The Third Reich

AUGUST 27

This morning, after I planned and wrote out the two first turns, obliterating essays by Benjamin Clark (Waterloo, #14) and Jack Corso (The General, #3, vol. 17) in which each advises against the creation of more than one front in the first year, I went down to the hotel in excellent spirits, bursting with the desire to read, write, swim, drink, laugh—all the visible signs of health and animal happiness. In the morning the bar usually isn’t very full, so I brought along a novel and a folder of photocopies of the articles I need for my work. The novel was Wally, die Zweifl erin, by K. G., but perhaps due to my inner exultation, to the thrill of a productive morning, it was impossible for me to concentrate on reading or on studying the articles, which— it must be said— I plan to refute. So I settled down to watch the people shuttling between the restaurant and the terrace, and to enjoy my beer. Just as I was getting ready to go back to the room, where with a little luck I’d be able to sketch out the third turn (spring of ’40, unquestionably of crucial importance), Frau Else appeared. When she saw me, she smiled. It was a strange smile. Then she stepped away from a few guests—leaving them in midsentence, or so it seemed—and came to sit at my table.

She looked tired, though her expression was as composed as ever and her gaze as luminous.

“I’ve never read him,” she said, examining the book. “I don’t even know who he is. Modern?”

I shook my head with a smile. He was an author from the previous century, I said. A dead man. For a second we stared at each other without looking away or muting the effect with words.

“What’s it about? Tell me.” She pointed at the novel by G.

“If you like, I’ll lend it to you.”

“I don’t have time to read. Not in the summer. But you can tell me what happens.” Her voice, while still soft, began to take on a commanding tone.

“It’s the diary of a girl. Wally. At the end she kills herself.”

“That’s all? It sounds awful.”

I laughed:

“You asked me to tell you what it was about. Take it, you can give it back later.”

She took the book with a thoughtful expression.

“Girls like to write in their diaries… I hate that kind of drama… No, I won’t read it. Don’t you have anything a little more cheerful?” She opened the folder and glanced at the photocopied articles.

“That’s something else,” I hastened to explain. “Nothing worth looking at!”

“I see. You read English?”

“Yes.”

She nodded as if in approval. Then she closed the folder and for a while we sat there in silence. The situation was rather embarrassing, at least for me. The most incredible thing was that she didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave. I searched mentally for a topic of conversation but I couldn’t come up with anything.

Suddenly I remembered a scene from ten or eleven years ago: in the middle of a party, the occasion of which I can’t recall, Frau Else left everyone, crossing the Paseo Marítimo and vanishing onto the beach. Back then there were no streetlights on the Paseo and you didn’t have to go far in order to step into complete darkness. I can’t remember whether anyone else noticed her flight. I don’t think so. The party was noisy and everyone was drinking and dancing on the terrace, even people who had just been walking by and had no connection to the hotel. The point is, I don’t think anyone missed her except me. I don’t know how long it was before she turned up again; I suppose it was quite a while. When she did, she wasn’t alone. Walking hand in hand with her was a tall man, very thin, with a white shirt that fluttered in the breeze as if it hung on nothing but bones, or rather, a single bone, as long as a flagpole. When they crossed the Paseo I recognized him. It was the owner of the hotel, Frau Else’s husband. When Frau Else passed me, she said hello to me in German. I’d never seen such a sad smile.

Now, ten years later, she was smiling in the same way.

Without thinking twice, I told her I thought she was a very beautiful woman.

Frau Else looked at me as if she didn’t quite understand what I’d said and then she laughed, but so softly that someone at the next table could barely have heard it.

“It’s the truth,” I said. The fear I generally felt when I was with her of making a fool of myself had disappeared.

Suddenly serious, perhaps realizing that I was serious myself, she said:

“You’re not the only one who thinks so, Udo. I guess you must be right.”

“You always have been,” I said, unable to stop now, “although I wasn’t just talking about your physical beauty, which is certainly undeniable, but about your… aura, the indefinable air that emanates from your most insignificant actions… Your silences…”

Frau Else laughed, this time openly, as if she’d just been told a joke.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not laughing at you.”

“Just at what I’m saying,” I said, laughing too, as if I weren’t offended at all. (Although the truth is I was offended.)

This response seemed to please Frau Else. I thought that without intending to I had grazed a hidden wound. I imagined Frau Else courted by a Spaniard, perhaps involved in a secret love affair. Her husband, of course, suspects and suffers agonies; she can neither give up her lover nor find the strength to leave her husband. She is trapped by her conflicting loyalities; her own beauty is the source of her tribulations. I envisioned Frau Else as a flame, the flame that sheds light but in the process consumes itself and dies, etc.; or like a wine that, upon mixing with the blood, ceases to exist as what it once was. Beautiful and distant. And exiled… This was her most mysterious quality.

Her voice woke me from my reflections:

“You seem very far away from here.”

“I was thinking about you.”

“For God’s sake, Udo, you’ll make me blush.”

“I was thinking about the person you were ten years ago. You haven’t changed at all.”

“What was I like ten years ago?”

“The same as you are now. Magnetic. Active.”

“Active, of course, what choice do I have? But magnetic?” Her hearty laugh echoed through the restaurant once more.

“Yes, magnetic. Do you remember that party on the terrace, when you went offto the beach?… It was pitch-black there, though the terrace was brightly lit. I was the only one who saw you leave and I waited until you came back. There, on those steps. After a while you returned, but now you were with your husband. When you passed me, you smiled. You were very beautiful. I don’t remember having seen your husband go after you, so he must have been on the beach already. That’s the kind of magnetism I’m talking about. You attract people.”

“My dear Udo, I haven’t the slightest memory of that party; there’ve been so many, and it was such a long time ago. Anyway, based on your story it seems that I’m the one attracted by others. Attracted by my own husband, no less. If you say that you didn’t see him leave, then clearly he was already on the beach, but if the beach was dark, as you so rightly claim, I couldn’t have known that he was there, so when I left it must have been been because I was drawn by his magnetism, wouldn’t you say?”

I chose not to answer. Much as Frau Else tried to destroy it, a current of understanding had been established between the two of us that released us from the need for explanations.

“How old were you then? It’s only natural that a fifteen-yearold should be attracted to a slightly older woman. The truth is that I hardly remember you, Udo. My… interests lay elsewhere. I was a wild thing, I think, wild like all girls, and insecure. I didn’t like it at the hotel. As you can imagine, I suffered a lot. Well, all foreigners suffer a lot at first.”

“For me it was something… lovely.”

“Don’t look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a clubbed seal, Udo.”

“That’s what Ingeborg always says.”

“Really? I don’t believe it.”

“She puts it differently. But it amounts to the same thing.”

“She’s a very pretty girl.”

“Yes, she is.”

All of a sudden we were silent again. The fingers of her left hand began to drum on the plastic tabletop. I would have liked to ask about her husband, whom I still hadn’t seen even from afar and who I sensed had something important to do with the nameless essence that radiated from Frau Else, but I didn’t have the chance.

“Why don’t we change the subject? Let’s talk about literature. Or rather, you talk about literature and I’ll listen. When it comes to books, I know nothing, but believe me, I do like to read.”

I had the feeling that she was making fun of me. I shook my head in rejection. Frau Else’s eyes seemed to rake my skin. I’d even say that her eyes sought mine as if by scrutinizing them she could read my innermost thoughts. And yet her intentions were kind.

“Then let’s talk about the movies. Do you like the movies?” I shrugged. “Tonight there’s a Judy Garland film on TV. I love Judy Garland. Do you like her?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen her in anything.”

“You haven’t seen The Wizard of Oz?”

“Yes, but it was a cartoon, the way I remember it.”

She gave me a disappointed look. From some corner of the restaurant came very soft music. We were both perspiring.

“No, that’s something else entirely,” said Frau Else. “Although I suppose that at night you and your girlfriend must have better things to do than come down to the hotel lobby to watch TV.”

“Not much better. We go out to clubs. It’s mostly boring.”

“Are you a good dancer? Yes, I think you must be. One of those serious dancers, the kind who never gets tired.”

“No, that’s not me.”

“What’s your style, then?”

“I have two left feet.”

Frau Else nodded in an enigmatic way that indicated she understood. The restaurant was filling up with people coming back from the beach; we hadn’t noticed. In the next room guests were already seated, ready to eat. I thought Ingeborg would be in soon.

“These days I don’t do it as often; when I first came to Spain I went out dancing with my husband almost every night. Always at the same place, because back then there weren’t as many clubs and also because this one was the best, the newest. No, it wasn’t here, it was in X… It was the only club my husband liked. Maybe precisely because it was out of town. It doesn’t exist anymore. It closed years ago.”

I seized the opportunity to tell her what had happened on our last visit to a club. Frau Else listened unperturbed as I gave a detailed account of the dispute between the waiter and the man with the stick that had ended in a general brawl. She seemed more interested in the part of the story involving our Spanish companions, the Wolf and the Lamb. I thought she must know them, or know who they were, and I said so. No, she didn’t know them, but they couldn’t be the most appropriate company for a young couple on their first trip together, practically a honeymoon. But what harm could they do? A worried look crossed Frau Else’s face. Did she perhaps know something that I didn’t? I told her that the Wolf and the Lamb were more friends of Charly and Hanna’s than mine, and that in Stuttgart I was acquainted with much shadier characters. I was lying, of course. Finally I promised that the Spaniards interested me only as conversation partners with whom I could practice my Spanish.

“You should think about your girlfriend,” she said. “You should be considerate of her.”

On her face was an expression akin to disgust.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine. I’m cautious by nature and I know how to keep my distance, depending on the person. Anyway, Ingeborg likes spending time with them. I guess she’s not used to that kind of people. Of course, neither of us takes them seriously.”

“But they are real.”

I was about to tell her that everything seemed unreal to me just then: the Wolf and the Lamb, the hotel and the summer, El Quemado (whom I hadn’t mentioned) and the tourists, everyone except for Frau Else herself, lonely and alluring; but luckily I kept my mouth shut.

We sat there for a while longer without speaking, although in the midst of our silence I felt closer to her than ever. Then, with a visible effort, she got up, shook my hand, and left.

As I was on my way up to the room, in the elevator, a stranger remarked in English that the boss was sick. “Too bad the boss is sick, Lucy,” were his words. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was referring to Frau Else’s husband.

When I got to the room, I surprised myself by repeating: He’s sick, he’s sick, he’s sick… So it was true. On the map, the game pieces seemed to melt. The light fell at a slant on the table, and the counters that represented German armored units sparkled as if they were alive.

For lunch today we had chicken and french fries and salad, chocolate ice cream and coffee. A rather sad meal. (Yesterday it was cutlets and salad, chocolate ice cream and coffee.) Ingeborg told me that she’d been with Hanna at the Municipal Garden behind the port, between two cliffs that plunge straight into the sea. They took lots of pictures, bought postcards, and decided to walk back to town. A full morning. I hardly said a thing. The noise of the dining room gave me a slight but nagging headache. Just after we finished eating, Hanna came in, wearing only a bikini and a yellow T-shirt. When she sat down she looked at me with a somewhat forced smile, as if she were apologizing for something, or as if she felt ashamed. Of what, I have no idea. The truth is that I wasn’t at all happy to see her, although I was careful not to show it. Finally the three of us went up to the room, where Ingeborg put on her bathing suit and then the two of them went to the beach.

Hanna asked: “Why does Udo spend so much time up here?” And after a pause: “What is that game board with all those counters there on the table?” Ingeborg was slow to find an answer. At a loss, she looked at me as if I were the one responsible for her friend’s stupid curiosity. Hanna stood there waiting. In a calm and cold voice that disconcerted even me, I explained that since my shoulders were so burned I’d rather sit in the shade and read on the balcony. It’s relaxing, I said, you should try it. It helps you think. Hanna laughed, not sure what I meant. Then I added:

“That game board, as you can see, is a map of Europe. It’s a game. It’s also a challenge. And it’s part of my work.”

Flustered, Hanna stammered that she’d heard that I worked for the electric company in Stuttgart, so I had to explain that even though nearly all of my income came from the electric company, neither my true passion nor much of my time was devoted to it. What’s more, games like the one on the table brought in an extra bit of money. I don’t know whether it was the mention of money or the gleam of the board and the counters, but Hanna came over and began to question me in earnest about the map. It was the ideal moment to introduce her to the gaming world… Just then Ingeborg said they should go. From the balcony I watched them cross the Paseo Marítimo and spread their towels a few yards from El Quemado’s pedal boats. The way they moved, so delicately and in such an intensely feminine way, was strangely painful to me. For a few moments I felt sick, unable to do anything but lie on the bed, facedown, sweating. Absurd, agonizing images passed through my head. I thought about suggesting to Ingeborg that we head south, to Andalusia, or that we travel to Portugal, or that we lose ourselves on the back roads of Spain, or cross over to Morocco… Then I remembered that she had to be back at work on September 3 and that my own holiday ended on September 5, and that we didn’t actually have the time… Finally I got up, showered, and found myself in the game.

•

(General aspects of the spring turn, 1940. France defends the classic front along the line of Hex 24s, and a second line of defense along the hex 23s. Of the fourteen infantry corps that by this point should be present in the European theater, at least twelve should cover hexes Q24, P24, O24, N24, M24, L24, Q23, O23, and M23. The two remaining corps should be placed in hexes O22 and P22. Of the three armored corps, one should probably be in Hex O22, another in Hex T20, and the last in Hex O23. The replacement units will be in hexes Q22, T21, U20, and V20; the air units in hexes P21 and Q20, on air bases. The British Expeditionary Force, which in the best of cases will consist of three infantry corps and an armored corps— of course, if the En glish attacked France in greater force, the variant to use would be the direct strike against Great Britain and to that end the German airborne corps should be in Hex K28—would be deployed in Hex N23 [two infantry corps] and Hex P23 [one infantry corps and one armored corps]. As a possible defensive variant, the English forces could be moved from Hex P23 to Hex O23, and the French forces [an armored corps and an infantry corps] from O23 to P23. In any deployment the strongest hex will be the one where the English armored corps is located, whether P23 or O23, and it will determine the focus of the German attack. This attack will be carried out with very few units. If the English armored corps is in P23, the German attack will be launched from O24; if, on the contrary, the English armored corps is in O23, the attack must be launched from N24, through the south of Belgium. To assure a breakthrough, the airborne corps must be launched from Hex O23 if the English armored corps is in P23, or from N23 if it’s in O23. The initial strike will be made by two armored corps and the follow-through will be carried out by two or three different armored corps that must arrive at Hex O23 or N22, depending on the location of the English armored corps, and proceed to an immediate exploitation of Hex O22 [Paris]. To prevent a counterattack at a ratio greater than 1:2, some air factors must be left in reserve, etc.).

•

That afternoon we had drinks in the tourist district and then we went to play miniature golf. Charly was calmer than he had been for the last few days, his face relaxed and peaceful, as if a tranquillity thus far unsuspected had settled over him. Appearances are misleading. Soon he began to ramble on in the usual way, and he told us a story that was a good illustration of how stupid he is or how stupid he thinks we are, or both. Briefly: All day he had been windsurfing and at a certain point he got so far out that he lost sight of the coastline. The joke was that upon returning to the beach he confused our town with the next one; the buildings, the hotels, even the curve of the beach, made him suspect something, but he ignored his doubts. Disoriented, he asked a German bather to direct him to the Costa Brava hotel. Unhesitatingly, the German sent him to a hotel that was in fact called the Costa Brava but that looked nothing like the Costa Brava where Charly was staying. Still, Charly went in and asked for his room key. Since he wasn’t registered, the receptionist of course wouldn’t give it to him, despite Charly’s threats. Strong words finally gave way to conversation, and since things were slow at the reception desk, they had some beers at the hotel bar, where, to the surprise of all those listening, everything was explained and Charly made a friend and won general admiration.

“What did you do then?” asked Hanna, though clearly she already knew the answer.

“Picked up my board and headed back. By sea, naturally!”

Charly is a serious braggart, or a serious idiot.

Why am I so afraid sometimes? And why, when I’m most afraid, does my spirit seem to surge, rise up, and observe the whole planet from above? (I see Frau Else from above and I’m afraid. I see Ingeborg from above and I know that she sees me too and I’m afraid and I want to cry.) Tears of love? Do I really want to escape with her not just from this town and the heat but from what the future holds for us, from mediocrity and absurdity? Others find peace in sex or the passage of time. Charly is satisfied with Hanna’s legs and tits. He’s happy. But I, when faced with Ingeborg’s beauty, am forced to see clearly at last and am thrown into turmoil. I’m a nervous wreck. I feel like weeping and throwing punches when I think about Conrad, who has no holidays or spends his holidays in Stuttgart without even a trip to the pool. But my face remains unchanged. And my pulse is steady. I scarcely move a muscle, though inside I’m falling apart.

As we got ready for bed, Ingeborg remarked how well Charly looked. We’d been at a club called Adam’s until three in the morning. Now Ingeborg is asleep and I’m writing and chain-smoking with the balcony door open. Hanna looked good too. She even danced a couple of slow songs with me. Our conversation: trivial as always. What can Hanna and Ingeborg have to talk about? Is it possible that they’re truly becoming friends? Charly treated us to dinner at the restaurant at the Costa Brava. Paella, salad, wine, ice cream, and coffee. Then we left in my car for the club. Charly didn’t feel like driving, nor did he feel like walking; maybe I’m exaggerating but I got the impression that he didn’t even feel like being seen in public. Hanna kept leaning over and kissing him. I imagine she kisses her son in Oberhausen the same way. As we were on our way back I spotted El Quemado on the terrace of the Andalusia Lodge. The terrace was empty and the waiters were clearing the tables. A group of local kids were leaning on the railing, talking. El Quemado, a few yards away, seemed to be listening to them. When I remarked to Charly, half jokingly, that his friend was there, his reply was irritable: what do I care, keep going. I think he thought I was talking about the Wolf or the Lamb. In the darkness it’s hard to tell people apart. Keep going, keep going, said Ingeborg and Hanna.