My friend Patroclus

Ho me dareis anthropos u paideuetai
A person who is not abused will not be educated!

Only in later years did I understand the above saying, which the parish priest of Troy, Laocoön, so casually and lightly uttered to his king Priam. No, not just casually uttered: Laocoön was an advocate of a "healthy slap," and therefore I don't feel sorry for him at all that the sea serpents swallowed him up. A healthy slap has always been unhealthy, you sir, you!

Apart from that, Laocoön was quite right, for the criticized Prince Paris was a cheeky young man who defiantly railed against the gods and was terribly conceited about his future kingship. Although, on closer inspection, in Troy, with its barely two thousand inhabitants, he could at best play the role of mayor. Paris, who lustfully pursued the daughters of the Greeks and Trojans on the beaches of Greece and Troy...

But I wanted to tell you something completely different. My father held the laudable and honorable opinion that his children had to go to elite schools to have the best possible start in life. My older and younger brothers attended a well-known school in Ried, Upper Austria, my sisters went to a convent run by tall, imposing figures, and I was destined for Stella Matutina, the most prestigious Jesuit school in Vorarlberg.

Thankfully, the Jesuits were wiser than my father in this regard, recognizing my difficult temperament—without ever having seen me—from afar, and they didn't budge a single penny on the exorbitantly high school fees, refugee or not. The monastery school on the shores of Lake Constance was more understanding; the feud with the Jesuits of Stella had been simmering for centuries, and besides, they had a heart for refugees. I was looking forward to Lake Constance, the fantastic sports facilities, and the horses that were cared for by students in the adjacent enclosure.

Well, so much for the theory. In practice, it was relentless studying, high-performance sports, and nightly canings (strokes on the bare bottom with a cane) for the minor or major transgressions of daily life; only the best, most compliant, and most diligent were allowed on the horses. This was a matter of prestige for the monastery, as they were only a fraction of a second behind the Stella. Like the Stella, the Stella was a classical high school, meaning Latin, Ancient Greek, and a broad, classical general education. I confess that I sometimes cried into my pillow at night in anger and disappointment, and very, very quietly, because there were 40 of us boys in one dormitory. But looking back, I am grateful for the thorough and quite modern education.

I don't remember all the priests, but some names I'll never forget. Paulus, the old warhorse in charge of trouser stretchers; Ambrosius, who playfully taught us Latin and Greek; Kassian (the current abbot), who, as a young gymnastics teacher, once climbed the scaffolded church facade with his cassock hiked up to prevent a lovelorn, drunken high school senior from clumsily attempting suicide over a pub waitress's rejection, and got him down over the scaffolding; Anselm, who was responsible for the choirboys at early mass and the theatrical productions. It won't surprise you, dear reader, that I not only distinguished myself as a fearsome ankle-killer on the football field, but also, spurred on by Father Anselm's empty promises, imprudently pushed my way to the front of the singing auditions.

And won.

Six boys with bell-like soprano voices accompanied Theo, two or three years older than me, every morning as a choir. Theo was a child prodigy and would probably have become a new Beniamino Gigli if he hadn't been called home by the Lord years later, one morning in the middle of Gregorian chant. So, this whole choir thing needs some serious explanation. Naturally, my heart leaped when Father Anselm read out the six names after the audition, lastly "little István from Hungary." The next day, there was no more leaping, because it started at 5 (five!) a.m. without breakfast: putting on choir robes and singing bell-like voices at the early Mass, Gregorian chants in antiphonal chant with the basses of the priests, who had already begun their silent prayers at 4. When Theo sang, I closed my eyes and was moved to tears: I want to sing like that someday, I thought again and again, without suspecting that my voice breaking would ruin my plans.

God's reward came at 6:30: while the others were still asleep or fighting over the best washing spots, we choirboys sat with the priests in the large refectory, received a hearty breakfast, and listened silently to the reader, just as they did. Just as things are done in a proper monastery.

Unfortunately, I wasn't just the bell-like soprano, but also the ankle-killer. Whenever we were allowed, we romped around the football pitch, scoring goals, and I destroyed ankles one after another. One day I went too far, was surrounded by angry teammates, and threatened with lynching. The guy from Ravensburg narrowed his eyes in pain and hissed that he would beat me to a pulp, and how, because I was a wild boar! The twins from the Bregenzerwald copied everything the guy from Ravensburg did and hissed too, even though, in my eyes, they were tiny little things and toads. But this time, the Swiss guy, Roger S., was also angry, and he was no pushover. The only one whose fist I had ever felt and who could beat me. He was not to be trifled with; he was stronger than all of them. I held my bleeding nose after his first blow and considered whether I should completely cut off the air supply to the twin I had in a headlock, while the Ravensburg native, a cowardly Lake Constance pirate with a hooked nose, threw himself on top of the ball of flesh and smashed everything below him.

With eyes wide in surprise, Roger staggered backward as an even more powerful fist grabbed him from behind and yanked him back. I caught my breath, kicked the cowardly Ravensburg native hard in the groin, and staggered away from the fighting. It was Klaus H., a Liechtenstein student from my final year, who couldn't bear to watch me go down and had saved me from being lynched. The disappointed mob dispersed, Klaus tended to my bleeding nose, and a brief friendship developed, beginning with him teaching me the basics of expertly killing treacherous Ravensburg residents, Bregenzerwalders, and Swiss. I often visited him in his single room; we studied together, and once, when I admired his atlas, he gave it to me without hesitation.

I wasn't ungrateful. But what could I, an 11-year-old, possibly offer an 18-year-old? I experienced firsthand the wisdom that even someone without means, but with a bright mind, can give a gift to someone. Klaus was a gifted person, well-mannered and from a good family. He excelled in mathematics and the natural sciences, but in languages he was a genius. He spoke his Liechtenstein dialect perfectly, in fact, but all other languages remained a mystery to his genius.

He suffered greatly because of it, and after a while he admitted that despite diligent studying, he was only just managing to pass in both Latin and Greek. I could already read Greek and often sat with him, studying with him and quizzing him on vocabulary. Of course, I had known since the beginning of the school year that there would be a theatrical performance at the end of the year; the graduating students would be reenacting scenes from Homer's Iliad, as they did every year. Klaus, like all the graduating students, was assigned a role and, much to his dismay, had to learn Achilles, one of the most talkative main characters in the Trojan War.

Great armor (borrowed from the Theater am Kornmarkt), great fight scenes (with real theatrical swords), and a whole lot of dialogue! Klaus always seemed very troubled by the latter. When he recited his lines, he didn't sound like Achilles, who frivolously blasphemes and challenges the gods at a drinking bout and then laughs uproariously, but rather like Klaus, who barks out the text in a clipped, serious, almost sour expression, boring the gods with repetitive hexameters, and of course, there's not a trace of uproarious laughter. Moreover, Achilles had a friend, a best friend, whose name, as we know, was Patroclus, a reckless youth who, on royal orders, was supposed to look after the impetuous young warrior; King Agamemnon himself insisted on it. This year's Patroclus, however, was in reality a disciple of Bacchus devoted to wine, women, and song, sleeping more often in the city taverns than at the boarding school, and cunningly promising to practice the dialogues of the friends with Klaus "tomorrow," and then for real. Of course, "tomorrow" turned out to be "today," and Patroclus, offended, insisted that this was the agreement: "tomorrow," not today!

Do whatever you must, dear reader, but never do one thing: never challenge the ancient Greek gods! They actually exist—unlike UFOs—and they can punish terribly. About three or four days before the performance, for which Achilles was preparing very conscientiously and for which I was assisting, standing in for Patroclus, Zeus, the father of the gods, had had enough of Patroclus, the drunkard. He let the brave hero, who had to leave his beloved waitress and his beloved tavern at closing time, fall asleep in the beer garden, even though it was drizzling. Patroclus developed a severe case of nephritis and remained in the hospital until after the performance date. Zeus nodded grimly and turned, satisfied, back to his earthly consorts; his anger lasted for weeks, and so he left it to Apollo, in the guise of the gymnastics teacher Father K., to pluck the completely drunken man from the scaffolding of the church facade... — Father Anselm, his graduating class, and Klaus were deeply affected; no, not because of the kidney infection, but because of the problem that had to be solved within a few days. They deliberated back and forth, Father Anselm even considering aloud canceling the performance due to divine providence or speaking the text himself, when Klaus suggested, almost under his breath, that I (little István from Hungary) could play Patroclus.

Without having been there, I know that you could have heard a pin drop at that moment, it was so quiet. An 11-year-old?! Patroclus?! Impossible! After some back and forth, Klaus came running into the large study hall and whispered to the priest on duty, then weaved his way through the rows of pews and wordlessly tugged at my arm: "Come with me!" I waited for the priest's nod of approval, then slipped out of the pew like a weasel and ran out after Klaus.

Father Anselm resisted for a long time, saying my voice was far too high for a Greek hero; the others complained that I was lost in the hero's bronze-colored breastwork like a peasant child in his father's winter coat; but one thing was undeniable: I knew the text almost flawlessly by heart, knew from Klaus's stage directions when and where Patroclus should sit or stand, and when he should bravely draw his sword to make it clear to Achilles that he, Patroclus, would, if necessary, use armed force to prevent him, Achilles, from his plan (namely, to massacre the hero Paris).

A twist of fate or the favor of the gods, for which I had prayed most earnestly? At the third rehearsal gallop, Father Anselm finally relented and gave his approval. The graduating students cheered and patted me on the shoulder. "Patroclus, let's be friends!" I suddenly felt very small and vulnerable among all the great, strong heroes of Greece and Troy. Helena (whose real name was Peter) lisped with a grin, saying Patroclus would draw the laughter and distract from her/him. "Thank God," added the beauty of the night with a pagan, mad-eyed wink. Father Anselm shook his head and went into the back theater room and selected the smallest possible breastplate, the smallest helmet, and a hemp beard for me. The helmet was later omitted; I was given a kind of crimson turban, and my milk-faced cheek was tanned with a dark paste.

I was incredibly nervous and had terrible stage fright, and I stumbled over my lines in the dress rehearsal, so much so that I burst into tears of anger. Father Anselm was a good man; he gave me a motherly hug and said everything would be alright, that I could take the text with me to the performance and read it aloud, and that everyone would understand.

Friend Patroclus, he then announced before the performance, had unfortunately had an accident and was in the hospital (well, now I was enlightened: even clergymen tell fibs). But, Father Anselm continued, I had discovered a young Greek talent in the lower grades (correction: shamelessly lying) who could speak Patroclus like the grown-ups; so he asked for your kind understanding regarding my high-pitched, childish voice and my short stature, which, however, certainly wouldn't have prevented the real Patroclus from avenging the death of his protégé Achilles (finally settled: clergymen are clueless, as if an immortal could be dead!). An observant person would immediately notice that Father Anselm had no idea what this play was actually about. Oh well. Thus prepared, the audience waited with bated breath for the "Scenes from the Siege of Troy."

Imagine it like this: the props—the scenery, weapons, and clothing of the legendary heroes—were borrowed from the Theater am Kornmarkt. The backdrop was a Renaissance painting, an English park landscape with an English castle: this was Troy. Rough potato sacks represented the sandy beach in front, and wooden chairs covered with rags served as seating. The bonfire, around which the heroes gathered and belted out their lines, was indeed there as a woodpile, but fire regulations forbade it from being lit, which made the whole thing look somewhat disconcertingly artificial. Only a pedantic nitpicker would be bothered by the fact that the heroes wore Roman legionary armor and carried Roman short swords. The art-loving spectator could close their eyes and feel transported directly to ancient Troy. —So be it!

I only had a very brief appearance, in the fourth scene. My nerves got the better of me, and I laid my manuscript down upside down. My turban slipped over my forehead and eyes as I took off my much-too-large helmet upon entering. I couldn't see the audience because of the bright spotlights, but I immediately sensed that a large, breathing, coughing monster was lurking behind the lamps. I hastily turned the manuscript right side up and memorized the first few verses until I realized I already knew them.

Achilles came in awkwardly, thus giving me—as agreed—a little time. Then we began. As in the dress rehearsal, I was irritated by the interruptions of Odysseus and Heracles, who were perfectly justified in doing so, but of course, we had omitted their parts during Klaus's rehearsal. Now I had to wait carefully until Klaus gave me the signal to begin. Naturally, I still understood very little Greek, but I read quickly and tried to find the rhythm of the poem. Klaus frowned darkly to draw my attention to my completely out-of-place, Italianate gestures and hand movements.

Father Anselm nodded approvingly to the abbot and the deputy mayor, nodding particularly gracefully and sincerely hypocritically to the group whenever a hero stumbled and stumbled ignominiously.

The finale was approaching. Patroclus managed to appease Achilles by taking his armor and beating Heracles himself. The burly demigod wouldn't stand for it, and so I—continuing my theatrical declaiming—had to bite the dust. The dead Patroclus watched the rapid ring-pounding from the corner of his eye; Menelaus finally rescued my corpse and Achilles' golden armor: he grabbed me by the elbow, dragged me around the still-unlit bonfire, and dropped me with a crash onto the stage behind it. Klaus, sadly amused by his friend Patroclus's pain-distorted face, grimly belted out his lines at the deputy mayor, the festival director's assistant, and Father Anselm, until his divine mother Thetis (multiple times the transvestite Helena, shrouded in a black cloak) brought him a shield, helmet, and spear from the deep sea. Having thus become invincible, he slew Heracles, then torches were lit, and while the chorus of remaining heroes murmured a final dirge, the curtain fell and the bright light went out.

Caesar's triumphs could not have been greater than when the curtain fell after the final scene and the audience, led by Father Anselm, erupted in frenzied applause. Yes, it wasn't we who deserved the applause, but Father Anselm, who had backed the right horse and had the courage to include a fresh-faced youngster in the troupe; it was Father Anselm who had tamed a horde of unruly youths and presented them triumphantly on stage. While the heroes embraced each other pathetically in the dressing room and acted like mad (like everyone who has an enormous weight lifted from their shoulders), Klaus simply extended his hand to me and looked me in the eye. "Thank you, my friend Patroclus," he said, and that was that.

Ankle killer!? No, from then on they called me Patroclus. The guy from Ravensburg jovially patted me on the shoulder and said he'd told everyone I'd deliver, and I'd totally nail it! The twins looked at each other and whispered that they'd always said the same thing, and so on. Roger remained honest, couldn't get his hands out of his pockets, and muttered defiantly over his shoulder that I'd just been incredibly lucky, pure luck!

Then we cleaned up the theater, and the adults went to the celebratory meal, which took place in the abbot's private chambers, as was the tradition. Klaus tugged at Father Anselm's elbow, and then Father Anselm announced that I, of course, had to come along to see the abbot. I nearly sank into the ground when the high lord patted my head and said that I had done Father Anselm and the monastery a good service by stepping in for the ailing abbot. He exchanged a few more trivial words about the existence and non-existence of refugee children and the Lord's magnanimity in having blessed me with a beautiful voice and a good feel for Greek tragedies (even though I was just a refugee child, mind you!), then his esteemed interest waned.

Actually, I shouldn't report on the feast of the legendary heroes. Suffice it to say, Brother Joseph was sweating bullets when the abbot ordered Patroclus to have milk, fresh milk! The heroes of Troy roared with laughter, Brother Joseph rolled his eyes and whispered that, for agricultural reasons, there wouldn't be any fresh milk again until morning, but no way, waved the abbot, the boy wasn't getting any wine! Then he turned to the deputy mayor and the assistant festival director and no longer cared what the boy was actually getting. And so it came to pass that Patroclus made the acquaintance of white wine spritzer for the first time in his life.

Brother Josef brought the glass with a slightly trembling hand, and Klaus muttered dryly that, in a pinch, it could just about pass for milk. "Ego te absolvo," he whispered conspiratorially to the bewildered brother, who hastily made the sign of the cross and made a hasty exit.

Of course, there was no happy ending. After the long meal and drink, the Abbot remembered the little Hungarian refugee and asked him to sing a Hungarian hymn. The boy turned bright red and whispered in a faltering voice that he couldn't, but Father Anselm's stern gaze allowed no excuses. Even the fact that the boy didn't know any Hungarian hymns would have been of no use, and his silent pleas echoed unheard in the state room. "István will now sing us a Hungarian hymn," Father Anselm announced in his soft, eunuch-like voice, folding his hands as if in prayer. Black mists obscured the boy's empty repertoire of hymns. Klaus, who instantly recognized the boy's predicament, kicked me in the shin, telling me to just start singing, anything at all. Thus it came to pass that the abbot, the dignitaries, and the heroes of Troy, with folded hands and gazing reverently at the tablecloth, listened to a supposed Hungarian hymn, which squeaked and sounded rather mediocre from the boy's throat and could easily be recognized as a children's song in translation:

"Behind the Oberenns, behind the sea, once lived a little May beetle, ..."