Armageddon In Retrospect - Kurt Vonnegut [24]
Kleinhans jerked open the barracks door, and motioned them in with an imperious sweep of his hand.
“Achtung!” cried a high voice from within. Donnini, Coleman, and Kniptash halted and slouched, their heels more or less together. With a crackle of leather and the clack of heels, Corporal Kleinhans slammed his rifle butt on the floor, and stood as erect as his old back would permit, trembling. A surprise inspection by a German officer was under way. Once a month they could expect one. A short colonel in a fur-collared coat and black boots was standing, his feet far apart, before a rank of prisoners. Beside him was the fat sergeant of the guard. All stared at Corporal Kleinhans and his charges.
“Well,” said the colonel in German, “what have we here?”
The sergeant hurriedly explained with gestures, his brown eyes pleading for approval.
The colonel walked slowly across the cement floor, his hands clasped behind his back. He paused before Kniptash. “You pin a pad poy, eh?”
“Yessir, I have,” said Kniptash simply.
“You sorry now?”
“Yessir, I sure am.”
“Good.” The colonel circled the small group several times, humming to himself, pausing once to finger the fabric of Donnini’s shirt. “You unnerstandt me ven I talk Enklish?”
“Yessir, it’s very clear,” said Donnini.
“Vot part von Amerika I got an agsent like?” he asked eagerly.
“Milwaukee, sir. I could have sworn you were from Milwaukee.”
“I could be a spvy in Milvaukee,” said the colonel proudly to the sergeant. Suddenly, his gaze fell on Corporal Kleinhans, whose chest was just a little below his eye-level. His good humor evaporated. He stalked over to stand squarely before Kleinhans. “Corporal! Your blouse pocket is unbuttoned!” he said in German.
Kleinhans’ eyes were wide as he reached for the offending pocket flap. Feverishly, he tried to tug it down to the button. It wouldn’t reach.
“You have something in your pocket!” said the colonel, reddening. “That’s the trouble. Take it out!”
Kleinhans jerked two notebooks from the pocket and buttoned the flap. He sighed with relief.
“And what have you in your notebooks, eh? A list of prisoners. Demerits, maybe? Let me see them.” The colonel snatched them from the limp fingers. Kleinhans rolled his eyes.
“What is this?” said the colonel incredulously, his voice high. Kleinhans started to speak. “Silence, Corporal!” The colonel raised his eyebrows, and held a book out so that the sergeant could share his view. “‘Vot I am going to eat de first ting ven I gat home,’” he read slowly. He shook his head. “Ach! ‘Tvelf pangakes mit a fried ek betveen each von!’ Oh! ‘Und mit hot futch on top!’” He turned to Kleinhans. “Is that what you want, you poor boy?” he said in German. “And such a pretty picture you drew, too. Mmmmm.” He reached for Kleinhans’ shoulders. “Corporals have to think about war all the time. Privates can think about anything they want to—girls, food, and good things like that—just as long as they do what the corporals tell them.” Deftly, as though he’d done it many times before, the colonel dug his thumbnails beneath the silver corporal’s pips on Kleinhans’ shoulder loops. They rattled against the wall like pebbles, down at the far end of the barracks. “Lucky privates.”
Once more, Kleinhans cleared his throat for permission to speak.
“Silence, Private!” The little colonel strutted out of the barracks, shredding the notebooks as he went.
III.
Donnini felt rotten, and so, he knew, did Kniptash and Coleman. It was the morning after Kleinhans’ demotion. Outwardly, Kleinhans seemed no different. His stride was spry as ever, and he still seemed capable of drawing pleasure from the fresh air and signs of spring poking up from the ruins.
When they arrived at their street, which still wasn’t passable, even to bicycles, despite their three weeks of punishment, Kleinhans didn’t browbeat them as he had the afternoon before. Neither did he tell them to appear to be busy as