The Right Hand of Sleep (13 page)

No one spoke for a moment. —Change, Fräulein, is for the chattel in town, said Piedernig. —The steady regression in progress’s name we’ve discussed so often. It’s why we’re all here. Remember?

—I’m talking about genuine change, Walter. Genuine progress. If that had ever been for Niessen I’d likely still be living there.

—Fräulein Bauer is a retired gymnasium-school instructor, said Piedernig fondly. —Though you certainly wouldn’t guess it by her politics. Look at her glowering now! I’ve embarrassed her. He laughed and turned back to Voxlauer. —What about you, Oskar? What was it you retired from?

Voxlauer didn’t answer. —I believe I saw you walking by the ponds a week ago, he said to Else after a moment.

—I can’t help it if your ponds happen to lie between my house and town, Herr Gamekeeper, she answered. She was looking not at him but at Piedernig, who sat leaning back with his legs crossed beneath him and his eyes drooping like a house cat’s, humming quietly to himself. To Voxlauer’s surprise she closed her eyes also, as did the others, solemnly, one by one around the circle. A disembodied humming rose among them, quavering and deep. He looked back at her and saw her mouth’s corners curling up as though for his benefit but always with that sadness he’d recognized immediately and which ran through her all features like thread through a raveling dress. Nature is bounteous, spring is bright. Work is chastening. Food is blessed. A half-eaten pear browning in a wooden bowl. A dark purple stain on the blanket near her hand.

—You see, Oskar: our bees are as slothful as your bees. But ours sleep the sleep of the just.

Voxlauer peered in through the blue-painted door of the cabinet. —They do seem more prepossessing, he said.

Piedernig nodded. —Bees were created to make honey as man was created to make excrement. But they’ll do as we do in a shithouse.

—And yet they stay in those same houses, year after year, said Voxlauer.

—You’ll do as you think best, of course, said Piedernig. —They can do without their honey, can they, at the Niessener Hof?

—For all I care, said Voxlauer. Piedernig chuckled.

Bars of light slanted down among the whitewashed house frames and the lines of wash onto the straw-battened dirt tracks below them. Piedernig began walking and Voxlauer followed him dazedly, nursing a slow, gathering happiness.

Rounding a row of haylofts they came to a small square of flattened ground hidden among the huts with a pen on one side of it and a garden on the other. The children he’d passed before were harrying an ancient goat around the pen and a woman in a homespun dress the same color as the goat sat watching them from the wall of a terraced garden. The children were shiftless and barefoot in spite of the damp and their bones stretched and tautened under their pale dirty skin as they moved. The woman stared sullenly at them as they passed but Piedernig seemed to take no notice of her. He walked bobbingly a half step ahead of Voxlauer and led him out along the perimeter of the huts and across the field to the crown of the road, then stopped short as though penned in by the field. Voxlauer stopped also, waiting for him to speak.

Piedernig turned and raised an arm toward the fractured base of the cliffs. —How sharp are your eyes, Oskar? Do you see that gap in the rock, just at bottom? Where that sulfur-colored band comes down and meets the muddier color?

Voxlauer looked upward. —What about it?

—A man used to live there. We fed him from time to time.

—Fancy that.

—He tried to live as you live. Piedernig looked over at him. —He thought the way you think, give or take.

Voxlauer lowered his eyes from the cliffs and looked at Piedernig. —What would you know about the way I think, Professor?

Piedernig smiled. —Calm yourself, Oskar. Please. I haven’t spent these nine years removed from man’s and woman’s folly without learning more about it than I’d care to dwell on. I’ve made a study of you in my idle hours, and feel I’ve come to an understanding of your nature and ambitions. He tapped Voxlauer on the shoulder. —You yourself, of course, believe that you have no ambitions any longer.

Voxlauer smiled. —And that’s a delusion, is it?

—The caveman, also, thought he could take off the world as one might a pair of breeches. And we fed him. Partially out of respect, I suppose, for his convictions. But largely out of sympathy.

—What sort of man was he?

—A well-known type, really. Guarded. Jealous of his past. A fanatic, to tell the truth. He’d have done beautifully nowadays.

—I don’t doubt it.

—Yes. Piedernig pursed his lips.

—And now you feed me.

—We feed one another, Oskar. Your predecessor, in his day, brought rabbits and nuts and other welcome offerings. A very friendly unfortunate man.

—What happened to him?

—He died.

—So do we all, said Voxlauer. —Thank you for the supper.

Piedernig bowed. —Bless you for your visit, Oskar. An educated man is a blessing in any wilderness.

—I’m not an educated man.

—As you like, Oskar. As you prefer. The son of an educated man, if you’ll accept that title.

A brief silence followed. —You are a charlatan, said Voxlauer flatly.

Piedernig sighed. —Of a sort. I give them perhaps a little less than I allow myself.

Voxlauer smiled. —I’d noticed that at supper.

—I’m not talking about the trout, now, Herr Gamekeeper, said Piedernig shortly.

—Just the same. I don’t begrudge you it.

—That’s very kind. Piedernig smiled. —But it’s true, just the same, that your bees are dying. He turned and, waving once more over his shoulder, strode back through the new grass toward the huts. Voxlauer watched until he disappeared among them. He remained standing some minutes more, watching the afternoon advance across the field and the shadows creep even as he watched them across the open ground from right to left. As he went down the hill the last edgings of light caught here and there among the trunks of the pines on clumps of drab, dirt-encrusted snow. When he arrived at the junction he stopped again and stood for a time staring blankly into the woods. Then he turned and went back up the hill to the colony.

She was just crossing the field as he came out from the trees and he stepped hurriedly back into their shadow so as not to meet her on the open ground. A few moments later she came down to where he was waiting, showing no surprise at seeing him standing at the edge of the road shifting nervously from foot to foot. She nodded to him without smiling and they began walking. When they were not quite halfway to the junction she asked why he had been waiting for her.

—I have some sketches of yours, I believe, said Voxlauer.

She smiled. —I see. I won’t ask you your opinion of them, Herr Voxlauer, if that’s your worry.

—Two portraits. And a pastel of some Enzians.

—The pastel is mine. I’m not sure that I want it. As to the portraits, you’re welcome to them, I’m sure. I can’t recall them.

Voxlauer looked down the road a moment. —Thank you. I’d appreciate it if you would take them, all the same.

She laughed a muted, low-strung laugh, her dull eyes regarding him evenly.

—Are they so awful?

—No. No, they’re very fine.

—Are the portraits of me?

—Yes.

—Then they’re the property of my father. You can do what you want with them. Hang them up. Throw them in the dustbin. Whatever you like.

—What I’d like, Fräulein, is for you to take them. I’d take it as a kindness.

The smile went altogether from her face and she looked at him now with something approaching anger. —I want nothing more to do with that shack you live in, Herr Voxlauer, and
I,
for my part, would take it as a very great kindness if you didn’t force me to. The years I spent in it were the worst of my life and I don’t care to relive them. She looked over at him again more closely, as though studying his face for the precise nature and number of words needed to suit his type. —The family you work for, she said carefully—took my father’s self-respect and health as sure as if they’d put each individual bottle into his mouth and wiped his chin for him afterward. I imagine they’ve told you something different, but I was present while it happened. I sat and watched. If you’ve passed any time at all in that dank hole you ought to know how he lived out his last year. It pained me then, Herr Voxlauer, to think about it, and pains me worse now. She paused a moment for breath. —So please don’t trouble me any more about it, for the love of Christ.

—I’m sorry, Fräulein, said Voxlauer, drawing even with her. —I didn’t know any of that. I meant no harm about the sketches.

—You knew well enough about my father.

—I knew he drank. Yes.

—Yes, she said, taking in a breath. —And I know about yours.

—I’d think that might make us even.

—Not altogether. Your father was a famous man. Esteemed and successful.

—My father spent the last fifteen years of his life trying to get his music played, said Voxlauer.

—Your father was a king to everyone in town. Everyone! Even I remember him.

—He died as wretchedly as yours did, all the same. And about as many people mourned him.

—Oh yes. We were talking about my father’s death, weren’t we, Herr Voxlauer. And about the Ryslavys. Your—she paused a moment, searching again for the most fitting word—your
bosses
.

—Old Ryslavy’s dead, too. It was Pauli who hired me up here.

—Does it matter? she said quietly, still looking down the road. —Can he be any different?

Voxlauer looked at her until she turned. There was no anger in her expression now, only dullness. —Why did you say that, Fräulein? Because he’s a Jew? Is that why?

—Because he’s his father’s son. For no other reason. She paused a moment.

—He is that, isn’t he?

—I beg your pardon?

She looked at him kindly for the first time since they’d begun walking. —His father’s son.

Voxlauer nodded gravely. —I’ve never had any cause to doubt it, Fräulein. They walked for some distance in silence. —I feel the same way you do, about town, he said after a time. —I suppose that’s obvious.

—It’s obvious to me that you don’t like it. Whether you feel the same about it as I do is something else altogether.

—Well. I don’t feel the same way about our neighbors to the north, that’s certain.

Her eyes opened wide. —Oh? How
do
you feel about them?

—I’ve never cared too much for Germans. I’d rather not have them putting me in their parades. He drew himself to attention and raised a fist.

Else laughed. —I think you might benefit from a few marching lessons, Herr Voxlauer. Besides, it’s not the Germans who make the fist. It’s the Italians.

—Maybe so, said Voxlauer. —Maybe so, Fräulein. But the Italians also make gelato, and tiramisù. I can forgive them a bit of silliness.

She laughed again, less harshly now. —All right, Herr Voxlauer. They had come to the junction. —I’ll relieve you of the sketches, if they’re really such a burden. You can leave them with Herr Piedernig, on your next visit. Will there be anything else?

Voxlauer straightened. —No. Nothing else. Thank you kindly, Fräulein.

—Good evening, then.

—Good evening.

She took a few steps, then half turned toward him, looking over her shoulder. —Were you shooting a few days ago? she said. —Up on the ridge?

—Three days ago. Yes.

She nodded to herself and walked slowly into the woods. Voxlauer turned uphill and began his measured walk up to Ryslavy’s land, stopping now and again to look through the treetops at the dwindling sun.

Over the next seven weeks, drifting eastward through the occupied
Ukraine across the nothingness of the steppes, broken every so
often by a huddle of mud-colored, windowless huts or a well and
a ring of clay-walled pens, usually empty, I came to know true
hunger for the first time. It woke me in the morning and pushed me
forward irresistibly, long after I’d lost all desire or hope of reaching
the Bolshevik territory, and sat me down at night in a state of half-consciousness until the time came to get up and drift listlessly
forward again. I ate whatever I could catch, steal, or beg for in pantomime, and most of the people I came across were too curious or
frightened to refuse me. I learned a few very helpful words of
Ukrainian, enough to make it clear I was not a soldier, though not
enough to prevent me from getting beaten regularly for stealing.
The beatings were mild, however, little more than symbolic, as the
men who beat me were as weak and vague-minded with hunger as
I was. They struck me a few times halfheartedly, went through my
pockets, then shuffled back into their houses. I was worthless to
them.

As I came farther east, the steppes gave way to more sheltered,
fertile country, thin tilled fields and squares of rich dark ground
along rows of whitewashed cottages, manor farms and trees and
teams of mules or horses on the roads. I traveled in constant fear of
being caught by the Germans or mistaken for one of them by partisans, but discovered to my great relief that the occupation of the
Ukraine was little more than a diplomatic and tactical invention.
In a few of the towns, I found the old imperial officials still going
about their business, stricken and bewildered as the Jew in Czernowitz had been, and was able to talk to them in French about the
Bolsheviks and the occupying army and the war; for the first time I
was grateful for my twice-weekly lessons as a child. I learned that
the German-Soviet lines, only a few days’ travel east, were little
more than a ghost front, but that there was no love for the Bolsheviks or any other kind of Russian-imposed revolution anywhere in
that country.