The Journey (38 page)

“For almost four months I’ve had no mail. Tell me what you know! Don’t torture me! I’ll give you my shoes if you’ll tell me! What’s happened to my parents?”

“Keep your shoes! I have no idea what’s happened.”

“I beg you! How do you know my father’s name if you don’t know him?”

“That’s easy to explain. I was often led by his house. I was imprisoned, yet I had good eyes. That’s how I got to know Leitenberg, or at least as much as it would let a stranger see. Signs large and small. On a house on Bridge Street was a small brass plate.”

Robert Budil is no longer listening; the train of war prisoners had only stopped for a short while to rest. Now all have to move on, the boys moving along weak-kneed, left and … right and … Budil walks with his good shoes, yet Paul also walks on, but in the other direction, persistently onward with his lame feet. He then looks directly at the town before him, and it no longer seems to be destroyed. The tower of the Unkenburg Cathedral looms above, high and proud. It even leans, or at least appears
to. It’s been shot up a bit. The monstrances have been damaged and cannot support it. The danger of falling debris forbids entry into the cathedral. There’s no need for a guard before the entrance, for the doorways have shrunk, everywhere there is rubble, nobody can get in.

The bishop catapults over the rooftops, unable to bring the Mass to a close. In the middle of the creed he stops. The airplanes appear out of nowhere, only at the last minute are the sirens sounded, the bishop falling in his robe upon the cathedral square. Bombs rain down right and left, the bishop recites the
Dies Irae
and bellows it loudly, though there is nobody near him who wants to hear it, the church now empty and shattered, its followers no longer children of God. The bishop continues on in haste, not much time is left him as he dances upon the air and laughs because his work no longer means anything. It’s no longer tied to anything, and so he cannot do anything, rubbish is all there is, the bishop no longer holds a post. He looks around at bodies that cannot take any sacraments because they are not alive and have no grave awaiting them. They have been damned and judged by vengeance, they have been violated to the extreme, they are the devil himself. Then the bishop looks at the other bodies; they are mute and do not want his blessings. They have bowed to him so deeply that they almost fall from the ark into the mud, but the mute are tough and embittered, and because they are dead, they cling to the bloody barbed wire of the creaking ark with gnarled fingers. The bishop flies, the doves fly. They cannot give any more blessings. The useless olive branch of peace falls into the flames, the fire blazes horribly. The dove’s beak is broken, the bishop’s hand has buckled.

The dead, however, let their tongues dip into the holy water. They lap it up, since they are so thin and parched. They lick up the water, the bishop can do nothing to prevent it, no matter how much he cries out or warns them. It is the bitter wine of hell that will not cool your thirst, but rather will only inflame your intestines with hellfire. Yet it does not bother the dead, they do not listen and do not believe him, because they smell the soup in front of them, a sour, made-up concoction of water, salt, and moldy beet husks with algae swimming in it that is tasty and not to be turned down. Suddenly an American is standing there and looks on amazed. The bishop wants to stop him, because it’s not right for him to enter the church. First one has to save the dead, the holy walls of the crypt; the living can
wait. But who now are the living and who the dead? The American is matter-of-fact and wants clear instructions. The bishop is still confused and because of exhaustion can give him no information. He points toward the destroyed cathedral with dried-up stumps of fingers and then to the bloody pools of soup next to the ark and hesitantly complains.

“Deprofundis clamavi.”

The American doesn’t understand a word and doesn’t want to beat around the bush. He doesn’t know the language that is being spoken. Impatiently he warns the bishop that he should tell him the truth.

The bishop whispers:
“Suscipe deprecationem nostram qui tollis peccata mundi! Miserere nobis! Miserere nobis! Miserere!”

The American wants to hear only one thing. “Living or dead? Yes or no? Answer in English or in German!”

The bishop no longer hears, and smiles. He points toward heaven and to hell. Then the American turns away from the bishop in horror. He thinks, Such a thing would never happen in America, as he looks on at the haggard people crawling blindly across the ground, their open mouths falling upon the soup. Then the American shakes his head, his cigarette falls from his mouth. Already some of the crawling people are at his feet, scuffling for the glowing butt. Then the American takes up his camera in order to try to capture what his eyes can’t believe. He waves to the slurpers and with his hands he gestures for them to form a group. Even though their thirst has not been abated, and though they are free not to follow his command, they still do what he asks, perhaps out of curiosity or more so out of an old, familiar obedience inspired by just a wave of his hand. Yet the American is understanding.

“I’m not taking a picture out of curiosity. I’m taking it for the sake of the memories of the authorities who sent me here to save you. Please, relax and look natural! It will only take a second!”

“Tell me, Mr. America, I have a family member over there who is also a photographer. Do you know him?”

“Oh, America is a big country.”

“He’s a good photographer. His name is Albert, Albert Schwarz. A dear son. His mother was taken away. Away, Mr. America, do you understand? Ashes … nothing more … She was my aunt. Who no longer has a dear son. Tell Albert Schwarz!”

“Sorry. Please, just a moment! I want to take another. You are safe now. Snapshots. Good luck. America will help. Don’t worry. Moral rearmament.”

“One request, Mr. America!”

“Sure, sure. Do you have Albert Schwarz’s address?”

“No, I don’t have anything. I need something else. I live in the city of Stupart, Mr. America. Can you send me a picture of myself? I want to have one for my obituary. My address? You can address it to Frau Lischka.”

“Well, I can’t promise anything. You know that the country … America is immense. Have a cigarette!”

“I don’t have any other evidence. No one will believe me. People will laugh. Please, send it to me!”

“Sorry, America is immense, come and see it!”

Paul has turned away. He knows that no one will believe him, even if he could show them a picture. He has to move on. He is determined above all to put everything behind him. He no longer looks at the chopped-off hands. Now he has to get to Unkenburg fast. Maybe it’s better if he also just forgets about himself. The strength left in him has no room for the past. Is this not an escape? No, it’s necessity. There is a road to Unkenburg, so one can get there. If only the legs could work better! The head is clear, but the body is pained by the past that still won’t let go of it. If he were still afraid, he would keep on the move for sure. Yet no one is after him. Only worry presses at him, and it’s that which must lend wings to his every step.

Vehicles travel by in long chains. Happy exclamations sound out everywhere, the victorious army. Has Paul won? With what has he won? For whom? For the dead? For himself? He should put a sign around himself that says he is a victor. Yet who would believe him? Does a victor look like he does? Paul would get somewhere faster if he were to ask a young soldier for a ride on his vehicle. In five minutes Paul would be in Unkenburg. Yet he doesn’t stop any vehicle. He would like to do so, but his waves are misunderstood, the boys think that he’s greeting them as one of the defeated, and so they wave back at him respectfully. They are telling him: Nothing will happen to you, we’re not that way, we’re from America, we’re here to offer freedom and to not step on the enemy who is licking the dust. Whoever does penance will be forgiven.

Paul is the defeated. He has to bow down, even if it’s a mild yoke. First he has to prove who he is before anyone can trust him. Is he not a victim? Victims are the defeated, even if they are alive, and especially when they are alive. Yet how can Paul prove who he is when he’s so weak? Who in fact has defeated him? The victors? The defeated? Paul belongs to neither. The victors are as foreign to him as the defeated, neither will listen to a word he says. The victors and the defeated will reconcile, while he will remain lying in the dust. No, he won’t lie down, he has never given up. He wanders on, indefatigable, and wants to go on. He is on the road. He has no home at all, only the road that goes on and on. Is this Beggars Way? One must submit to servitude. Yet Paul was never a servant. Instead the defeated, a captured lord. Paul is a beggar king. His realm is without location, nor does the road itself exist. He walks along it because no one prevents him from doing so, yet he has no rights to defend. With luck there is enough confusion so that no one will question him. Paul is in no-man’s-land and wants to be in someone’s land. But is that a good idea? Is it not better to remain amid indeterminacy? No one will let him go hungry. He can join up with anybody. Anybody can become his friend, it’s easy.

Paul must flee. He must find the end of his road in order to leave it behind him. As soon as he reaches town, the road will disappear to all sides, that way, this way, clues to it everywhere. Doors will await him, behind them apartments, the features of home, little bits of security amid the brief rest found in the decorated brick boxes. Unkenburg is not the final destination, but it lies in this direction. But in what direction is that? Straight ahead. Now unknown voices begin to buzz.

“We’re walking this way.”

“We’re walking that way.”

“We’re walking.”

Little bundles of possessions are exchanged from hand to hand. Paul is not empty-handed; he becomes ever richer. When he fled the ark, before the doves had returned, he had nothing. Now at least he has a bundle of this and that. Paul owns something; no one will have a problem with him now. Did he buy what he has? They were gifts, though every possession is only something allotted. Paul thinks to himself, This moment was expected from the very beginning, now the moment of the birth of creation
is also being born. Is it free to make of itself what it will? You must do something. Movement left or right or anywhere. That’s the first step of freedom—anywhere! It’s a moment without headlines or newspapers. Whoever enjoys this moment, whoever knows that he doesn’t have to read about it, he is free. All demands must fall away, it can be no other way. This does not mean that anything goes, but rather it is freedom. Yet each looks for a direction to follow. Will they only lose themselves by following any direction available? Will they be able to stick to it? Will they stick to the road they’ve chosen? Isn’t Paul himself on a road he cannot get off? Ah, such confusion! When will all this thinking cease? And when will life begin?

Paul pauses in order to stand. The dust of the road has blinded him. So keep looking around! Cast a glance at the brindled fields. They lie there damp, some of them not having experienced the war at all. They are split up so nicely and must belong to no one. It’s certainly not as cold now as it was this morning. The day has cleared up, no more rain presses down. The clouds are balled up into white puffs, a good sign. They break apart and blue sky appears between. A beautiful day. Lovely weather. The sun shines on the troughs below the underbrush, the light lines thickening into wider bands of vegetation that spread over each acre. The sun disappears, a light shadow whisks away the brilliance with a cool shower of haze, but then the sun returns, then again the light is subdued as it flashes off in the distance, followed by streams of light that reach out powerfully from plumed clouds. The entire land is bathed in gold, the sun has won the day. Everywhere there is light. The last white streams up above dissolve into a light snow of blossoms that quickly blow away and disappear. The broken-up fields will for this day remain drenched with sun.

A little rest is needed. Nobody stops you from taking it, and no voice says you shouldn’t. There under that slope it’s nice and dry and is a welcome site to the wanderer. Little beetles are not afraid of him, because he is happy within himself. The flowers in the grass are happy to bear his weight. But why rest now? Paul rocks back and forth. Whoever separates his life from thought will not last. Whoever wishes to just wander along without thinking will meet his own death before he reaches his desired destination. By taking a step Paul had left the road, and his body followed
along easily. The view that the eyes slowly take in tries to seduce him into the unknown. Another step. It could be a hundred steps or more. That way, not Unkenburg. No hand to point the way. To remain in the unknown would be a good way to simply be. No need to own anything, no need for a grave. It could be a hundred steps more or even farther. Any step could be the one to reach your destination. Just one little step more. The feet don’t have to be lifted, they can just slide along on solid ground across the soft grass. Yet Paul knows well enough that none of these steps can take it easy. All of them are in a hurry. They can’t worry about finding quiet and rest, for they are nothing but blind, irresolute steps that must serve him, though he himself feels ashamed. Why do you want to rest? Only the dead don’t want to go any farther, only the imprisoned. Those who are free have no demands. Don’t give in to your weakness, stick to your path! Yet what wouldn’t you give if only you could lie upon this slope for a week? What would you have given yesterday? Nothing! You can’t give anything. The question is pointless. Now that you carry along a little bundle, you don’t want to give anything away, nor should you. Paul leans sleepily toward taking a break as he slides along the softened ground, his feet gliding along, yet his body bends, the right arm thrusts out ahead, the hand stretches forward, as Paul comes to a full stop. He must not fall on this day. Yet he can no longer stand. Today he might not reach Unkenburg.

He must open his eyes in order to avoid the ditch along the side of the road. Just keep moving forward. Eight kilometers, so that’s how far it is. Seven kilometers, it’s less and less. It can’t be much farther. When Paul looks around a bit, he can make out the mud-spattered milestones. Six kilometers, four kilometers. Halfway there. It must already be less than that. The town is more and more visible. Here there are no more milestones. Does the town not want to reveal where it is? Or have the stones been gobbled up out of necessity? You shouldn’t still be on this road! Why didn’t you try out that bed of grass on the slope? Now look at what’s happened! We need you to be elsewhere, we really need you, you have to hurry up. You’re not unneeded, don’t get all wrapped up in your worldly pain. What are you complaining about? Only fools keep whimpering because they can’t get rid of old habits. Yet you have no more inner resources, that makes you appealing and of worth. We’ll pick you up and won’t ask questions for too long. It’s happened to you so often that you
shouldn’t be at all surprised. You can trust us, it will do you good. Be grateful that we give you fair warning. With others we give no notice at all, we just pick them up and interrogate them.