Little Apple by Leo Perutz Read Free Book Online

understand? Very well, cast your mind back for a moment. Chernavyensk, the camp, homesickness, fits of depression, the monotony of the passing days, the ban on mail, no news from home, the knowledge that we were at the mercy of the commandant's every whim. It knocked us sideways when that poor devil of an air force lieutenant died of malaria. We not only felt sick, Vit¬torin, we were sick - mentally sick. We took refuge in the typical prisoner's pipe-dream: some day we would return and settle the score. It was a very therapeutic idea, to be sure - it helped us over some difficult times - but a symptom of mental disorder just the same. Hasn't that dawned on you yet?"
    Vit¬torin had tossed his cigarette away and sprung to his feet. He glared at the Professor in silence.
    Comrade Blaschek emerged from the room next door, where dancing was still in progress. He wiped the sweat from his brow and stripped off his woollen sweater.
    "It's stinking hot in there," he said. "'Scuse me, folks, I'm on my way again."
    He left the the door open. The waltz came to an end, and Kohout, accompanied on the mouth organ by Blaschek, took advantage of the ensuing interval to warble some marching songs in a maudlin tenor.
    Who'll mourn me when trouble and strife
    have finally ended my life?
    Glass, bottle and plate,
    Wine and beer by the crate,
    and the landlord's embraceable wife . . .
    "It was a severe psychosis," the Professor went on. "Not a normal condition, that's for sure, but one has to get over it some time. You're back home again - it's all behind you. Get down to work, start from scratch, forget about the war- that's the answer now. Damn Kohout and his sentimental ditties, one can't hear oneself speak! We've got to forget about the war and everything we went through - erase it from our memories. Siberia was just a bad dream and Chernavyensk a nightmare. Why the hell should you give damn about Selyukov now? Wherever he is, Moscow or some other place, leave him be."
    "Have you finished?" Vit¬torin asked.
    A medley of sounds drifted in from the room next door: laughter, the clink of glasses, the wail of the mouth organ, and Kohout's voice.
    What things on my grave will they lay,
    and what on my stone will it say?
    A sausage, a loaf,
    and: "Here lies a poor oaf
    of a soldier who drank all his pay ..."
    "If you're through, Professor," Vit¬torin blurted out, pale with fury, "I'll tell you something. I find it deplorable — yes, I'll say it to your face: shabby and deplorable of you to begin by joining in and giving your word of honour and God knows what else, and then to back out on the grounds that we were suffering from a psychosis or whatever you choose to call it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, that's all I can say. You're a coward - you're scared, that's the truth of the matter. All this talk of psychoses and symptoms and starting again from scratch - there's nothing behind it but fear. It's sad that people like you should exist, but at least I know you for what you are. At least I know -"
    "Attention, comrades!" roared Blaschek. "Now for something really up-to-the minute! Carry on, Kohout!"
    "Ready when you are," said Kohout, and he launched, with mouth organ accompaniment, into:
    And who will now sweep the streets clean,
    and who will now sweep the streets clean?
    Gentlefolk of the best
    with stars on their chest:
    they're the ones who'll now sweep the streets clean.
    "Bravo!" cried the financial consultant, whose war service had consisted of two months' desk work. "Bravo!" he repeated in high delight. "And so they damn well should. Let them earn a crust like the rest of us!"
    "At least I know where I stand with you and how much your word of honour is worth," said Vit¬torin, whose anger had given way to profound depression.
    The Professor strove to make light of it.
    "I realize, of course, that I've lost all claim to your respect," he said, "but what can I do? I shall have to live with the thought as best I can. My one