“Good. It will fix you up. Now I must get on with my investigation of that Polish affair, and then a checkup on some Luftwaffe pilots—”
The Herr Doktor Schneidler, four hours later, sat alone in a train compartment, already miles out of Berlin. The countryside was green and pleasant outside the windows. Yet, for some reason, Schneider was not happy.
He lay back on the cushions, relaxing. Think about nothing. That was it. Let the precision tool of his mind rest for a while. Let his mind wander free. Listen to the somnolent rhythm of the wheels, clicketyclickety-CLICK!
CLICK!
CLICK a wife and CLlCKenteen children in STARVing condition with NOTHing but gingerbread LEFT-Schneider cursed thickly, jumped up, and yanked the cord. He was going back to Berlin. But not by train. Not in any conveyance that had wheels. Gott, no!
The Herr Doktor walked back to Berlin. At first he walked briskly. Then his face whitened, and he lagged. But the compelling rhythm continued. He went faster, trying to break step. For a while that worked. Not for long. His mind kept slipping his gears, and each time he’d find himself going LEFT-He started to run. His beard streaming, his eyes aglare, the Herr Doktor Schneider, great brain and all, went rushing madly back to Berlin, but he couldn’t outpace the silent voice that said, faster and faster, LEFT LEFT LEFTawifeandSEVenteenchildrenin STAR Vingcondition- “Why did that raid fail?” Witter asked.
The Luftwaffe pilot didn’t know. Everything had been planned, as usual, well in advance. Every possible contingency had been allowed for, and the raid certainly shouldn’t have failed. The R. A. F.
planes should have been taken by surprise. The Luftwaffe should have dropped their bombs on the targets and retreated across the Channel without difficulty.
“You had your shots before going up?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Kurtman, your bombardier, was killed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Inexcusably?”
There was a pause. Then—“Yes, sir.”
“He could have shot down that Hurricane that attacked you?”
“I… yes, sir.”
“Why did he fail?”
“He was… singing, sir.”
Witter leaned back in his chair. “He was singing. And I suppose he got so interested in the song that he forgot to fire.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then, why in the name of… of— Why didn’t you dodge that Hurricane?”
“I was singing, too, sir.”
The R. A. F. were coming over. The man at the antiaircraft whistled between his teeth and waited.
The moonlight would help. He settled himself in the padded seat and peered into the eyepiece. All was ready. Tonight there were at least some British ships that would go raiding no more.
It was a minor post in occupied France, and the man wasn’t especially important, except that he was a good marksman. He looked up, watching a little cloud luminous in the sky. He was reminded of a photographic negative. The British planes would be dark, unlike the cloud, until the searchlights caught them. Then-Ah, well. Left. Left. Left a wife and seventeen-They had sung that at the canteen last night, chanting it in chorus.
A catchy piece. When he got back to Berlin-if ever-he must remember the words. How did they go?
In starving condition-His thoughts ran on independently of the automatic rhythm in his brain. Was he dozing? Startled, he shook himself, and then realized that he was still alert. There was no danger.
The song kept him awake, rather than inducing slumber. It had a violent, exciting swing that got into a man’s blood with its LEFT LEFT LEFT a wife-However, he must remain alert. When the R. A. F.
bombers came over, he must do what he had to do. And they were coming now. Distantly he could hear the faint drone of -their motors, pulsing monotonously like the song, bombers for Germany, starving condition, with nothing but gingerbread LEFT!
LEFT LEFT a wife and SEVenteen children in STARVing condition with-Remember the bombers, your hand on the trigger, your eye to the eyepiece, with nothing but gingerbread LEFT!
LEFT LEFT a wife and-Bombers are coming, the British are coming, but don’t fire too quickly, just wait till they’re closer, and LEFT LEFT LEFT a wife and there are their motors, and there go the searchlights, and there they come over, in starving condition with nothing but gingerbread LEFT!
LEFT!
LEFT a wife and SEVenteen children in-They were gone. The bombers had passed over. He hadn’t fired at all. He’d forgotten!
They’d passed over. Not one was left. Nothing was left. Nothing but gingerbread LEFT!
The Minister of Propaganda looked at the report as though it might suddenly turn into Stalin and bite him. “No,” he said firmly. “No, Witter. If this is false, it is false. If it is true, we dare not admit it.”
“I don’t see why,” Witter argued. “It’s that song. I’ve been checking up for a long time, and it’s the only logical answer. The thing has swept the German-speaking world. Or it soon will.”
“And what harm can a song do?”
Witter tapped the report. “You read this. The troops breaking ranks and doing… what is it?…
snake dances! And singing that piece all the while.”
“Forbid them to sing it.” But the minister’s voice was dubious.
“Ja, but can they be forbidden to think it? They always think of what is verboten. They can’t help it.
It’s a basic human instinct.”
“That is what I mean when I said we couldn’t admit the menace of this-song, Witter. It mustn’t be made important to Germans. If they consider it merely as an absurd string of words, they’ll forget it.
Eventually,” the minister added.
“The Führer—”
“He must not know. He must not hear about this. He is a nervous type, Witter; you realize that. I hope he will not hear the song. But, even if he does, he must not realize that it is potentially dangerous.”
“Potentially?”
The minister gestured significantly. “Men have killed themselves because of that song. The scientist Schneidler was one. A nervous type. A manic-depressive type, in fact. He brooded over the fact that the ginger-that the phrases stuck in his mind. In a depressive mood, he swallowed poison. There have been others. Witter, between ourselves, this is extremely dangerous. Do you know why?”
“Because it’s-absurd?”
“Yes. There is a poem, perhaps you know it-life is real, life is earnest. Germany believes that. We are a logical race. We conquer through logic, because Nordics are the superrace. And if supermen discover that they cannot control their minds—”
Witter sighed. “It seems strange that a song should be so important.”
“There is no weapon against it. If we admit that it is dangerous, we double or triple its menace. At present, many people find it hard to concentrate. Some find rhythmic movements necessary-uncontrollable. Imagine what would happen if we forbade the people to think of the song.”
“Can’t we use psychology? Make it ridiculous-explain it away?”
“It is ridiculous already. It makes no pretense at being anything more than an absurd string of nearly meaningless words. And we can’t admit it has to be explained away. Also, I hear that some are finding treasonable meanings in it, which is the height of nonsense.”
“Oh? How?”
“Famine. The necessity for large families. Even desertion of the Nazi ideal. Er… even the ridiculous idea that gingerbread refers to—” The minister glanced up at the picture on the wall.
Witter looked startled, and, after a hesitant pause, laughed. “I never thought of that. Silly. What I always wondered was why they were starving when there was still plenty of gingerbread. Is it possible to be allergic to gingerbread?”
“I do not think so. The gingerbread may have been poisoned-a man who would desert his family might have cause to hate them, also. Perhaps hate them enough to-Captain Witter!”