The Passport

THE LETTERS

Windisch is riding to the mill. His bicycle tyres squeak in the wet grass. Windisch watches the wheel turning between his knees. The fences drift past in the rain. The trees are dripping. The gardens rustle.

The war memorial is swathed in grey. The small roses have brown edges.

The pot hole is full of water. It drowns the bicycle tyre. Water splashes on Windisch’s trouser legs. Earthworms wriggle on the cobble stones.

One of the joiner’s windows is open. The bed is made. It’s covered with a red plush bedspread. The joiner’s wife is sitting alone at the table. A pile of green beans lies on the table.

The lid of Widow Kroner’s coffin is no longer leaning against the wall. The joiner’s mother smiles from the picture above the bed. Her smile stretches from the death of the white dahlia to the death of Widow Kroner.

The floor is bare. The joiner has sold the red carpets. He has the big form now. He’s waiting for the passport.

The rain falls on the back of Windisch’s neck. His shoulders are wet.

Sometimes the joiner’s wife is summoned to the priest because of the baptismal certificate, sometimes to the militiaman because of the passport.

The night watchman has told Windisch that the priest has an iron bed in the sacristy. In this bed he looks for baptismal certificates, with the women. “If things go well,” said the night watchman, “he looks for the baptismal certificates five times. If he’s doing the job thoroughly, he looks ten times. With some families the militiaman loses and mislays the applications and the revenue stamps seven times. He looks for them on the mattress in the post office store room with the women who want to emigrate.”

The night watchman laughed. “Your wife,” he said to Windisch, “is too old for him. He’ll leave your Kathi in peace. But then it’ll be your daughter’s turn. The priest makes her Catholic, and the militiaman makes her stateless. The postwoman gives the militiaman the key when he’s got work to do in the store room.”

Windisch kicked the mill door with his foot. “Let him try,” he said. “He may get flour, but he won’t get my daughter.”

“That’s why our letters don’t arrive,” said the night watchman. “The postwoman takes the envelopes from us and money for the stamps. She buys schnaps with the money for the stamps. And she reads the letters and throws them into the wastepaper basket. And if the militiaman doesn’t have any work to do in the store room, he sits behind the counter with the postwoman and swigs schnaps. Because the postwoman is too old for him and the mattress.”

The night watchman stroked his dog. “The postwoman has already drunk away hundreds of letters,” he said. “And has read the militiaman hundreds of letters.”

Windisch unlocks the mill door with the big key. He counts two years. He turns the small key in the lock. Windisch counts the days. Windisch walks to the mill pond.

The surface of the pond is disturbed. There are waves on it. The willows are wrapped in leaves and wind. The stack of straw throws its moving, everlasting picture on the pond. Frogs crawl round the stack. They drag their white bellies through the grass.

The night watchman is sitting beside the pond and has hiccups. His larynx bounces out of his shirt. It’s the blue onions,” he says. “The Russians cut thin slices off the top of onions. They sprinkle salt on them. The salt makes the onions open like roses. They give off water. Clear, bright water. They look like water lilies. The Russians hit them with their fists. I’ve seen Russians crush onions under their heels. The women lifted their skirts and knelt on the onions. They turned their knees. We soldiers held the Russian women at the hips and helped them turn.”

The night watchman had watery eyes. “I’ve eaten onions that were tender and sweet as butter from the knees of Russian women,” he says. His cheeks are flabby. His eyes grow young as the sheen of onions.

Windisch carries two sacks to the edge of the pond. He covers them with canvas. The night watchman will take them to the militiaman during the night.

The reeds are quivering. White foam sticks to the blades. “That’s what the dancer’s lace dress must be like,” thinks Windisch. “I’m not letting a crystal vase into my house.”

“There are women everywhere. There are even women in the pond,” says the night watchman. Windisch sees their underclothes anong the reeds. He goes into the mill.