and I could make out two intertwined letters, W R, on the black armbands they wore on their left sleeves. They were talking loud and guffawing. Insofar as I could see them—the visors of their caps cast a shadow over their features—one face looked familiar to me, but fear gripped me and my thoughts became confused. At first glance, I thought they might be drunk—and yet they didn’t smell of alcohol. Anger and hatred suffice to scramble human brains more thoroughly than brandy can. Alas, I was able to verify this observation on several later occasions, in the camp.

  The old man kept up his droning. In fact, I think he hadn’t even noticed the presence of the other three. One of them placed the end of his stick against the old fellow’s chest and said, “You will repeat after me: ‘I’m a Fremdër, a worthless piece of shit!’ Now! Say it!”

  But the old man neither heard nor saw him. I said, “I don’t think he understands you. He’s hurt—”

  The words had sprung unbidden to my lips, and I already regretted them. The stick moved to my chest.

  “Did you say something? Did you dare to say something? Who are you, with that nasty mug? You stink like a Fremdër, too!” And he struck me a blow on the side that knocked the wind out of me. At that moment, one of his comrades, the one who reminded me of someone, intervened and said, “No, I know him. His name’s Brodeck.”

  He brought his face quite close to mine, and suddenly I recognized him. He was a third-year student who, like me, frequented the library. I didn’t know his name, but I remembered that he often consulted volumes of astronomy and spent a lot of time contemplating star charts.

  “Brodeck, Brodeck,” the one who seemed to be the leader repeated. “A real Fremdër name! And look at this faggot’s nose! The nose is what gives them away! And their big eyes, popping out of their heads, so they can see everything, so they can take everything!” He kept shoving his stick into my ribs, the way you do to a balky animal.

  “Felix, leave him alone! The old guy’s the one we want. He’s one of them, for sure, the old bastard, and that’s his shop over there, I know it! He’s a real crook! He gets rich off giving credit!”

  The third member of the group, who hadn’t spoken yet, made himself heard: “He’s mine! It’s my turn! You’ve already bashed two apiece!”

  He’d stayed in the shadows so far, but now he came rushing up and I could see him. I could see that he was a boy, a child, in fact, maybe thirteen years old, hardly more. He had fresh, delicate skin, his teeth gleamed in the night, and he was smiling like a lunatic.

  “Well, look here, tiny Ulrich wants to join the party! But you’re too tender, little brother. The milk’s still running out of your ears!”

  The old man seemed to have fallen asleep. His eyes were closed. He’d stopped talking. The boy gave his older brother a furious push, prodded me to one side with the end of his club, and stationed himself in front of the feeble mass crouched on the ground. A great silence fell. The night had become as thick as mud. A gust of wind swept through the narrow street, kicking up a bit of snow. Nobody moved. I must be dreaming, I thought, or maybe I’m on the stage at the little Stüpispiel Theater, which put on a great many grotesque and sometimes atrocious spectacles that made no sense whatsoever and always ended in farce—but suddenly the boy went into action. He raised his club above his head and brought it down on the old man with a scream. The victim didn’t cry out, but he opened his eyes wide and began trembling as if he’d been flung into an icy river. The child dealt him a second blow, on the forehead, then a third, on a shoulder, then a fourth and a fifth … He didn’t stop, and he laughed as he swung his club. His comrades encouraged him, clapping their hands and chanting “Oy! Oy! Oy! Oy!” to give him the rhythm. The old man’s skull split open with a sharp sound like a hazelnut cracked between two stones. The child kept on striking, harder and harder, still laughing like a madman, but gradually, even though his blows didn’t cease raining down and he continued to laugh as he looked upon what was left of his victim and his comrades were still clapping time, his blood-spattered face changed. The horror of what he’d just done seemed to penetrate his veins, spread out to his limbs, his muscles, his nerves, invade his brain, and wash away all its foulness. His blows slowed and then stopped. Horrified, he contemplated his club, which was covered with blood and fragments of bone, and his hands, as if they didn’t belong to him. Then his eyes returned to the old man, whose face was now unrecognizable, the closed eyelids appallingly swollen, each as big as an apple.

  The child dropped his club abruptly, as if it were burning his palm. He was seized by a sudden spasm and vomited a quantity of yellow liquid in two heaves; then he ran away, and the night absorbed him into its belly while his two comrades laughed uproariously. The leader, his brother, shouted after him: “Good work, little Ulrich! The old guy got what he deserved! Now you’re a man!”

  He prodded the old man’s corpse with one foot, turned around, and casually walked away, arm in arm with his comrade, whistling a little love song that was quite popular at the time.

  I hadn’t moved. It was the first time I’d witnessed a murder. I felt empty. Empty of all thought. And my mouth was full of the bitterest bile. I couldn’t take my eyes off the old man’s body. His blood mingled with the snow. As soon as the big flakes touched the ground, they were tinged with red, like notched petals of an unknown flower. Once again, the sound of footsteps made me jump. Someone was approaching. I thought they’d decided to come back and kill me, too.

  “Get the hell out, Brodeck!”

  It was the voice of the student, the one who spent hours gazing at constellations and galaxies reproduced in large books with giant pages. I raised my eyes to him. He was looking at me without hatred but with a kind of contempt. He spoke calmly. “Get the hell out! I won’t always be there to save you.”

  Then he spat on the ground, turned, and walked away.

  XXVII

  ————

  he following day, rumor put the number of corpses recovered from the streets at sixty-seven. It was said that the police had made no effort to prevent criminal activity even when it was in their power to do so. A new demonstration was scheduled to take place that very afternoon. The city was on the verge of going up in flames.
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  I rose at dawn after a sleepless night, during which my memory constantly recalled the faces of the murderous child and his aged victim; and I heard again the boy’s shouting, the old man’s droning, the dull thumping sound of the blows, and the sharper crack of breaking bones. I made a bundle of my few belongings, returned my room key to the landlady, Fra Haiternitz, who accepted them without a word, and whose only response to my few words of farewell was a sort of contemptuous, rotten-toothed smile. She was browning some onions and bacon in a skillet. Her cubbyhole was filled with greasy smoke that stung my eyes. She hung the key on a nail and acted as though I no longer existed.

  I walked the streets quickly. There were few people about. Many areas still showed signs of the previous night’s vandalism. Some men with frightened faces were talking among themselves, brusquely snapping their heads around at the slightest noise. The doors of several buildings were painted with the inscription SCHMUTZ FREMDËR, and in many places the roadway was still covered with a glass carpet which crunched under my feet and made me shiver.

  In case I failed to find Ulli Rätte in his room, I’d written him a good-bye letter, but the precaution was unnecessary. He was there, but he’d gotten so drunk he’d fallen asleep with all his clothes on. He was still holding a half-full bottle in his hand, and he stank of tobacco, sweat, and cheap grain alcohol. The right sleeve of his jacket was torn and marked with a large stain. It was blood. I thought my friend might be wounded, but when I bared his arm I could see that he was unharmed. Suddenly I felt very cold. I didn’t want to think. I forced myself to stop thinking. Ulli slept on, openmouthed and snoring. Loudly. I slipped my letter of farewell into his shirt pocket and left the room.

  I never saw Ulli Rätte again.

  Why did I just write that sentence, which isn’t the whole truth? I did see Ulli Rätte—or rather, I’m pretty certain I saw him—once again. In the camp. On the other side. I mean, he was on the side of those who guarded us, not on our side, the side of suffering and submission.