Armageddon In Retrospect - Kurt Vonnegut [21]
The three American soldiers remained seated within the roofless shell of a building amid the smashed masonry and timbers of Dresden, Germany. The time was early March, 1945. Kniptash, Donnini, and Coleman were prisoners of war. Corporal Kleinhans was their guard. He was to keep them busy at arranging the city’s billion tons of rubble into orderly cairns, rock by rock, out of the way of non-existent traffic. Nominally, the three Americans were being punished for minor defections in prison discipline. Actually, their being marched out to work in the streets every morning under the sad blue eyes of the lackadaisical Kleinhans was no better, no worse than the fates of their better-behaved comrades behind the barbed-wire. Kleinhans asked only that they appear to be busy when officers passed.
Food was the only thing on the P.W.’s pale level of existence that could have any effect on their spirits. Patton was a hundred miles away. To hear Kniptash, Donnini, and Coleman speak of the approaching Third Army, one would have thought it was spear-headed, not by infantry and tanks, but by a phalanx of mess sergeants and kitchen trucks.
“Come, come,” said Corporal Kleinhans again. He brushed plaster dust from his ill-fitting uniform, the thin, cheap grey of the homeguard, the pathetic army of old men. He looked at his watch. Their lunch hour, which had been thirty minutes with nothing to eat, was over.
Donnini wistfully leafed through his notebook for another minute before returning it to his breast pocket and struggling to his feet.
The notebook craze had begun with Donnini’s telling Coleman how to make Pizza pie. Coleman had written it down in one of several notebooks he had taken from a bombed-out stationery store. He had found the experience so satisfying, that all three were soon obsessed with filling the notebooks with recipes. Setting down the symbols for food somehow made them feel much closer to the real thing.
Each had divided his booklet into departments. Kniptash, for instance, had four major departments: “Desserts I Am Going to Try,” “Good Ways to Fix Meat,” “Snacks,” and “Missalanious.”
Coleman, scowling, continued to print laboriously in his notebook. “How much sherry?”
“Dry sherry—it’s got to be dry,” said Donnini. “About three-quarters of a cup.” He saw that Kniptash was erasing something in his notebook. “What’s the matter? Changing it to a gallon of sherry?”
“Nope. Wasn’t even working on that one. I was changing something else. Changed my mind about what the first thing I want is,” said Kniptash.
“What?” asked Coleman, fascinated.
Donnini winced. So did Kleinhans. The notebooks had heightened the spiritual conflict between Donnini and Kniptash, had defined it in black and white. The recipes that Kniptash contributed were flamboyant, made up on the spot. Donnini’s were scrupulously authentic, artistic. Coleman was caught between. It was gourmet versus glutton, artist versus materialist, beauty versus the beast. Donnini was grateful for an ally, even Corporal Kleinhans.
“Don’t tell me yet,” said Coleman, flipping pages. “Wait’ll I get set with the first page.” The most important section of each of the notebooks was, by far, the first page. By agreement, it was dedicated to the dish each man looked forward to above all others. On his first page, Donnini had lovingly inscribed the formula for Anitra al Cognac—brandied duck. Kniptash had given the place of honor to his pancake horror. Coleman had plumped uncertainly for ham and candied sweet potatoes, but had been argued out of it. Terribly torn, he had written both Kniptash’s and Donnini’s selections on his first page, putting off a decision until a later date. Now, Kniptash was tantalizing him with a modification of his atrocity. Donnini sighed. Coleman was weak. Perhaps Kniptash’s new twist would woo him away from Anitra al Cognac altogether.
“Honey’s out,” said Kniptash firmly. “I kind of wondered about it. Now I know it’s all wrong. Doesn’t go with eggs, honey doesn’t.”
Coleman erased. “Well?” he said expectantly.
“Hot