The
Small Press Review
A
magazine devoted to the English language small presses.
The
Painting
a novel by Fiona Wallace
post@thesmallpressreview.co.uk
MS 66 000
words
This is
an excerpt that has been converted to a short story.
It called itself the Café des Artistes, although I doubt any artiste had been in there in twenty years. Should one have made an inadvertent stumble down the uneven steps and through the battered but serviceable door, they would have backed away, intimidated by the dozen or so silent, watchful faces that turned and regarded them. It was a place for regulars, where you went first by invitation of a friend, and were introduced to the proprietor for his approval before you slid into one of the wide, dark booths to wait for your drink. A nod from the barman as you left would indicate that you were welcome to return.
From a scattering of customers in the morning the tables would become more populated, the conversation louder, the smoke thicker until, past midnight, the last tardy arrivals had to wedge themselves in the corners or prop up the tiny bar.
This particular evening remains in my memory even now. Half a century has passed, the world around me grows blurred, its sounds muted, and yet the faces around that table are as clear as yesterday. There were six of us; we did not always all meet but that evening by some strange coincidence we arrived one by one, grateful for the familiar welcome, the acceptance, the tired jokes that are the hallmark of long friendship. If I close my eyes I can see them now, laughing, always laughing.
I had been walking home from work; halfway, without conscious decision I turned off my usual route and soon ambled down the refuse-strewn steps and through the door.
Who first? Lothar, of course. Flamboyant, excitable Lothar. If the group was in a roar when you arrived, then you knew he was there before you. We had had a brief affair, years before, but his constant need for the new, the different, drove him out into the hunt again. I didn’t mind. With Lothar you knew what you were getting because he was always honest enough to tell you.
“Erich! Get over here and start drinking!”
I picked my way apologetically between the crowded tables. Lothar must have been there a while; he had secured one of the favoured spots in a booth at the back. When I reached him he had a second glass in front of him that he slid across as I sat.
“I only came for a coffee—”
“And pigs fly. Karl said he’d be here tonight.”
“With Reinhold?”
Lothar stared at me and we both burst out laughing.
“Stupid question,” I admitted. “Do you think Gunter—”
“If he can drag himself away from this new lover.”
“He should bring him.”
“Not his way.”
I became aware of Lothar looking over at the door. Another minute and Dieter slipped into the seat beside me. I moved up, but not too much, leaving the possibility of inadvertent brushing of hand on arm, thigh against thigh. I was in love with Dieter. Had been for years. I spent a long time trying to decide if it was his appearance that attracted me, the contrast of his dark hair and blue eyes, his mobile mouth and expressive brows, but had to concede that it couldn’t be reduced to such simplistic terms. Love should never be explained, only accepted. But then we all make mistakes.
“A lot of soldiers out tonight.” He signalled for a drink.
“Are there?” Lothar’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I like a nice soldier boy.”
“You’ll get yourself in trouble one day soon.”
“No, I won’t. Not as long as they have as much to lose as I do.”
“That’s a dangerous game.” There was genuine concern in Dieter’s voice.
Lothar shrugged, smiling. “It’s the only one I know how to play.”
“Lothar, the rules have changed. In fact, there aren’t any rules any more, except the one that says if you get caught, you’re dead.”
“I know. Exciting, isn’t it?”
Dieter leaned back with a sound of frustration.
“It’s the way I am, Deet. You can’t change me. Life is for living, not for hiding in the shadows.” His voice became suddenly intense. “I refuse to fear them.”
“I’m not asking you to be frightened, I’m asking you to be careful.”
Lothar shook his head, finished his drink. I exchanged a sympathetic but helpless glance with Dieter.
“Move up, Lothar, give us some room.”
Karl and Reinhold, their names eternally linked. Even now I cannot think of them individually. Karl drove a tram by day; at night you could watch him shed the mask of respectability as he walked through the door and into the arms of his lover. Reinhold met him at a club where they were thrown out for talking. Well, it wasn’t that sort of club. Nine years since that day, and intense familiarity with one another clear in every gesture, every word spoken. Reinhold had come in via the bar, Karl a step behind. Between them they loaded the table with drinks, then clambered past Lothar to sit in the corner. Even here they had to be careful, but their hands constantly strayed towards one another, not always hidden.
The glasses were emptied and refilled. Conversation ran on familiar lines, Lothar describing his latest conquest in anatomical detail while we listened with varying degrees of interest. Reinhold would be planning another weekend away with Karl, to a remote house in the country, safe from prying eyes. Dieter would listen and I would surreptitiously observe him, drinking more and more in an attempt to keep my emotions at bay. At last, the evening well advanced, a shadow blocked out what light there was and I didn’t need to look up to know who had arrived.
Gunter, his considering gaze moving over us in turn. A man who preferred watching to talking. I always imagined he absorbed the feelings the others expended so freely, storing them in that solid frame of his. A man to move mountains, I thought when we first met. Then I had to review my opinion. When you saw his paintings you realised what he did with all that emotion. He wasn’t just good, he was superlative. If he’d been able to settle down he could have made a name for himself. Of course, when he did settle it was too late.
He pulled up a chair that creaked worryingly as he sat.
“So where is he?” Lothar leaned out to peer behind him.
“At home.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Yes.” There was a hint of amusement in the reply, quickly veiled.
“What’s this?” It would take an earthquake to distract Reinhold from Karl. Mind you, this came close. “Gunter?”
“Gunter has a boyfriend.” Lothar’s voice was singsong.
“Do you?”
Gunter nodded. Despite the gloom the colour staining his cheeks was obvious.
“With the face of a Greek god, and from the little I was able to see, a body to match.”
I looked from Lothar's grinning face to Gunter’s expressionless one. I didn’t want to embarrass him, but I couldn’t help it. “No wonder we haven’t seen you for weeks.”
“I’m surprised he can walk.”
“Shut up, Lothar.” This from Karl. “Can’t you see he’s in love?”
“Wasn’t that what I was saying?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
Karl and Lothar were opposite ends of a spectrum. The former wanted security, certainty, the everyday existence so many take for granted. Lothar lived for the chase, the challenge of a shifting life. Neither of them could quite see the point of view of the other, but at least they tried.
“I’m glad for you.” Dieter raised his glass and I had to suppress a brief flare of jealousy. Gunter had known Dieter for longer than I. They had met as students at the Bauhaus, giving them a history from which I was excluded. I promised myself silently that one day I would be a greater part of Dieter’s life than Gunter had ever been.
“I’ll bring him next time.” Gunter seemed to be speaking to Dieter alone. “He finds all this a bit intimidating.”
“Oh, a country boy, then.”
I saw the movement as Karl kicked Lothar under the table. It was odd to see him so protective of someone other than Reinhold but then love had always been his weak spot—a fact of which Lothar would no doubt remind him at some stage.
As the evening wore on I realised Karl was right. The enduring sadness that had been embedded in Gunter’s personality for as long as I had known him was gone, replaced by something I couldn’t put a name to. I don’t recall what we talked about, only the play of light across their faces, the exchange of empty glasses for full. Lothar leaning forward, telling some anecdote with intense concentration. Gunter’s roar of laughter, head thrown back, then dark hair falling forwards as he rested his forehead in his hand, shoulders shaking. Reinhold sliding an arm around Karl’s waist, their faces turned to one another in a private world. Dieter’s hand resting casually on my shoulder as he shook a warning finger at Lothar. Alcohol, friendship and happiness are an intoxicating mix, and we were happy, poised for a sparkling moment above the reaching darkness.
“I’ve got to go. Early start tomorrow.” Dieter stood, smiled, his eyes flicking to each of us. I couldn't be certain, but I thought they rested on me for a little longer than anyone else.
“Dieter—” I caught his sleeve.
“What?”
I let go. It was too public, too noisy, and we’d all had too much to drink. “Nothing. I’ll see you Saturday? You will come?”
“Of course.” He smiled again, just at me, then made his way on unsteady feet to the door.
“Be careful!” I called after him, and then looked back to find four pairs of eyes regarding me with varying degrees of amusement.
“Why don’t you just tell him?” Karl was leaning on Reinhold's shoulder.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” As I lifted the glass Lothar put his hand on it, pushing it back down to the table. He was suddenly intent, his eyes serious. “Seize the moment, Erich. Time is running out for all of us.”
Around me I could feel them shifting, uncomfortable. It was one thing to see what was going on around you. Acknowledging it—
“Perhaps. Next time.” I eased my drink out, raised it again. It was brandy, warm and forgiving of my fears as it ran down my throat.
Gunter began to speak, but his words were silenced by a shout from the door. I rose, adrenaline compensating for the drink, cold certainty growing within me. Dieter. It had to be Dieter. In the commotion I pushed my way outside, knelt to the crumpled, familiar figure. At first I thought he had fallen backwards down the steps. I knelt beside him, concerned, but ready to remind him of my earlier remark. I rested my hand on his chest. It didn’t feel right and I lifted it away again, found it warm and sticky. I looked at the dark wetness of his clothes, met his terrified eyes.
“A soldier—too quick—ran—”
Each word was a gasp, pushed through the pain. I undid his jacket, tore open his shirt. The blood didn’t just flow, it gushed, and even in the little light we had I could see his face grow paler by the second.
“Dieter!”
All I could do was gather him to me, even as his life poured out over both of us. Mine was the confession on his deathbed, of my love, my respect, of my wish for the life we might have had. He was barely conscious and somewhere during my monologue he slipped away from me forever. Around us were Karl, Gunter, Reinhold, Lothar, their faces a parody of our earlier gathering.
I don’t know how long I sat there. I kissed his still face, unable to believe that a few short minutes ago he had been smiling at me, perhaps anticipating…Gunter had to pry him from my arms. He had the gentleness of the big man; of all of us he was the one to whom violence was most alien. He took Dieter from me, laid him down and then drew me inside, away from curious eyes and held me as I wept.
That was the beginning of
the horror. Perhaps, later, we might have envied Dieter, thought how lucky
he was to be out of it so soon. The Café des Artistes closed soon
afterwards and it became too dangerous to meet anywhere else. It was only
a few more years to the war.
And when it was all over it took decades for the information to filter
out. The fear was incredible. So many who had survived hid themselves,
refused to speak, trusted no one. Considering how the victorious Allies
treated us, it was no surprise. We were still criminals, despised and
hated. We could be beaten and murdered with impunity. Those that were
still alive, that is.
Lothar, the man for whom every moment of life was to be filled with living,
visited a pharmacist for a bottle of barbiturate. When the SS broke into
his home in January 1940, he was already dead.
Karl and Reinhold were arrested, and Karl forced to watch while Reinhold
was tortured and shot. Karl was then sent to Saschenhausen, where he lasted
seven months.
Gunter and his Polish lover entered the army, hoping to deflect attention
from themselves. They were arrested in Poland and sent to Auschwitz where
Gunter died after liberation. The whereabouts of his lover is unknown.
And me? Well, I took the easy way out. I emigrated to England in 1938,
married an Englishwoman for whom I felt nothing. We have no children,
and we inhabit a house big enough that we can meet as acquaintances, unencumbered
by the need for pretence. And now, looking back at my life, the only time
I can say I lived were those years in Berlin with my friends, before disaster
overtook us. Their absence from my life is my greatest regret, their memory
my greatest love. And still, as hard as I try, I cannot comprehend the
crimes for which they had to die.