I snatched the book from the table and deposited it on the umbrella stand as I left. From behind the closed door I could hear her calling for me to hurry and get back, not to linger on the corner.
I rushed down the stairs as if her breath were chasing me from the house, filling it with contamination. Some of the village services had fallen off and I could see bits of paper lying in the gutter. In the Camp there was no such litter problem. Any scraps of paper were quickly snatched up by the prisoners and dropped into their watery gray soup to give it bulk.
The butcher, Kreisler, was a large, big-boned man, vain of his huge black handlebar mustache, which curled upward on either side of his mouth. He looked at me from behind the counter. “So, Peter, what for you?”
“Veal,” I said, and handed him the note and the money.
He quickly read the note, and I could see a little smile playing on his lips. When he had finished, he placed the note in his apron pouch and retrieved two choice cutlets. He held them up for me to see. “How about these two?”
“Fine.”
He wrapped the veal quickly and handed it to me with the change. “Tell me, Peter,” he said, “how is your mother?”
“Fine,” I said indifferently.
Kreisler gave me a penetrating stare. “Is she seeing anyone?”
I could not believe his words. “Seeing anyone?”
“Is she going out, I mean. That sort of thing. With a man, my boy. Surely you’re old enough to understand.”
I could not imagine such a thing. “She certainly is not,” I said.
Kreisler scratched his face, then rolled one point of his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s been a long time since your father’s death,” he said. “It’s not good for a strong woman to live alone.”
So that was it. Kreisler had his eye on my mother. I could imagine them rolling like two pink pigs in the grimy disarray of my mother’s bed. And what was that note? Suddenly it took on a hideous aspect. Had I been reduced to the role of go-between for these two creatures? “My mother does not intend to remarry,” I announced.
Kreisler grinned. “Who said anything about marriage, Peter?” There was nothing but insult in his eyes.
“Well, then, she does not intend to see anyone,” I said haughtily.
Kreisler winked as if he knew better. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
Kreisler’s little smile broadened. “We’ll see about that, my boy.”
In my short life I had never felt such outrage. I snapped the package under my arm and marched toward the door.
“What are you, a little Red?” Kreisler called loudly after me. “You don’t believe in marriage?”
So he did have marriage on his mind, marriage to my mother. I spun around to face him, but my tongue seemed to draw back in my mouth. He was big, after all, and the huge mustache gave his face a terrible malevolence. I turned around and stepped out onto the street.
Anna, a fellow student for whom I longed, was standing quietly in front of the confectionary across the way. She wore a dark blue coat with large white buttons, and a long braid of blonde hair hung over each shoulder. A cast on her arm reached from her wrist to just above her elbow. I felt my stomach squeeze together. That such a beautiful girl could be damaged seemed monstrous at that moment. I wanted to heal her miraculously in an instant. Years later Ginzburg sat in his striped suit, glanced at the medical bag on my bunk, and asked if I had ever used the instruments in it to mend a wound.
I walked over to Anna. “What happened to you?”
“I broke my arm,” she said. She smiled. “It’ll be well soon, though.”
“How did it happen?”
Anna glanced down the street. A band was playing marching tunes in the distance.
“How did you hurt your arm?” I asked again.
“In gym class. I was doing a tumble and missed the mat. My arm twisted as I fell. I don’t know how it happened exactly.” She looked at the cast. “Isn’t it silly?”
“I hope it doesn’t hurt too much.”
Anna waved her other hand dismissingly. “No. Not much at all.” She lifted the cast slightly. “It’s just a nuisance, that’s all.”
I lifted my package. “I just came from the butcher.” Kreisler’s face rose in my mind and I felt something stiffen in my neck.
Anna nodded. “Yes, I saw you in the shop. What did you get?”
“Veal cutlets,” I said. I wanted to ask her to come home for dinner, but I knew that to her perfect eyes my mother would appear as a bedraggled old Grendel heaving scorched strudel into her plate.
“We have veal on Thursdays,” Anna said, peering down the street again.
“Are you waiting for someone?” I asked. I pictured him tall and powerfully built, her mighty Lohengrin.
“Only the parade,” Anna said lightly. She smiled. “Do you like parades?”
“Very much,” I said with relief. It was a lie — one of my first. For I did not like parades at all and was even mildly offended by their noisiness and dazzle.
“They have wonderful parades during Oktoberfest,” Anna said happily. She tossed one of her braids lightly over her shoulder. “I see as many as I can.”
“So do I. You know, I would love to play in a large orchestra someday.”
Anna’s eyes brightened. “An orchestra! How wonderful. Do you play any instrument?”
“The piano,” I said, then felt myself grow horrified at the thought she might ask to hear me play. “Only slightly,” I added.
“Do you practice much?”
“As much as I can.”
“Do you like to practice?”
“Yes,” I said, “Someday I’d like to play the organ in a great cathedral.”
Anna raised herself on tiptoe and looked down the street. The band music was growing closer. “I prefer the piano,” she said. “The organ is too loud.”
“Yes, that’s true,” I said quickly. The smell of the veal wafted up into my face, churning my stomach. “Well, I’d better get home now.”
Anna turned toward me. “Aren’t you going to stay for the parade?”
“My mother is waiting,” I told her, lifting the package. “For dinner.”
“But you must stay, Peter,” Anna said excitedly. “It’s no fun to watch parades alone.”
I felt as though the sun had suddenly broken upon my face. “You really want me to?”
“Oh, yes. Please, Peter. Just stay for the parade. It’s almost here!”
I turned and saw the band marching briskly toward us, the drum beating loudly, the horns echoing over the brick street, the flutes filling the air with their happy tones.
“It’s a fine band,” I said.
“A wonderful band,” Anna said. She bobbed lightly on her feet.
I returned my eyes to the street. Several pedestrians had stopped to watch the parade move by. Some of them lifted their arms and held them rigidly at an angle above their heads.
I laughed. “What are they doing?”
“Saluting the flag,” Anna said matter-of-factly.
I looked at the banner, which was held high by the booted mascot of the band. It showed a design of broken black lines on a field of red.
“That’s not our flag,” I said.
“It’s my father’s flag,” Anna said. Her eyes held firmly to the marchers in the street.
“But that’s not our national flag,” I said.
“My father doesn’t salute the national flag any longer,” Anna said. “He salutes this one.”
The banner bobbed left and right as the mascot thrust his legs stiffly out, coming closer to us with each step.
“Quick,” Anna said, “help me salute.”
I looked at her. “What?”
“The cast,” Anna said, “it’s hard for me to hold my arm up. Help me lift it.”
For a moment I did not move. The idea of touching Anna was so delicious that it frightened me, but I also hesitated because the gesture itself, the outstretched arm and stiffly pointing fingers, seemed ridiculous.