The Journey (23 page)

Zerlina promises. She had promised something each day for the last year, for the last eighteen months. Caroline promises. Paul promises. Dora and Dr. Plato and everyone promise. They promise Leopold and one another the impossible. They promise it to themselves. They are white lies, unjustified hopes, unfulfillable wishes. Borrowed dreams that will come to nothing before reality sets in and demands that the false premises on which they are found are acknowledged. Ruhenthal is an impenetrable thicket of loaded questions and warped promises offered up from loose mouths. Everything is overheated and unhealthy because of the widespread proliferation of rubbish, which the garbage detail can no longer keep up with. Piles of rubbish fill up every courtyard. Foul odors rise from sewers and toilets that can no longer be cleaned. Darkly clad figures wearily creep through the rotting slime. Complaints of lost riches stumble exhausted over the sticky drains.

“At home everything was different. We were rich. Regular guests at Semmering and Cortina d’Ampezzo.”

“We weren’t that rich, but we lived well, I’d say. Once a week we went to the theater or the movies! In summer we sometimes went to Fuschl, sometimes to Pörtschach, or traveled around.”

“I don’t miss the movies that much. But the Sunday drives to Spessart and in winter the walks in the countryside. It’s good that I brought my winter clothes with me, because the weather here is nearly always bad.”

“The weather isn’t actually that bad, but the hunger is terrible. I wouldn’t give this soup to my dog.”

“One shouldn’t continually think about food, for things go better then.”

“That sounds fine, but only if one can stock up first.”

“We always took the six twenty-one train from the central train station and by eight o’clock we were in the open countryside. I always packed a knapsack with some tasty items. In the middle of the forest we’d find a little place with a bit of meadow and some golden sun above us. Then we’d lie down and get comfortable. We rested, then Rosa would unpack the provisions. We gobbled them up and then closed our eyes and sunned ourselves. In the evening we’d come back tanned and refreshed. Most of all we were happy when the entire day was beautiful, making sure toward evening to head back and get home just in time before a thunderstorm let loose a cloudburst and it poured. Usually we didn’t eat anything more, though Rosa always had fresh salad and stewed fruit ready, and naturally we were very thirsty. A lemonade tasted wonderful then.”

Leopold listens to it all and now and then says something in reply, but for the most part he talks only about medicine, about patients, about new therapies and unusual cures. The frail men in the room talk to one another about the riches of the past, for they are of the temperament that simply does not want to talk about Ruhenthal. They also say that everything will soon be as it once was, if not better. Only a little patience is needed, but that is not hard, because they also survived World War I, and back then they were not in the safety of the hinterlands. The old men also wanted to know from Dr. Lustig what he used to do on his days off.

“On Sundays I visited only the most pressing cases. That I did in the morning. In the afternoon I went to the Café Bellevue, where all the newspapers were brought to me because I knew the owner. I could always be reached there, because who knew when it might be something important.
A doctor who goes on vacation when it’s not absolutely necessary is unprofessional. One always has to be there and should never let someone stand in for him, if at all possible, in order to best follow the patients’ course of recovery. At least that’s one thing good about Ruhenthal, the doctors can’t go anywhere.”

Then Leopold stops talking about his practice, as he steadily gets worse. The day passes slowly for the sick. He waits for the nurse, for the doctor, for a visit from his family. Leopold listens for steps. Sometimes he tries to take his pulse, but can find none. He blames it on the clock. The second hand doesn’t work. The clock needs to be fixed. Leopold wears a yellow nightcap. His white hair is unkempt, yet he does not want Dora to comb it. Only Zerlina is allowed to do that. Little gifts are brought to the old man. A slice of apple. He should swallow it down, but it would be better if it were pureed. Leopold has no idea how bad off he is.

“That’s only due to being weak, my dear colleague, just temporary weakness. I need something to build my strength! As soon as my condition gets better, I’ll be back at work. But I’m not going back to the garbage detail! I’ll be a doctor again and push through pressing reforms in Ruhenthal. Nourishing food, my dear colleague, will buy me time! But not that raw barley that won’t pass through and clogs up the small intestine. You should give me chicken! Only the white meat! Or veal!”

Leopold no longer speaks. Only the others in the room speak, but with muffled voices, because the old doctor will not live much longer. His limp hands nestle into the gray blanket as he dozes. He no longer bats away the fleas that jump upon him. He hardly reacts anymore when his wife and children visit him. They stand there helpless and want to say something sweet. Caroline holds a small bowl of gruel made from rice that she begged for, but Leopold doesn’t even look at the gift of love. Mechanically his hand grips the spittoon. He can’t lift it to his mouth; he holds it upside down, the cover opens and the disgusting contents drip out before Zerlina can help. Nurse Dora washes and whisks it all away with a cloth. The mucus annoys Leopold. He can’t cough it up, he can’t spit at all anymore. Leopold is propped up, but it does no good. His breathing becomes heavy, his mouth hangs open, the lips are slack, his eyes large and glassy. Dr. Plato scurries by and knows there is nothing he can do to help. Only out of courtesy does he stand there for a while. The nurse sees that the end
has come. Everyone knows it. Zerlina calls to the old man as his consciousness flickers in and out for a short while.

“We’ll soon be home, Papa! Do you hear? Home! Everything’s fine. Maybe even next week! Then we’ll have a party with roast goose!”

Leopold’s lips whisper in a monotone. “Roast goose … that will be a triumph.… Little Bunny … he’ll get meat … not bones.…”

The battle with death lasts a long time, through the night and into the next day. The man in the next bed is quite religious. He hardly ever lets his prayer book slip out of his hand. He turns the pages, he hesitantly calls out the holy names and reads aloud many passages in a low voice.

“That helps. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Praised be the Lord! Forever and ever, amen!”

The color empties from Leopold’s face, the rattle in his throat is quieter and less frequent, his breathing is weaker and more superficial, his breast barely rises and sinks. The fattened fleas creep around and out from under the blanket and gather on the wall like a band of troops. In Ruhenthal that’s a sure sign of the arrival of death. Even a feather hung before a mouth hanging open no longer moves. Everything is still. Only the pious neighbor has sat up in his bed, his lips moving expressively as he prays very quietly and very fast, his head moving softly back and forth. Caroline closes the eyes of the dead. Nurse Dora closes the jaws and binds them. Paul takes off the yellow nightcap that sits crookedly on his father’s head and shoves it into his pants pocket. Zerlina strokes a lifeless pale hand.

“Father is gone. He was the most scrupulous person I ever met. He never understood the ways of the world, but he knew his patients like no other. He was an innocent fool. They murdered him here. They let him starve to death.”

“We certainly did not, Fräulein Lustig! I have constantly portioned out food fairly, and rather than short any patient I’ve even given them some of my own portion.”

“I certainly don’t mean you, Nurse Dora! Don’t you realize the truth? Have you no heart at all?”

Paul and Caroline go back and forth about it.

“No, it wasn’t the nurse, nor anyone in the room, but those above them, the murderers, the violators of all souls!”

A last look at the deceased. Then the nurse pulls the sheet over the head of the corpse. Caroline yearns to see him once more.

“It’s better not to look again. Take from his things what you can use!”

But Caroline doesn’t want anything, nor do Paul and Zerlina. They stand there silent. Then Paul gives a muted sign. Caroline understands and takes Zerlina by the hand. They slowly leave the room, exhausted, anxious, and hungry. The neighbor continues praying incessantly. Then he looks around in earnest, but furtively, and waves toward those left behind as if to assure them that he will follow through with the recommended prayers to the end. Then it’s all over. In the dark street a dreary rain begins to fall. Night has fallen earlier tonight. The passersby whisper intensely and in a muffled manner. Work is done for the day. Life begins. Today there’s nothing happening. A pale blue desk lamp furtively turns on. Feet slog unwillingly through cold puddles. Ruhenthal gasps amid an uneasy slumber. Only the mist from rubbish rises in hidden pits. The chorus is silent. Above the small podium appears the gray beard as it casts a long shadow over the numerous coffins. Then the voice is heard.

“And so we think with gratitude on our dearly departed, because they are a part of us and we are a part of them. All of them who have passed on have fulfilled their responsibilities as fathers and mothers, as sons and daughters. They have all accomplished something imperishable in life and that is more comforting than all the grief we feel. They were all true children of their people and worshipped the eternal. We, however, we who are gathered before these coffins, have the responsibility to humbly bear our loss and to not be swallowed up by our own pain, but rather to think of the example that the departed set through their works, and courageously face the coming days, since from us further accomplishments are expected, from which we may not shrink with a good conscience. If at this moment we do not know by what means to conquer our loss, we must also not despair in saying farewell, but rather let us say as one, remember us, Lord, Thou who created us, of whom it is written, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh, praised be the Lord.…”

The last oily hymns are poured out. This makes cleaning the streets easier. The dust is knocked down and sealed in. Easily and elegantly the broom glides over the pavement. Tar is poured out. It has been warmed in
large pans. Now it flows slowly over the street, coaxed by broad wooden spreaders, a dark syrup, blood gone black, honey of the dead and their inextinguishable memorial, poured out from large drums and pressed into an iced cake. Consecrated hymns of execution turn into a celebration of innocence. Merry hangmen in white robes have imposed the verdict. Farther and farther the pitch flows and is spread by long squeegees that spread it directly onto the low arches of the cobblestones before it sets and hardens forever, now already composed and hardened, no longer answerable to the fire that melted it amid death’s drunken gurgle. The men who have been awarded the honor of this work stand by in dignified manner, because it is good work that they are doing. No day without a good deed. The former professor of theoretical philosophy agrees. To oil the earth is good. The air is clearer, the buildup of mud in bad weather is greatly reduced. Pavement means dryness, peace, security. No one sinks down when walking upon it, because each step is secure only when there is a road that will hold one’s footing. Dangerous roads are closed off and forbidden. Only the workers are granted access. They apply themselves to the strange and transform it into the familiar. To break through to new worlds is the job of the philosophers. Whoever can, does; the good deed is accomplished without complaint.

Fine macadam is spread upon the tar with flat shovels, and then soft wide squeegees evenly distribute it. Once more orderliness has won the day. Now the steamroller effortlessly completes the task by reducing the stone and tar to a uniform smoothness. Proudly and slowly the heavy machine passes back and forth. The motor rattles, levers and wheels move much faster in preparing the way for the dignified entrance of the steamroller. The macadam is tamped down, embedding itself completely in the tar. The path is rescued, the dust banished forever. Out of friendly hoses water is sprayed, now the street is ready for everyone. No one should be forbidden from using it again. The philosopher takes a modest bow: now the job is done.

The dead know nothing of this. They can take no joy in the changes that have indeed occurred. Defenseless and without fuss the corpses allow themselves to be coffined and carried off. The whip snaps, the transport driver sucks harder on his pipe, the horses move forward with a hard jerk. Slowly the funeral train begins to move as it sets off as the last escort. The
living like to follow the dead as far as possible. Gratefully the living follow behind as long as the wagon continues to roll along, but when the cargo reaches the barrier they are suddenly prevented from fulfilling their responsibility. A sign informs the funeral train that it has reached its final stop. And so it stands there. It cannot follow along, though it can watch the process that then unfolds. Two policemen look at the wagon that sets off slowly, their eyes asking, You dead, do you have anything to declare? Only their eyes ask this, not a word is spoken. The policemen look on with their dark brown eyes and smile in knowing readiness. The last honor of the dead. They are allowed to leave without a pass, the coffins never once being counted. The barrier lifts high, the wagon pulls ahead, duty-free and as free as a bird. The dead have nothing with them, nor does anyone question that they do. Their death, their honesty is not questioned. No one demands, “Open all your coffins!” The horses pull more vigorously and Ruhenthal’s load of human freight sways across the sand-based macadam and tar. The barrier falls, the farewell is completed. Merrily lurching ahead with sprightly speed, the funeral wagon rumbles along.

But why did the policemen wave the coffins through? Why didn’t they call out to them? The authorities wanted to avoid the accusation that their orders are not carried out promptly, for the dead only understand action, and no longer words. The authorities are humble and wise, they don’t interrogate the dead and content themselves with proudly presenting their indifference, so that only the aura of the secret magic of power can be resented by the living. Through fear and anxiety the shame-faced execution is brought about quietly and slowly, but also knowledgeably, for once the state has done its duty it retreats to the guardhouse by the side of the road next to the barrier. Bon voyage, you dead, but you the living are here, that is, until you go to hell!