Spark of Life (17 page)

THE NEXT AIR RAID
came two days later. The sirens began howling at eight in the evening. Shortly afterwards the first bombs fell. They fell fast like a shower; and the explosions sounded only slightly louder than the firing of the flak. Only toward the end came the blockbusters.

The Mellern newspaper building was on fire. The machines were melting. The rolls of paper crackled into the black sky and the building slowly collapsed.

A hundred thousand marks, thought Neubauer. There go a hundred thousand marks belonging to me. A hundred thousand marks. I never knew that so much money could burn so easily. Those swine! Had I known it, I’d have bought shares in a mining concern. But mines burn, too. They are also bombed. No longer safe, either. They say the Ruhr district is devastated. What is still safe?

His uniform was gray with paper soot. His eyes were red from smoke and tears. The cigar store opposite, which had also belonged to him, was a ruin. Yesterday still a gold mine, today an ash heap. Another thirty thousand marks. Maybe even forty. One could lose
a lot of money in one evening. The Party? Each one of them thought only of himself. The insurance? Would go bankrupt if it had to pay out for all that has been destroyed tonight. Besides, he had insured everything too low. Economy in the wrong place. Anyway, it was unlikely that bomb damage would be acknowledged. After the war the great compensation would begin, so it had always been said; after the victory the enemy would have to pay for everything. That was a likely story! A long time one would have to wait for that. And now it was too late to start something new. What for, anyhow? What would be on fire tomorrow?

He stared at the black cracked walls of the store. Five thousand Deutsche Wacht cigars had burned with it. Oh, well. Didn’t make any difference. But what had been the good of denouncing Storm Leader Freiberg at that time? Duty? Nonsense! There was his duty burning. Burning to cinders. In all, a hundred and thirty thousand marks. One more fire like that, a few bombs into Max Blank’s office building, a few on his garden and on his own house—that could happen tomorrow—and back he’d be where he had started. Or not even that! Older! Worse off! For—soundlessly something suddenly came over him which had always been lurking somewhere in the corners, banished, driven away, not allowed to break through as long as his own property had remained untouched—the doubt, the fear which until now had been kept in check by a stronger counterfear—suddenly now they were breaking out of their cages and staring at him, they sat in the ruins of the cigar store, they rode on the walls of the newspaper building, they grinned at him and their claws pointed threateningly into the future. Neubauer’s fat red neck grew wet, he stepped uncertainly back and for an instant saw nothing and knew it and yet didn’t want to admit it to himself: that the war could no longer be won.

“No!” he said aloud. “No, no—there must still—the Führer—a miracle—in spite of everything—of course—”

He looked round. No one was there. Not even anyone to put out the fire.

Selma Neubauer at last grew silent. Her face was swollen, the French silk dressing gown was covered with tearstains and her fat hands trembled.

“They won’t come again tonight,” said Neubauer without conviction. “The whole town’s already on fire. What else could they bomb?”

“Your house, your office building. Your garden. They’re still standing, aren’t they?”

Neubauer conquered his anger and the sudden fear that it could happen. “Nonsense! They won’t come specially for that!”

“Other houses. Other shops. Other factories. There are still enough standing.”

“Selma—”

She interrupted him. “You can say what you like! I’m coming up.” Her face flushed. “I’m coming up to you in the camp, even if I have to stay with the prisoners! I’m not going to remain here in the town! In this rattrap! I don’t want to die! You don’t care, of course, as long as you’re safe. Well out of harm’s way! As usual! We can stew in our own juice! You were always like this!”

Neubauer looked at her, offended. “I was never like this. And you know it! Look at your clothes! Your shoes! Your dressing gowns! Everything from Paris! Who got them for you? I! Your lace! The best stuff from Belgium! I bought them for you. Your fur coat! The fur rug! I had them sent to you from Warsaw. Look at your stock in the cellar! Your house! I’ve taken good care of you.”

“You forgot one thing. A coffin. You can still hurry and buy it now. By tomorrow morning coffins won’t be cheap. There are
scarcely any left in Germany. But up there in your camp you could have one made! After all, you have enough people for that.”

“So? That’s your gratitude! The gratitude for all the chances I’ve taken. That’s the gratitude I get.”

Selma didn’t listen to Neubauer. “I don’t want to burn! I don’t want to be ripped to pieces.” She turned to her daughter. “Freya, you have been listening to your father! Your own father! All we ask is to sleep up there in his house at night. Nothing else. To save our lives. He refuses. The Party. What’s Dietz going to say? What’s Dietz saying about the bombs? Why doesn’t the Party do something about it? The Party—”

“Quiet, Selma!”

“
Quiet, Selma!
Here that, Freya?
Quiet! Stand still! Die quietly! Quiet, Selma
—that’s all he knows.”

“Fifty thousand people are in the same position,” said Neubauer warily. “All of them—”

“Fifty thousand people don’t concern me. Fifty thousand people don’t give a damn if I die. Save your statistics for Party speeches.”

“My God—”

“God? Where’s God? You people have driven Him out. Don’t mention God to me—”

Why don’t I give her a box on the ear? thought Neubauer. Why am I suddenly so tired? I should give her one! Show authority! Energy! A hundred and thirty thousand marks gone! And this screaming woman! Take the situation in hand! Yes! Save! What? Save what? Where to?

He sat down in an armchair. He wasn’t aware that it was an exquisite 18th century Gobelin
fauteuil
from the house of the Comtesse Lambert—for him it was simply a chair that looked rich. That’s why he had bought it several years ago with a few other pieces of furniture from a major returning from Paris.

“Bring me a bottle of beer, Freya.”

“Bring him a bottle of champagne, Freya! He should drink it before it goes up in the air. Pop, pop, pop! Let the corks shoot into the air! Victories must be celebrated!”

“Lay off, Selma—”

His daughter went into the kitchen. The woman raised herself. “Well—yes or no? Are we coming up to you tonight or not?”

Neubauer looked at his boots. They were covered with ashes. A hundred and thirty thousand marks’ worth of ashes. “There’d be gossip if we suddenly did that now. Not that it isn’t permitted—but we haven’t done it so far. They’d say I’m making use of advantages I have over others who have to stay down here. And at the moment it’s more dangerous up there than here. The camp will be the next target to be bombed. We have essential war industry up there.”

Some of this was true; but the real reason for his refusal was that Neubauer wanted to remain alone. Up there he had his private life, as he called it. Newspapers, cognac, and off and on a woman who weighed fifty pounds less than Selma—someone who listened when he talked and who admired him as a thinker, man and sensitive cavalier. A harmless pleasure that was necessary after the struggle for existence.

“Let them say what they like!” declared Selma. “It’s your business to look after your family!”

“We can talk about that later. I must be off to the Party Headquarters. Have to see what has been decided there. Perhaps they’ve already made preparations to evacuate people to the villages. Certainly all those who have lost their apartments. But perhaps you can also—”

“No perhaps! If I stay in the town I’ll run around and scream, scream—”

Freya brought the beer. It was not cold. Neubauer tasted it, controlled himself and got up.

“Yes or no?” asked Selma.

“I’ll come back. Then we’ll talk about it. First I must know the regulations.”

“Yes or no?”

Neubauer watched Freya nod behind her mother’s back and signal to him to agree for the moment.

“All right—yes,” he said, sulkily.

Selma Neubauer opened her mouth. The tension escaped from her like gas from a balloon. She let herself fall forward onto the sofa which belonged to the 18th century
fauteuil
. All of a sudden she was nothing but a heap of soft flesh shaken by sobs. “I don’t want to die—I don’t want to—with all our beautiful things—not now—”

Above her disheveled hair the shepherds and shepherdesses of the Gobelin covering looked gaily and indifferently into the void, with the ironic smile of the 18th century.

Neubauer stared at her, disgusted. She had it easy; she screamed and howled—but who gave a damn about what he was going through? He had to swallow everything. Be confident; a rock in the sea. A hundred and thirty thousand marks. Not once had she asked about it.

“Watch her carefully,” he said curtly to Freya, and left.

In the garden behind the house stood the two Russian prisoners. Although it was dark, they were still working. A few days ago Neubauer had given orders to this effect. He wanted a piece of ground dug up fast. He wanted to plant tulips in it. Tulips and some parsley, marjoram, basil and other kitchen herbs. He loved herbs in salads and sauces. That had been a few days ago. It seemed ages. Now he could plant burned cigars there. Molten lead from the newspaper office.

The prisoners bent over their spades when they saw Neubauer approach. “What is there to goggle at?” he asked. The pent-up rage suddenly broke through.

The elder of the two answered something in Russian.

“Goggle, I said. You’re still goggling. Bolshevik swine! Impertinent as well! Delighted that the private property of honest citizens is being destroyed, what?”

The Russian didn’t answer.

“Go ahead, work, you lazy dogs!”

The Russians didn’t understand. They stared at him and tried to find out what he meant. Neubauer raised his leg and gave one of them a kick in the belly. The man fell over and slowly got up again. He raised himself by his spade and then held the spade in his hand. Neubauer saw his eyes and the hands holding the shovel. He felt fear like the stab of a knife in his stomach and seized his revolver. “Bastard! Rebelling, eh?”

He hit him between the eyes with his revolver butt.

The Russian fell down and didn’t get up again. Neubauer breathed heavily. “I could have shot you,” he snorted. “Rebellion! Just about to strike with the spade! Ought to be shot! One is too decent, that’s it. Anyone else would have shot him!” He looked at the guard who stood stiffly by. “Shot him, that’s what anyone else would have done. You saw him about to lift the spade?”

“Yes, Herr
Obersturmbannführer
.”

“Well, all right. Get on, pour a can of water over his head.”

Neubauer looked at the second Russian. The man stooped low over his spade. His face was blank. From the neighboring plot a dog barked like mad. Washing fluttered over there in the wind. Neubauer felt that his mouth was dry. He left the garden. His hands were trembling. What’s happening? he thought. Afraid? I’m not afraid. Not I! Not of a stupid Russian. Of what then? What’s wrong with me? Nothing’s wrong! I’m just too decent, that’s all.
Weber would have clubbed that scoundrel slowly to death. Dietz would have shot him on the spot. Not I. I’m too sentimental, that’s my trouble. That’s my trouble with everything. With Selma, too.

The car stood outside. Neubauer straightened himself. “To the new Party Headquarters, Alfred. Are the streets leading there free?”

“Only if we drive round the town.”

“All right, drive round the town.”

The car turned. Neubauer saw the chauffeur’s face. “Anything the matter, Alfred?”

“My mother has been killed.”

Neubauer fidgeted uncomfortably. That, too! A hundred and thirty thousand marks, Selma’s screaming, and now he had to offer comfort. “My condolences, Alfred,” he said curtly and in military style in order to be done with it. “Swine! Murderers of women and children.”

“We bombed them, too.” Alfred stared at the road before him. “First. I was there. In Warsaw, Rotterdam and Coventry. Before I was wounded and discharged.”

Neubauer stared at him in astonishment. What on earth was wrong today? First Selma and now the chauffeur. Was everything falling to pieces? “That was different, Alfred. Something completely different. Those were strategical necessities. But this is pure murder.”

Alfred didn’t answer. He thought of his mother, of Warsaw, of Rotterdam and Coventry and the fat German Air-Marshal, and took the corner furiously.

“One must not think like that, Alfred. That’s almost high treason! Understandable, of course, in the moment of your grief, but forbidden. I don’t want to have heard you say it. Orders are orders, that’s enough for our conscience. Remorse is un-German. Wrong thinking, too. The Führer surely knows what he’s doing. We follow
him. That’s all there is to it. He’ll pay these mass murderers out all right! Two- and threefold! With our secret weapons! We’ll force them to their knees! We’re already bombing England day and night with our V. 1. With all the new inventions we have we’ll reduce the whole island to ashes. At the last moment! And America as well! They’ll have to pay! Two- and threefold! Two- and threefold!” repeated Neubauer and grew confident and almost began to believe what he was saying.