When fussing, he left the garage door open to vent the exhaust - and to admit his audience; mostly children, they'd stand in the doorway and make revving sounds of their own. Wut let them sit on the sidecar models, but never on the ones that could tip off their kickstands and crush a child. Gottlob brought pastries from the Serbian woman and had a snack with the children before he closed up. But the children who stole - even so little as an insignia - he never let come back. Wut always knew who stole what too.
Gottlob Wut was a stringy, hipless and rumpless man, bent-backed, and stiff in all his twitchy motions; he had a wincing walk, as if it hurt him to unbend his joints. It probably did hurt too. At one time or another, Gottlob Wut had broken all his fingers and half his toes, both wrists and both ankles, one leg and the other elbow, all but the highest rib on his left side, once his jaw, twice his nose, and three times his sunken left cheek - though never his right. Wut had never driven in a race, but he'd tested all the racers before the flaws were gone. NSU discovered flaws through Gottlob Wut. Poor Wut, pinned under one test model or another, his hand lanced through by a front brake handle, fuel sloshing over his chest, the old hand gearshift of a Tourensport stuck in his thigh - while hirelings pull the monster off him. Wut is speaking: 'Ja, I'd say there is clearly no rear suspension, and we'll have to retain the girder fork in front if we're to have any suspension at all. Because I certainly was totally lacking suspension of any kind, in that corner I missed back there.'
But now Wut had a dull job, writing tickets: Bronsky, your tires are forever soft; Gortz, tissue paper will not stop your leak, you've lost a seal in your transmission, and don't you ever put such gunk as tissue in there again; Wallner, you've been laying over too much on your corners, you've skinned your tailpipes and bent your kickstand - such hot-rodding will get you just nothing but a sidecar attached, to slow you down, you fool; Vatch, your tail fender Iron Cross is gone, and don't you tell me it was my children who took it, for I watch them and I know it's some girl that has it or you sent it home and said it was a medal you never got - it's got screw holes in it, you won't be fooling anyone - so get it back on that tail fender; Metz, your sparkplugs are filthy, and I don't scrape carbon for anyone, that's unskilled labor like you can do - Monday, instead of your lunch.
Yes, Gottlob Wut had a dull job - survived adventures to be bored to death. He would have liked to tell his best driver, Wallner, how he could skin his tailpipes down to dust, how he could lay over on a corner and really grind his tailpipes down to nothing - only watch out for the kickstand, it can snap you up, which is why you don't put one on a bike you're racing, and often no tailpipes either. But Gottlob wrote tickets on Sunday, and had to write tickets that kept Scout Outfit Balkan 4 intact, even if obsolete; parts and drivers weren't so easily replaced in Slovenjgradec as they were in the old Neckarsulm factory.
Certainly the Sunday of 26 October 1941 was a fine Slivnica sort of choice for a day when my father could attempt to bring some excitement into the dull life of Gottlob Wut.
It was also the fifth and last day of gravedigging for the shovel-sore and weary widows of Kraguyevats.
And it was probably a day of sneaky fighting, like many other days, for the Chetniks of Mihailovich and for the Communist partisans who at this time were supporting the Chetnik forces against the Germans - the Communist partisans being led by a little-known son of a Croatian blacksmith from the village of Klanyets. The blacksmith's son had gone to the Russian front with the Austro-Hungarian Army, but he went over to the Russians and fought with the Red Army through the civil war; then returned home as a leader of the Yugoslav Communist part
y; then was arrested as a Communist in 1928 and served five years in prison; then allegedly was in charge of the Yugoslav Communist party through the period of illegality, although those involved with the Balkan underground centers in Vienna, at the time, swear they never once heard of this blacksmith's son. Certain members of the Balkan underground claim that the blacksmith's son was actually a member of the Russian secret service, and that he was in Russia until the Germans' delayed invasion got under way. Whatever his real history is, the blacksmith's son was the mystery-man leader of the Communist partisans, who were fighting along with the Chetniks against the Germans - when they weren't fighting against the Chetniks. He was a Communist; he had a large and handsome Slavic head; he was fighting along with Mihailovich before he turned against Mihailovich; he was indeed mysterious.
At the time my father was on his way to meet Gottlob Wut, very few people had ever heard of Josip Broz Tito, the blacksmith's son.
My father certainly hadn't heard of him, but, as I've said, Vratno paid little attention to politics. He was attentive to more constant details: the various uses of Amal carburetors, the advantages of the double-overhead cam, umlaut sounds and verb endings. In fact, by the Sunday of 26 October 1941, my father had learned his introductory lines by heart.
Vratno spoke his German softly to himself; he even spoke made-up lines for Wut. Then he strolled through the open doors of the motorcycle unit's garage, an indigo-blue racing helmet with a red-tinted visor cocked a bit back on his head, chin strap loose and jaunty; and over the ear hole of the helmet, a crossed pair of chequered racing flags with a halo printed above them, reading: AMAL CARBURETORS FINISH FIRST - AND LAST!
'Herr Commander Wut,' he said. 'Well, yes, I'd still recognize you. You're older, of course, I was only eleven, so of course I'm older too. That wonderful Wut!' Vratno crowed. 'If only my poor uncle had lived to meet you.'
'What?' said Wut, strewing tools and children. 'Who?' said Wut, a socket wrench firm in his puffy old hand - the dirtiest, most knuckle-cut hands that my father had ever seen.
'Javotnik here,' my father said, 'Vratno Javotnik.'
'You speak German,' said Wut. 'And what are you doing in leathers?'
'Wut,' said Vratno, 'I've come to join your team.'
'My what?' said Wut.
'I've come to learn all over again, Wut - now that I've found the master.'
'I don't have any teams,' said Wut. 'I don't know any Javotniks.'
'Remember the Grand Prix of Italy, 1930?' Vratno asked. 'Ah, Wut, you really made a killing.'
Gottlob Wut unsnapped his sidearm holster.
Vratno said, 'My poor dead uncle took me, Wut. I was only eleven. Uncle said you were the very best.'
'At what?' said Wut, holster open.
'Motorcycles, of course, Wut. Fixing them and driving them, testing them and coaching drivers. A genius, Uncle said. Politics got in the way, of course, or my uncle would have joined your team.'
'But I don't have any team,' said Wut.
'Look,' my father said. 'I've got a real problem.'
'I'm very sorry,' said Gottlob Wut, sincerely.
'I was just coming along as a driver,' Vratno said, 'when my uncle was killed - drove his Norton into the Sava outside the Bled. It ruined me, Wut. I haven't sat on a bike since.'
'I don't know what you want,' Gottlob said.
'You can teach me, Wut. I've got to learn all over - how to ride. I was good, Wut, but I lost my nerve when poor Uncle sank in the Sava. Uncle said you were the very best.'