O. Schrutt knows no bounds.
I waited until he was off in one end of the maze, and then I fled his house of organized horror.
I lay back in my hedgerow, thinking: Whatever gave him the idea? Where did O. Schrutt first develop his perverse habit of playing small mammals off against each other?
It's getting lighter all around me now, and I'm still without an overall scheme. But I can tell you, I have plans for old O. Schrutt.
(CONTINUING:)
THE HIGHLY SELECTIVE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF SIEGFRIED JAVOTNIK: PRE-HISTORY II
On the fourteenth of October, 1944, the Red Army entered Belgrade, with ex-quisling Marko Mesich leading the Yugoslav contingent. Well, times change; it was a hard war to go through if you stayed on the same side you began with.
On the twenty-fourth of October, 1944, a Russian partisan group were surprised to find Chetniks engaging a force of twenty thousand Germans at Chachak. While the Russians and Chetniks were making a pincer attack on the Germans, a Russian officer observed that the partisans were attacking the Chetniks from behind. After the battle, the Chetniks turned over forty-five hundred German prisoners to the Russians; the following day, the Russians and partisans disarmed the Chetniks and arrested them. Chetnik Captain Rakovich escaped, and the partisans made a most sincere hunt for him throughout the Chachak area.
My father and Gottlob Wut were still in the Slovenian mountains, west of Maribor, when the hunt for Chetnik Captain Rakovich began.
There was no hunting at all in the Slovenian mountains. The Germans were on the defensive now, and the Ustashi were biding their time, middle-of-the-road. The Red Army wasn't as far west as Slovenia, and the partisan forces weren't at their strongest; the Ustashi weren't really fighting for the Germans any more - not wanting to turn the partisans against them - but it wasn't quite safe enough for the Ustashi to fight against the Germans either. At least not in Slovenia.
And Gottlob Wut was getting depressed. His legs and back and general walking apparatus were pitifully shot, and there were very few roads in the mountains where Gottlob could wheel his motorcycle peacefully and freely. And by November the mountains were very cold; the motorcycles needed a lighter oil.
It was some time in mid-November that the staff radio in the 600 sidecar model began to burble; up to that time, Vratno and Gottlob had figured the radio was dead, or that any mobilized German effort was out of broadcasting range. Gottlob eavesdropped over his radio; for two days the burble grew louder, but it was all some sort of number code. On the third day, however, Gottlob Wut recognized a voice from Motorcycle Unit Balkan 4.
'That's Wallner!' Gottlob said. 'That hot-rodding punk, he's got my old job!' And before my father could knock him away from the radio, poor Wut flipped on the transmit switch and shouted, 'Piglet! Incompetent piglet!' Then Vratno tackled him off the seat, scrambled back to the radio and flipped off the transmit switch, leaving the dial at listenin. Where they heard a motorcycle idling, almost stalling.
Then Wallner's voice whispered or gasped, 'Wut! Herr Commander Wut?' While Wut tore the grass on the ground. 'Commander Wut?' the voice said again.
There was only the rough idle coming over the radio when Gottlob said, 'Listen to that engine! It's so far out of tune, it would burn up if you ever had to push it.'
But the transmit switch was left off; Wallner was given no opportunity to confirm what he thought he heard. Radio Wallner said, 'Bronsky, are you switched on? Come in, come in.' And there was nothing, so Wallner said, 'Gortz, listen in! Listen in, Metz! It's the commander, didn't you hear him?' And then he shouted, 'Vatch, are you there, Vatch?' Then the motorcycle stalled and Wallner grunted some untender oath. Vratno and Gottlob could hear him jumping on the kick starter.
'He's got the choke full on,' said Wut. 'Listen to him draw the air.'
And they heard the kick starter ratcheting up and down; far away from catching, his engine sucked.
'Listen in, you bastards!' Radio Wallner screamed. 'You're supposed to be switched on!' And he labored on the kick starter, panting into the radio. 'You pricks!' he screamed. 'I heard old Wut!'
'Old Wut!' said Wut, but my father held him back from the transmit switch.
'Old Wut is around!' Wallner screamed to the radio. 'Where are you, Wut?'
'Up your ass,' said Gottlob, still tearing grass.
'Wut!' Wallner screamed.
And another radio voice said, 'Who?'
'Wut!' said Wallner.
'Wut? Where?' the other voice said.
'That's Gortz,' Wut told my father.
'Bronsky?' said Wallner.
'No, Gortz,' Gortz said. 'What's this Wut shit?'
'I heard Wut,' said Wallner.
A third radio voice said, 'Hello?'
'That's Metz,' said Wut.
'Bronsky?' Wallner asked.
'No, Metz,' Metz said. 'What's up?'
'Wut's around,' said Wallner.
'I didn't hear him,' Gortz said.
'You weren't switched on!' Wallner screamed. 'I heard Wut!'
'What'd he say?' asked Metz.
'Oh, I don't know,' Wallner said. '"Piglet," I think. Ja, "piglet"!'
'I've heard him use the word,' said Metz.
'Ja, two years ago,' said Gortz. 'I didn't hear anything.'
'You prick, you weren't switched on!' Wallner shouted.
'Hello,' said a fourth.
'Bronsky,' Wut said to my father.
'Vatch?' said Wallner.
'Bronsky,' Bronsky said.
'Wallner heard Wut,' said Metz.
'Wallner thinks he did,' Gortz said.
'I heard him, very loud!' said Wallner.
'Wut?' Bronsky said. 'Wut, around here?'
'Around where, I'd like to know,' my father said to Gottlob.
'It was crystal clear,' said Wallner.
'Hello,' Vatch said, the last to switch on.
'Vatch?' said Wallner.
'Yes,' said Vatch. 'What's up?'
'It's very complicated,' Gortz said.
'Pricks!' said Wallner. 'I really heard him!'
'Heard who?' Vatch asked.
'Hitler,' said Gortz.
'Churchill,' said Metz.
'Wut!' Wallner screamed. 'You're out there, Wut, you piglet yourself! Speak up, Wut!' But Gottlob sat grinning on the grass. He listened to the ragged motorcycles and the mad Wallner, his cronies dropping off the radio, one by one.
Then a voice Wut didn't know came from some further distance - carrying static with it: more numbers. And Wallner answered, 'I heard my old commander. Wut, the deserter - he's out here.' And the numbers answered him back. 'No, really! Wut is out here,' said Wallner. And a staticful voice from a further distance said, 'Use your numbers, Commander Wallner.' And Wallner babbled numbers.
'Commander Wallner,' Gottlob scoffed. He and Vratno listened longer, until there was no more transmitting; the radio crackled and hummed.
'Where do you think they are?' said Vratno.
'Where are we?' Wut asked. Together, they went over the maps. They were maybe five miles above the Drava River and the Maribor road.
'A movement?' said Wut. 'They're pulling out of Slovenjgradec, maybe? Going east to fight the Russians? North to join the Austrians?'
'A movement, anyway,' Vratno said. 'On the Maribor road.'
And that night they listened at the radio again. There were more numbers, staticful and distant. It was after midnight when they heard Wallner again.
'Wut?' the radio whispered. 'Can you hear me, Wut?'
And Gortz must have been at his radio, because he said, 'Come on, Wallner, take it easy. Get some sleep, man.'
'Get off your radio,' Wallner snapped. 'Maybe he only talks to me.'
'That I believe,' said Gortz.
'Get off!' Wallner said, and said again, 'Wut?' in a whisper. 'Come in, come in. Damn you, Wut, come in.' And was drowned out by numbers.
Then the unrecognizable authoritative voice came back: 'Commander Wallner, go to sleep. I
must ask you, when you use the radio, to use your numbers, please.' Wallner spewed numbers and got no reply.
Vratno whispered to the giggling Gottlob Wut, 'When he's alone, now, that's when. When you're sure he's got the radio to himself, give it to him then.' And Wut, still leaving the dial at listenin, flipped on the transmit switch.
Later, Wallner whispered numbers. There was no reply. 'Balkan Four,' whispered Wallner then, 'Balkan Four.' And got no reply. Then he said, a little louder. 'You old prick, Wut. Wut, come in.' Gottlob waited for someone else to come in. There was no reply, and Wallner said, 'Wut. You traitor, Wut. Gutless prick, Wut.'
Then Gottlob said softly, 'Goodnight, Commander Wallner.' And flipped the transmit switch off, still keeping the dial at listenin.
'Wut!' Wallner hissed 'Wooooooot!' he screamed, and there was more static - and brushing, thumping sounds. Wallner must have had the radio off the motorcycle mounts and in a tent somewhere; they heard the tent flap, they heard radio parts crackle. Wallner must have lugged the radio out of his tent like a football hugged to his chest, because his shouts seemed farther away now, as if his mouth weren't near the speaker hole: 'He's around, listen in! You pricks, switch on and hear him!'
And Gortz whispered loudly, 'Wallner! For God's sakes, man.'
And the unknown authoritative voice said, 'Commander Wallner, that's quite enough. Use your numbers or lose your radio, Commander.' And almost rhythmically, Wallner came on with his numbers; musically, he crooned his numbers into the night.
Vratno and Gottlob sat and dozed; they woke and hugged each other - laughing down their two-year beards - and dozed again, keeping the radio at listenin. Once they heard Wallner murmur, asleep or still feebly trying, 'Goodnight, Commander Wut, you prick.' But Gottlob just grinned in silence.
Before first light, Wut and Vratno packed the bikes and moved four miles north, above Limbus. Then they camouflaged their gear and bikes, and carried the unmounted radio, walked a quarter of a mile, north along a ridge line - caught the sun coming over the right of the church spire at Limbus, and camped themselves less than a mile from, and in full view of, the Maribor road.
They were there the next day and night without a bite to eat or a glimpse of a motorcycle scout. At night they tuned in on Wallner, but heard only numbers - none of them in Wallner's voice: It was the next morning that they heard louder numbers, coming from Gortz, and once, shortly before noon, Gortz said, 'It's too bad about Wallner.' Bronsky answered that poor Wallner had always been too highly strung.
Then the overhearing, unknown voice said, 'Commander Gortz you'll use your numbers, please.' And Gortz said he would.
It was that afternoon when Gottlob spotted sloppy Heine Gortz on one of the '38 600 models, without sidecar. Bronsky followed him, with soft tires that Wut could see all the way from the ridge.
And that night a large force moved through Limbus, observing blackout conditions. With the tail end of the movement barely out of town, my father made a raid on a Limbus dairy and came back with milk and cheese.
They stayed two more days above Limbus before spotting a second, following, German movement - this one, with unidentified motorcycle scouts. Not Balkan 4, anyway; they were some outfit down from Austria, maybe. They scouted for a ragged force, a straggling crew - no panzers, just some trucks and jeeps. And they were preceded by no number series. Some of the soldiers marched with their helmets off; many sprouted most un-German beards. It was a likely bet, and my father and Gottlob Wut took the odds. They joined the movement on the Maribor side of Limbus, meeting them on the road and saying they'd had motor trouble which dropped them out of Balkan 4. They were fed - the bikes had an oil change - and they wheeled into Maribor, not knowing whether they were on a retreat or headed for a front.
It didn't really matter. When the barracks' assignments were given out, Gottlob said that he and his man were hooking up again with their old outfit.
For a fee, they stashed their motorcycles in an outdoor prostitute's booth in what was called the Old City; then they rolled and robbed a German officer in an uptown district - cleverly done, disguised in Borsfa Durd's well-worn clothes; next they found a saunabad which uncurled their beards and made them glossy. Uniformed now, they turned out on the town - two soldiers out for a night of fun.
But oh, dear. In all of Maribor, you'd have thought Gottlob Wut would have found a night spot that wasn't the topmost choice for the other remnants of Balkan 4.
Perhaps Wut thought his two-year beard made him unrecognizable. Whatever, he was jaunty among the soldiers in the Sv. Benedikt Cellar. There was a Turkish belly dancer with the suspiciously Yugoslav name of Jarenina; her dancing belly was Caesareaned. The beer was thin. Surprising was this: there were no Ustashi troops in Wehrmacht uniforms to be seen. But there was a blown-up photo above the bar, riddled with darts - Ustashi in Wehrmacht uniform, marching with partisans! somewhere in Croatia.
My father was careful to be accurate with his umlaut sounds: he felt their beards brought them under suspicion.
It was very late when Vratno followed Wut's wincing walk to the unheated men's room. The urinal steamed; the tiles were cracked around the terrible hole for the standup crapper. A man weaved on his heels, pants down to his ankles, and leaned back over the crapper's chasm - clutching to the handrail that kept him from falling in. Four men steamed over the urinal; another two came in with Gottlob and my father.
Heads bowed over the trough, breath held against the rising steam and stench, eight men fumbled and peed. One dropped a cigarette down the sluiceway.
Then the man spanning the crapper gave a cry, and must have tried to tug himself upright with a wrench on the handrail.
'Wut!' the man screamed, and Gottlob, turning fast and peeing down my father's leg, saw sloppy Heine Gortz rip the handrail from the rotting, tiled stall's wall and pitch backwards, pants snug at his ankles, fanny-first down into the crapper's chasm. 'Oh dear God!' moaned Heine Gortz, and feet-up, his pocket change falling down on him, he cried again, 'Wut! For God's sakes, Bronsky, it's Wut! Wake up, Metz! You're peeing next to old Wut!'
And before my father could stop his own peeing, Bronsky and Metz had spun poor Gottlob around and bent him backwards over the urinal. Heine Gortz clawed himself up out of the hole. My father fumbled himself back in his pants, but sloppy Heine Gortz said, 'You! Who are you with Wut?' But Gottlob didn't even look at Vratno; they didn't appear to recognize each other.
My father said - enunciating every German syllable, perfectly - 'I just met the man. We had beards in common, you see. Just a mutual admiration.'
And Bronsky or Metz said, 'Old Wut! Would you just look at him!'
'Filthy traitor,' said Heine Gortz. And one of them brought a knee up under him - buckled him - and someone tugged him along by his beard. They moved him into the standup crapper stall. Then they upended him, and sent him headfirst down into the breathless bog. Balkan 4 worked as a team. New-leader Heine Gortz, beshitted from his spine to the backs of knees, with his pants still down at his ankles, had Wut by one leg and stuffed poor Gottlob down the crapper's chasm.
While my father fastened his fly, exchanged shrugs of shoulder and tilts of head with the perplexed others still standing at the steaming urinal.
'Wut?' said one. 'Who's this Wut?'
'We just had beards in common,' Vratno said. 'Just a mutual admiration, was all,' he emphasized, although my poor father could scarcely talk - he was struck so dumb by the terrible teamwork of Balkan 4 - and it seemed to him that he had to shout to get his words out in front of his rising stomach.
When my father quietly left the Sv. Benedikt Cellar's men's room, only the soles of Wut's shoes were showing above the awful hole; nice poor Borsfa Durd, Gottlob Wut was buried coffinless; like Borsfa Durd, Gottlob Wut could finally be recognized by no more than the soles of his shoes.
The Sixteenth Zoo Watch: Tuesday, 6 June 1967, @ 5.30 a.m.
I RECOMMEND THAT we do it just as I've done up to now. We get behind this hedgerow late
one afternoon; we just sit tight through the first-shift nightwatchman's watch. When O. Schrutt takes over, we'll let him go through a round or two. We'll have to be on our guard for the gelada baboon too, although that could be made to work in our favor.
I can't decide whether we should drive O. Schrutt babbling mad, subtly; or simply feed him to the Famous Asiatic Black Bear - at the first possible opportunity.
Handling O. Schrutt in the latter fashion could present some problems. The Asiatic Black Bear might also get the keyring, and there'd be no taking it away from him, I assure you. Also, O. Schrutt might just have time enough to pull his gun and get a shot off. Whether he'd save himself or not, there'd surely be a policeman in Hietzing with an ear open for trouble in the zoo.
But even if we used the gelada baboon to drive O. Schrutt over the edge, there's no telling what form his final madness would take. He might run amok in the zoo.
So this is a problem. I believe we'll have to nab O. Schrutt very neatly, in the Small Mammal House. Disarm him, tie and gag him - lead the frotter along a chute and tumble him into a glasshouse for safekeeping.
We'll toss him in with the giant anteaters! They should keep him still. With what O. Schrutt knows about matchmaking, he should know exactly how quiet and inoffensive he has to be to keep the giant anteaters at ease with him. But then, it would be unfair of us not to share O. Schrutt a little. I'm sure the Indo-Chinese fishing cat would love to babysit with O. Schrutt awhile. I'm sure the ratel and the jaguarundi would love to have O. Schrutt visit their homes, all trussed up like a goose for the roasting pan - cooing dovelike through his gag, his face in the sawdust, saying, 'Nice, nice ratel - ooooh! Aren't you a nice ratel, though? And you don't have any hard feelings, do you, ratel?'
Better yet, we could blindfold him and let him guess which animal he's been thrown in with - which snuffling, deep-breathing animal is laying a cold, movable nose against old O.'s ear.
Tit for tat, O. Schrutt.
(CONTINUING:)
THE HIGHLY SELECTIVE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF SIEGFRIED JAVOTNIK: PRE-HISTORY II
My father laid low in Maribor. He paid a rather high rent for the prostitute's outdoor booth in the Old City, but thereby garaged the motorcycles safely out of sight. Not that he trusted the prostitute, a witchy thing who wouldn't tell him her name; in fact, one night when Vratno came back to the booth to sleep with the bikes, he found an old Serb siphoning gas out of the sidecar model 600. The Serb wouldn't give himself a name, either, but my father talked to him in Serbo-Croat and the old Serb gave way to senile utterances - choosing a theme of general disillusionment: first, with traitorous King Peter, who, after all, Mihailovich had rescued and sent to London. Did my father know the song the Serbs sang? No, since it had to do with politics; the old Serb sang it for him: