Pale Horse Riding Read online




  And I looked, and behold, a pale

  horse! And its rider’s name was

  Death, and Hades followed him.

  (Book of Revelation, 6:8)

  When life arises and flows along

  artificial channels rather than

  normal ones, and when its growth

  depends not so much on natural

  and economic conditions as on the

  theories and arbitrary behaviour of

  individuals, then it is forced to accept

  these circumstances as essential and

  inevitable, and these circumstances

  acting on an artificial life assume the

  aspects of laws.

  (Anton Chekhov, The Island of Sakhalin)

  Whatever Germans build turns

  into barracks.

  (Erich Kästner, Going to the Dogs: The Story of a Moralist)

  I

  The commandant rode the white mare drunk. These dawn rides happened most days, hanging on for dear life, still plastered from the night before.

  The endless paperwork taken home took until past midnight, drinking all the while, followed by more drink, smoking and the gramophone, in the futile hope of relaxing. Most nights he collapsed on the couch or the floor.

  He showered before riding and changed into a fresh uniform; standards to maintain. He left through the garden gate in the wall that led directly into the garrison. That morning he staggered more than usual on his way up the main street to the stables. The clean smell of the stalls, dry hay and the compact aroma of horse manure never failed to reassure, compared to the general stink.

  The mare stood patiently as he clumsily saddled her. He could have got someone else, except he didn’t want to see anyone and didn’t wish to be seen in an unfit state.

  The mare’s shoes sparked on the cobbles as he rode out into the last of the night. Usually their ring was a first sign to sober up, prelude to the gallop to come, close to 50kph, shaking the drink out of him. Some days he was too drunk to saddle up and rode bareback. Lately he had taken to using the western saddle, with its long stirrup and exquisitely tooled leatherwork, given as a birthday gift so he could think of himself as riding the range. That morning the western had been too heavy to lift and he took the ordinary saddle.

  At the gate the guard raised the barrier. The commandant didn’t return the salute and kicked the mare into a trot. After the river, he spurred her and rode fast through misted countryside, close to the mare’s neck, anticipating the transition from drunkenness to clarity. It was the reason to drink, but too often now he experienced none of the pleasure of the blur of animal grace, the magnificence of the beast beneath him, pounding speed, sky, weather and landscape. Instead everything he had been drinking to forget came crashing down.

  Once, half-blinded by a hailstorm, he had achieved a glimpse of what he considered the equivalent to sainted revelation. His anointed task took on a sense of divine mission – as others more elevated than he must see it – rather than the usual endless, uphill struggle.

  He spurred the mare on, leaning forward, using the whip, mesmerised by the ground rush beneath, mud kicked up. Racing through shallow water, it splashed his face. Let the mare decide their course. She fancied to have a mind of her own that morning and they could have ridden on forever, away and away. As she raced like a beast possessed, his stomach rebelled at the previous night’s drink and he turned his head and spewed, watching silver spittle and vomit taken off in the slipstream. Done now, catharsis achieved. For a delicious moment he thought of nothing. Forgot about his wife, her coldness, and his hopeless infatuation for her seamstress that ran through him like a dark river. Forgot about the colossal difficulties of the job, the endless feuding, the cretins he had to carry out his orders, dross that mocked any notion of elite, the daily mountains of paperwork, impossible logistics, disease, squalor, and an unsympathetic superior command that issued no helpful or clear instructions, interpreting only in terms of what he could not have, what was not available, answering every complaint by telling him it was his to solve as he saw fit. Nine days a week would not be enough to accomplish half what needed to be done. He had never dreamed he would preside over something of which he was so secretly ashamed.

  He had no mind to go back, but duty called. He slowed to a trot, became aware of the bedewed morning and cloudless sky above the mist.

  He saw himself from a heavenly standpoint, a creature lost.

  He recalled hair-raising bareback rides and how such moments of solitary risk, in which he entrusted his safety to the mare, provided the only pleasure in life. First light. Every day a brand-new morning. Wildness of thought drove him where others saw only the obtuse bureaucrat. The sun pierced the horizon. He must have had a skinful. Usually one stiff gallop was enough to clear the head. He breathed deep and surveyed the land: paradise lost, his bitter thought. Not his fault it had turned out that way. His kingdom still; vanity perhaps to think of it as that but he had forged it with his bare hands, through the power of his will. Did anyone thank him now for managing the arsehole of the world?

  He wept at his dedication, reduced to the administrative equivalent of janitorial duties.

  The bell-jar of intrigue. His world on the point of penetration. The constant threat of outside interference. Unthinkable!

  He stared at the rising sun, returned its merciless gaze. In the white inferno a darker shape appeared to hover, he could not make out what, but it spooked the mare, causing her to rear. Her frenzy spun him and the world spun too. She gave a bellow of fright, more human than animal. As he felt himself start to fall, he saw the shape was familiar, not something he ever expected to see in his lifetime even with all the terrible things he had witnessed.

  He lay spread on the ground, arms outstretched. His brain felt loose in its pan. His body shook, the mare’s terror transmitted; she, docile now, grazing to one side.

  He staggered up, shaken, and stumbled to the mare. Already he doubted what he had seen, but his visions in drink had hitherto revealed nothing like that. He feared he might be spiritual after all, however bitterly he fought against it, feared too the priests were right, saying give them the child for its first seven years and it was theirs for life. For all his fanatical dedication, he remained susceptible to the lapsed state.

  Blinded by the light, he told himself. If he was so afraid of what he had seen why did he not look back to have his fear confirmed?

  The commandant watched the garrison doctor with his medical bag and shiny boots crossing the lawn. He had told him to take the short cut through the garden. Just a quick check nothing was broken. A tall man, he thought sourly, a careerist, seduced by the elegance of the uniform, who likened membership to that of a good club. The commandant’s patience was tested by this new breed of soft-soapers that hesitated before knocking.

  He answered the door himself, in shirtsleeves, braces hanging. He took the doctor through to his study. The doctor rubbed his hands as though it were chilly.

  Arms raised, fingers and toes waggled, head turned from side to side, collarbones checked, a stethoscope produced, blood pressure taken. The doctor’s hands were clammy and the commandant understood why he had rubbed them.

  No mention of what he had seen, or thought he had seen. Delirium tremens; would the doctor tell him that? No mention either of the black spots that still danced before his eyes. He wished he could confess he was on the verge of nervous collapse, however unthinkable. He’d had to go right to the top to get his medical history removed from the military record. His greatest fear was that they – for all his friends in high places – would stop at nothing to get rid of him. It was his camp; he its creator, however foul and broken-backed, the ugly child he was bound to love. He knew himself w
ell enough to say: I may not be clever but I am smart enough to know this place would be nothing without me and I nothing without it.

  The doctor lectured the commandant on high blood pressure, correct diet, alcohol intake and lack of exercise.

  The commandant protested he had just fallen off his horse. What was riding if not exercise? As for drinking, they all drank like fish and smoked like chimneys, except no one said that any more. Three cigarettes smoked during the consultation, stubbed out in the wrought-iron ashtray made for him by prisoners, as had the rest of the furniture, including the huge desk, in whose locked drawer he kept his schnapps. He thought better of offering the doctor one, knowing he didn’t drink, as an excuse to help himself.

  The doctor told him to rest as much as he could.

  ‘With my workload!’

  The house sounded busy. Sometimes the commandant felt he could barely move for girls sewing away, in the attic and downstairs too, maids running around, cooks, nannies, gardeners, shoe cleaners, not to mention the regular service orderly. His wife employed beyond the point of generosity. He asked the doctor if he wanted a cup of anything, thinking the answer would be indicative of whether the visit had an ulterior motive. The doctor asked for tea. The commandant, on guard, rang the bell on his desk and a skivvy hurried in with an awkward bob and a curtsey.

  While they waited to be served the doctor made a show of admiring the furniture, particularly the desk whose entire surface was covered with family photographs, held in place by a sheet of Plexiglass whose size alone was a statement of his powers of acquisition.

  The commandant suspected the doctor was fishing. He was having his house done and no furniture was available in store. Everything that could be confiscated had been. To have it made you needed connections the doctor could only dream of.

  ‘I could get you an appointment with Erich Groenke.’

  The doctor had heard stories about the man’s legendary capabilities. He suspected the offer was a bribe, disguised as a favour.

  The commandant said, ‘Big Erich has access to designers with swatches of material, from which garrison wives choose their curtains.’

  At home the doctor had a single camp bed, a wooden chair and an improvised table. His architect had taken months to come up with the piping for the plumbing, and the promised taps, due weeks ago, were still in mysterious transit; and the place was supposed to be nearly ready for his wife and children to move in.

  The maid returned.

  ‘This is good tea!’ exclaimed the commandant, as though it was an exception to be served the best. He had taken off his shirt for the doctor’s inspection and not put it back on. He slurped his tea, holding the saucer under the cup. A cigarette burned in the ashtray.

  They were interrupted by the commandant’s wife. The doctor stood, took her hand and made to kiss it but restricted himself to a bow. She smelled overpoweringly of violets.

  The commandant suspected she fancied the doctor for his gentleman’s manners.

  Strange woman, the doctor thought. Her main expression with him was a fixed grin. Stately in manner if not appearance, she dressed down in styles too young for her, including white ankle socks. Such dowdiness was at variance with her main interest, which he knew was fashion. She made a point of false modesty and charitable works, was keen on culture, which her husband was not. She was off that evening to Kattowice to see the Vienna State Opera perform with Elisabeth Höngen.

  The commandant continued to sit in his vest, dragging on another cigarette. The doctor counted six in the ashtray. The commandant said to his wife, ‘The doctor is having trouble finding furniture. I suggest he talks to Big Erich.’

  They discussed the matter until the commandant asked his wife, ‘Shall you be staying in Kattowice?’

  ‘It gets late otherwise. There’s talk of dinner with Höngen and Böhm.’ Böhm was conducting. The doctor considered her far more socially assured than her husband.

  ‘Talking of furnishing,’ she said, and went to the door and called upstairs, then told her husband to put his shirt on.

  They were joined by a young woman, who stood on the threshold, eyes downcast, demeanour modest. For all that, there was no denying her beauty. The commandant was staring.

  ‘The most exquisite seamstress,’ announced his wife. ‘She has already made the most wonderful tapestry. You must commission one for when your wife comes.’

  The commandant continued to gawp. His wife told the young woman to fetch a sample.

  They waited in silence. The sound of a vacuum cleaner came from the next room.

  The commandant’s wife eventually said to the doctor, ‘Next time we have a social you must come.’

  She turned away before he could answer and announced the young woman’s return. The tapestry was of a mill.

  ‘It’s called “Autumn Landscape”.’

  The doctor made polite noises. It was ghastly and he was a long way from needing anything like it. Compared to his standard of living, the commandant’s was luxurious, frivolous even, if his wife could employ people to produce such inessentials.

  The commandant looked on proudly. ‘Exquisite,’ he said, which earned him a look from his wife.

  The doctor addressed the young woman. ‘Yes, I should like you to make us something once I have the house in a more presentable state for such fine craftsmanship as yours.’

  How awkward he sounded. The seamstress bowed her head. The doctor was aware of the commandant glaring with what he was astonished to realise was jealousy.

  The women left together. The vacuum cleaner was in the hall now. The doctor smelled furniture polish, a relief after the cloying perfume. He wondered whether the woman was having an affair. Nearly everyone was. The commandant was clearly smitten by the seamstress, and the doctor wondered if that could be used against him somehow, except he was not one to whom intrigue came naturally. Nor was the commandant, he suspected, but he had swum in murky waters for so long.

  Before leaving, the doctor drew himself to his full height and formally restated his case.

  ‘May I bring to your attention again that the garrison security police’s opposition to my reforms involves criminal acts. I officially request – again – that an outside judicial commission come in to review and end these despicable practices.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the commandant said testily.

  ‘A prosecuting judge has gone into a garrison near Weimar—’

  ‘Enough!’ said the commandant. ‘You have just told me to get plenty of rest.’ He smirked. ‘Go and see Erich,’ he said, picking up the telephone.

  Erich Groenke did not look like a convicted rapist, though the garrison doctor had no idea what one should look like. Don’t let him bore you, the commandant had said. ‘He likes to go on but get him on your side and he will do anything for you.’

  The leather factory, which Groenke ran, stood between the garrison and the station, in a restricted area, a mixture of staff quarters and commercial buildings, including the dairy and garrison abattoir, and the grocery store which the doctor had never been inside because his Polish skiv fetched what little he needed.

  Groenke wore a corduroy jacket with lots of pockets, a leather waistcoat and fine boots which he pointed out he had made himself. He was considered one of the camp’s success stories, the reformed lag, one of the original gang of thirty – tough jailbirds hand-selected by the commandant to come from home to crack Polish heads and get the place on its feet.

  ‘Not easy when you are bottom of everyone’s list. The Old Man was always complaining they would give a refugee camp more.’

  The doctor could see he was expected to ask what methods existed for advancing work on his house. Groenke implied that access to the pharmacy was a potential point of discussion, but the doctor refused to be drawn. He wasn’t entirely naïve.

  He left empty-handed; almost. Everyone had a dog, Groenke said; man’s best friend and that. The doctor’s children would not be able to resist. The dam was a Belgian shep
herd and the doctor would get first pick of the litter. The cost struck him as exorbitant and he said he was hard up. Groenke dropped his price and the doctor realised it was more a test of his negotiating skills, and he probably hadn’t heard the last of the pharmacy.

  Perhaps a dog would not be so bad. He missed the lack of affection. Garrison men made themselves out to be tough. Social occasions were brittle. The women were as bad as the men when it came to drink. No one seemed much interested in their children. He had heard of parties where couples paired up and went off together.

  He constantly reminded his wife in his letters that her love and support were of inestimable value. He tried to keep the tone breezy – he wrote most days – but it was hard to find cheerful news. He knew she read the letters to the children and had to find coded ways of expressing his physical longing. He took an optimistic view on the progress on the house. He made no mention of the ghastly stench and wondered how she would cope. At least she would never have to see the state of the prisoner infirmaries or conditions in the new camp.

  That morning the Polish girl produced a plate of bread with chopped egg and gherkin and stood waiting to see what he made of it. He was in the middle of writing but too polite to refuse. ‘Good,’ he said, making a show of appreciation.

  She was a plain, bold creature. He had given her some cream for her acne and it seemed to make no difference to her skin or their awkward relationship. He knew he gave her too little to do. She cleaned his boots and shoes, not well enough for him not to have to do them again, and did shopping and housework and took his laundry and dry-cleaning to the outlet in the garrison, which meant she didn’t have to wash or iron.

  He continued to write while eating. ‘Still I remain in good spirits, as do we all. The job we have is not easy as I keep telling you, my angel. We try and perform a humane task but half of it is trying to educate everyone into keeping proper records. Seeing themselves as pioneers, living on “the wild frontier”, they are impatient of what they call bumph, and see the likes of me as fusspots. I sit in our new house picturing our future, you sitting here (and lying with me upstairs) and the children running around (or asleep!). As for anyone who tried to take away my house, my happiness or my beloved, I would bash in his skull!’