“Oh, Herbert, no,” said Christine. “Everything about her … the hat … the shell necklace … everything … the hair. She could not be anything but what she is.”
“I agree,” said Herbert. “German. Now, little Bert,” he went on, “do you see the train which is just arriving? It will take us to Pegnitz. Once there we are almost home. Pegnitz is a junction. Trains go through every few minutes, in all directions. In most directions,” he corrected.
Now that their transport was here a number of those who had been grumbling at the delay suddenly decided that they did not want this train after all; they would wait for the regular service, or hire taxis, or send telegrams asking their relatives to come and pick them up in cars. Finally, after a certain amount of elbowing and jostling, only the hungry woman, the cultural group going to the opera, the Norwegian, some German soldiers with hair like pirate wigs, the pregnant American girl, and little Bert’s party climbed aboard. This train was neat, swept, cool; the first-class carriage was not crowded and had plastic-leather seats. The opera party immediately spread out and filled three compartments. The hungry woman, caught up in the platoon of soldiers, disappeared, swept on to second class. But she could not have been far away: The arrangement was we each got fifty percent of the estate under a separate property agreement. He never thought I would survive him. All his plans were for how he would dispose of my fifty percent once I had passed on. His fifty percent was to be for himself and half of mine for him, and half for the little movie star Shirley Bimbo. He never never thought I’d be there after him. I had this diabetes, pneumonia three times, around the change of life I got nervous and lost all my hair, had to do the cooking wearing a turban. Later I got a women’s complaint, had the works out, better to get it over with. No wonder he never thought I could survive him. He left his fifty percent to the little lamb of God, Carol Ann. What the dumb bastard didn’t know was that I would get my half plus sixty-seven percent of his half because we were married in Muggendorf under a completely different set of laws and we never took the citizenship. So think that over in your grave, Josef Schneider! He turned out to have more than anyone knew. There were the savings, the property, some home appliances, the TV and that — but what he had salted away besides was nobody’s business. It’s invested over here now. Safer.
This time they shared their compartment with the American girl, who buried her pretty nose in her magazines. There was nothing else for her to do; she could not understand what they were saying. The missing traveller drew nearer. He asked to be cremated and the ashes brought to Muggendorf and buried. He left eight hundred dollars just for somebody to tend the plot. I signed a promise to look after the grave; the money’s being held. If I keep the grave looking good for five years running I get the eight hundred dollars. Only one year to go. Always had said he wanted his ashes scattered on the trout stream at Muggendorf. Must have changed his mind. Just as well. Might be a fine for doing it. Pollution. She saw them, perhaps had been looking for them and came in and sat down. As Herbert had said, it was as good as being home.
A woman we knew had this happen — her husband said he wanted his ashes flung to the winds from a dune by the North Sea. No planes in those days, had to take the ashes over by boat. Went up to Holstein, would climb on a dune, change her mind. Hated to part with poor Jobst. Noticed more and more barbed wire along the dunes, didn’t know why. Never read the papers, had got out of the habit in the USA. Dreamed that Jobst appeared and said the world would experience a terrible catastrophe if she didn’t scatter his ashes. Went back to the beach as near as she could to the sea, flung one handful east, one south, one west, was about to turn north when somebody grabbed her arm, two men with revolvers, the conflict had begun, they thought she was making signs to submarines.
They arrived at Pegnitz at dusk. Everyone began to shuffle along the corridor, peering out at the station they had been told was a junction. The train seemed becalmed in an infinity of tracks meeting, merging, and sliding away. Little Bert said to his sponge, “There are cows, one black, one brown, one dappled.” But of course no cows were to be seen in the yard, only lights flashing and signal stations like sentry boxes. The woman sorted out the food she had left — biscuits, chocolates, grapes, oranges, macaroons, portions of cheese in thin silver paper — and placed everything in one clean plastic bag which she unfolded out of her purse, and on which was printed
CANARY BED
WARM, HYGIENIC, AGREEABLE
Above these words was the drawing of a canary tucked up in sheets and blankets for the night. Shirley Bimbo, Shirley Bimbo, she was telling herself.
All of them got to their feet too soon, as people do when they are tired of travelling. The train seemed to coast slowly and endlessly along a long platform. Christine stood between the Norwegian and little Bert, who put his nose on the window, making it white and button-shaped. When he glanced up at her he had two round patches of dirt, one on his forehead.
“Again,” exclaimed the Norwegian.
“What?”
He did not mean little Bert. He was glaring at a detachment of conscripts lounging and sitting slumped on their luggage, yelling at one another and laughing foolishly. Christine said, “They are only farmers’ sons who have been drafted, you know. Poor lads who have never studied anything. Boys like that must exist everywhere, even where you come from.” But then she remembered how kind he had been to little Bert, and how generous about singing. She tried to agree with him: “I must say, they aren’t attractive. They do seem to be little and ugly.” She paused. “It’s not their fault.”
“They always looked that way,” said the Norwegian. “They were always very little and very ugly, but they frightened us.”
Christine had none of Herbert’s amiable ambiguities. She said sadly, “We don’t even know each other’s names.”
He pinched his nostrils and did a few seconds’ puffing without making a reply. The important part of the journey had ended, as far as he was concerned, because he had finally said what he thought.
Yet it isn’t over, she said to herself. She saw threads, crystals, flying horizontally like driven snow, and she caught as clear as the summer night a new tone on a different channeclass="underline" Dear Ken sorry I haven’t written sooner but you know how it is Dear Ken sorry I haven’t written sooner but you know how it is
“Now, be ready,” called Herbert over his shoulder. He had seen their new train standing empty on the far side of the tracks. “Christine? Little Bert?” Little Bert clasped his sponge and was ready. Herbert opened a door on which was written “Do Not Open” and helped the other two down. But after making a run for it they found the carriages were dark and the doors locked, and that a sign hanging upside down said “Coburg-Pegnitz,” which was more or less where they had come from. “You must never do this, little Bert,” said Herbert.
“Never do what?”
“Open the wrong door and cross the tracks. You could be killed or arrested.”
They made their way to the platform by lawful means, through an underpass. The station was crammed with passengers who had been turned out of a number of rerouted trains, shouting, arguing, complaining, and asking questions. The American girl stood gazing up at “Pegnitz” as if she could not believe what she saw. She seemed fragile and lonely.
“Help her,” said Christine. “She doesn’t understand. Herbert, you can speak English.”