Georg hides his face in his hand. “I dare not think of it even now.”
Oskar nods and lights a thin cigar. “But that was nothing compared to the other cemetery commandant,” he remarks contentedly. “He didn’t have any brass at all. Not even a major. Lieutenants, of course, in quantity. He was in despair. I had a well-balanced assortment but just to be obliging I finally traded him one of the majors I got for my lieutenant colonel in exchange for two captains and a full sergeant major. I had captains myself, but a full sergeant major was rare. You know those swine always sat way behind the front and almost never got killed; that’s why they were such beastly slave drivers—well, I took all three to be agreeable and because it gave me joy to have a full sergeant major who couldn’t shout at me.”
“Didn’t you have a general?” I ask.
Oskar raises his hands. “A general! A general killed in action is as rare as—” He searches for a comparison. “Are you beetle collectors?”
“No,” Georg and I reply in chorus.
“Too bad,” Oskar says. “Well, as the giant stag beetle, Lucanus Cervus, or, if you are butterfly collectors, as the death’s head moth. Otherwise, how could there be wars? Even my colonel died of a stroke. But this colonel—” Suddenly Weeping Oskar grins. It produces a strange effect; from so much weeping his face has acquired as many folds as a bloodhound’s and usually wears the same look of sad solemnity.
“Well, the other commandant naturally had to have a staff officer. He offered me anything I wanted, but my collection was complete; I even had my full sergeant major, to whom I had given a nice corner grave in a conspicuous spot. Finally I gave in—for three dozen bottles of the best vodka. I gave him my colonel, to be sure, not my lieutenant colonel. For thirty-six bottles! Hence, gentlemen, my present taste for vodka. Of course you can’t get it here.”
By way of compensation Oskar pours himself another glass of schnaps. “Why did you go to so much trouble?” Georg asks. “You had to transfer all the bodies. Why didn’t you simply put up a few crosses with fictitious names and let it go at that? You could even have had a lieutenant general.”
Oskar is shocked. “But, Herr Kroll!” he says in mild reproof. “How could we risk that? It would have been forgery. Perhaps even desecration of the dead—”
“It would only have been desecration if you had given a dead major some lower rank,” I say. “Not if you promoted a private to general for a day.”
“You could have put fictitious crosses on empty graves,” Georg adds. “Then it would not have been desecration of the dead at all.”
“It would still have been forgery. And it might have been discovered,” Oskar replies. “Perhaps through the grave-diggers. And what then? Besides—a false general?” He shudders. “His Majesty surely knew his generals.”
We let it rest at that. So does Oskar. “You know the funniest thing about the whole affair?” he asks.
We are silent. The question can only be rhetorical and requires no answer.
“On the day before the inspection the whole thing was called off. His Majesty did not come at all. We had planted a field of primroses and narcissuses.”
“Did you give back the corpses?” Georg asks.
“That would have been too much work. Besides the papers had been changed. And the families had been notified that their dead had been transferred. That often happened. Cemeteries came under fire and then everything had to be rearranged. The only one who was furious was the commandant who had given me the vodka. He and his chauffeur even tried to break in and get the cases back, but I had found an excellent hiding place. An empty grave.” Oskar yawns. “Yes, those were the days! I had several thousand graves under me. Today—” he takes a paper out of his pocket—”two medium-sized headstones with marble plaques, Herr Kroll, that, alas, is all.”
I am walking through the darkening gardens of the asylum. Isabelle was at devotion today for the first time in a long while. I am looking for her, but can’t find her. Instead, I run into Bodendiek, who smells of incense and cigars. “What are you at the moment?” he asks. “Atheist, Buddhist, skeptic, or already on the way back to God?”
“Everyone is constantly on the way to God,” I reply, weary of argument. “It just depends on what you mean by that.”
“Bravo,” Bodendiek says. “Wernicke is looking for you, I believe. What makes you fight so stubbornly about something as simple as faith?”
“Because there is more rejoicing in heaven over one fighting skeptic than over ninety and nine vicars who have been singing hosannas since childhood,” I reply.
Bodendiek looks pleased. I don’t want to get into a fight with him; I remember the kick in the bushes behind St. Mary’s. “When will I see you at confession?” he asks.
“Like the two sinners of St. Mary’s?”
That startles him. “So, you know about them? Well, no, not like that. You will come of your own free will! Don’t wait too long!”
I make no reply and we part cordially. As I walk toward Wernicke’s room falling leaves flutter through the air like bats. Everywhere there is the smell of earth and autumn. What has become of the summer? I think. It was hardly here!
Wernicke pushes a pile of papers aside. “Have you seen Fraulein Terhoven?” he asks.
“In church. Not since.”
He nods. “Don’t meet her any more for the time being.”
“Fine,” I say. “Any further orders?”
“Don’t be a fool! Those aren’t orders. I’m doing what I consider best for my patient.” He looks at me more closely. “You aren’t by any chance in love?”
“In love? With whom?”
“With Fräulein Terhoven, who else? She’s pretty, after all. Damn it, that’s a factor in the situation I hadn’t thought about.”
“Neither had I. And what situation?”
“Then it’s all right.” He laughs. “Besides, it wouldn’t have been bad for you at all.”
“Really?” I reply. “Up to now I had thought that only Bodendiek was God’s representative here. Now we have you as well. You know exactly what’s bad and what’s good, eh?”
Wernicke is silent for a moment. “So it really happened,” he says presently. “Well, what does it matter? Too bad I couldn’t have listened to you two! Those must have been fine mooncalf dialogues! Take a cigar. Have you noticed that it’s autumn?”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s something I can agree with you about.”
Wernicke offers me the cigar box. I take one just in order not to hear, if I refuse, that this is a further sign of being in love. I am suddenly so miserable I want to vomit. Nevertheless, I light the cigar.
“I owe you an explanation,” Wernicke says. “Her mother! She has been here twice. She finally broke down. Husband died early; mother pretty, young; friend of the family, with whom the daughter was obviously infatuated; mother and family friend careless, daughter jealous, surprises them, perhaps she has been observing them for some time—you understand?”
“No,” I say. All this is as repulsive to me as Wernicke’s stinking cigar.
“Well then, we’ve got that far,” Wernicke continues with gusto. “Daughter hates mother for it, revulsion complex, escapes through a splitting of personality—typical flight from reality and recourse to a dream life. Mother then marries the family friend, which brings the whole thing to a crisis—understand now?”