Authors: H. G. Adler
When the meal is finished the broom is taken up a bit more joyfully. Happily the broom sweeps away as Johann goes about his work eagerly and with satisfaction. It bothers him somewhat that some people are pigs and make such a mess of the streets. Each day Johann arrives at an inn, outside of which it’s always a complete mess. It’s been that way since at least the start of the war. Today it’s a little better, but most every day one can see the results of hard drinking in the bar, each morning the street outside covered with puke spewed out amid uncontrollable laughter. The bellies having been filled up inside, they then spew it all out again in disgusting, thick streams. Johann’s broom sweeps it up as though it doesn’t bother him, the street soon clean again and gleaming in the light of day.
Johann is afraid of neither wind nor cold, he protects himself against each. Only when it rains too hard does it annoy him, because his coat gets as soaked as a sponge and heavy, such that it doesn’t dry out overnight. But Johann barely grumbles about it, because he is shrewd and knows that every job has its unappealing sides that one has to take in stride, Johann being quite happy to put up with them. Other people had to slave away much more and couldn’t help but complain. Their situation is much worse and often much more dangerous. The sewer workers, for instance, never had it as good and would jump at the chance to trade places with the street sweepers. Johann doesn’t want anything to do with having to stand up to his thighs in such filthy slop. It wouldn’t even be worth the high rubber boots issued by the town. Nor was Johann tempted by the ration card for heavy laborers that allowed them access to horse meat and real meat sausages. Better to do with a little less and yet live a better life as a street sweeper, as free and happy as the sparrows who are hardly afraid of Johann’s broom, but instead happily peck at nourishing bits of grain in the horse droppings on the street.
Life on the street is healthy and not as pressing as the drudgery of the munitions factory, where three other street sweepers have been seduced into working rather than remaining in the open air and seeing different things each day. People and cars pass by in a hurry, both familiar and unfamiliar,
providing lots to think about and look at. That’s what keeps Johann feeling young. Even after many years he will still be able to work, no matter how long the war lasts, along with its need of able men. If there were peace, then Johann would probably already have been sent away into retirement. Now, however, nobody gives it a thought, the community at large is only too happy that he continues on. At the central department for street cleaning and rubbish collection, they told him within just the last couple of weeks:
“You’re right, Herr Pietsch. The fatherland can make good use of your broom, but might you think about munitions?”
“Please, I’d rather stay on the street.”
“How good of you, Herr Pietsch! There, too, the fatherland can use you and is grateful to you. How long have you actually worked for the town?”
“Forty years it will be come January. Wait a minute … yes, forty years indeed! I’m sure of it.”
“I’ll recommend you for a raise, Herr Pietsch.”
“Thank you, Inspector, thank you!”
“Faithful service should be rewarded, my friend. That’s how it is here in the fatherland. You will also get a certificate of appreciation, you’ll see, signed by the mayor himself.”
Praise from the inspector is nice, and a handwritten letter on behalf of the fatherland is even nicer, but Johann doesn’t need any of it. The raise, however, is another matter, for that is certainly pleasing. It would be nice to be paid a bit more for his contribution, as that’s the best token of appreciation of all. Then the dirt is swept away by the broom as the ghost train passes right in front of his face. Johann steps to the side, scratches an ear, and remains standing quietly, the broom at rest in his left hand while his right tugs at his chin. Johann stares ahead and thinks to himself, What kind of heroes are those who are being led by? Maybe they are prisoners of war, since they wear a symbol on their breast. These days all kinds of people are brought here from far away and sent off to work in order that they pay for the fact that they raised a hand against the fatherland. Perhaps there is a street sweeper among them whom Johann could show how one swings a broom and shovel in a strange country, since other countries no doubt had other ways. But there’s dirt everywhere, and it all has to be
cleaned up. It’s the same in France as it is in Russia. But then why do people go to war? Everyone should just take care of their own streets at home. Street sweepers can get along wherever and work together to clean things up. Johann only needs to look into the faces of these prisoners, for there certainly are good fellows among them, not just “nothing but villains” as it said in
The Leitenberg Daily
. Those indeed are tired stallions with empty stomachs who would much rather be home than here, not knowing why they have to work for some other fatherland. Certainly they have wives and children at home from whom they’ve received no letters for quite some time. Johann imagines to himself the worry they must feel when they hear nothing from home. Back there is everything they have and love, and yet there is nothing they can do for their families. But things will once again be good, one only has to not lose heart. Everyone has his own broom to sweep, and if you just throw yourself into it everything works out eventually.
One day, yes, one day the higher-ups will have had their fill and will say: “That’s it! The war has gone on too long already!” The people in charge will sit together in a castle and confer with one another. Oh, it will take forever! Then a special edition of
The Leitenberg Daily
will appear announcing peace at last. Peace, people! and everyone will display his flag, there will be parades across the square, brass bands will play snappy marches, all the houses will be decked out, one two three, the bakers will bake special cakes, the town will ready everything for the return of the soldiers so that they will be properly welcomed. Then all of the streets will be full of people, one next to the other, the people will leave behind a ton of trash, though it won’t matter, for that’s also part of victory and Johann will happily put in the overtime so that Leitenberg is clean once again, if only it means peace, finally peace. In the cathedral the organ will roar, the bishop himself will read the Mass, and everyone will sing a
Te Deum
.
That will also be a day of celebration for these prisoners. No longer will they be led off to work, but instead they will be brought to the train station, the boys wearing green leaves in their buttonholes as they quickly climb into the train cars. “We’re going home, boys! Be happy, Mama awaits us!” Johann wanted to say it all out loud, but he was afraid to, because it would be dangerous. It would mean consorting with the enemy. High treason against the fatherland. That’s why it was forbidden to so
much as say a friendly word. One could not give even so much as a wave. Which is why Johann says only three words to himself.
“Mama awaits us!”
No one heard it because he said it so softly that no one was able to hear it and thus report it. If someone did, then Johann would be thrown in jail, having been hauled off by both arms, bound, and fitted out with green overalls. Johann damn well didn’t want that, stuck there with the bedbugs in the holding pen of the district court, for he’d heard nothing good about that at all, and it would only mean adieu to every last bit of freedom. Quickly they would get on with the trial. They always have a couple of witnesses on hand who know everything, even what never occurred, and are ready to say what the judge wants to hear until there’s no way out of such a jam. That’s why it’s better to remain silent, but nonetheless he can look on a bit at these poor fellows, and if he happens to laugh at them there’s nothing wrong with that and is considered quite all right. Perhaps the boys will understand that Johann is not really laughing at them, but rather that he means well, which might make them happy and realize that among the street sweepers of Leitenberg there are nice people. But should an informer see Johann laughing with them and consider it a crime, he will not be afraid and will calmly say: “No, I wasn’t laughing with anyone! I was only laughing at them because of the mess they’re all in. They thought to themselves that they would be the victors marching into our fatherland, yet we caught them all! And so it’s over, away with them!”
But everything is all over. The wandering ghosts sense it and hope for nothing from the people of Leitenberg, who indeed don’t want to help them and couldn’t if they did. The street sweeper there need not strain so with such a grin, for no one recognizes that it’s well meant, nor is he even noticed. To them he is nothing but an empty mask, just like everyone else in the town who walks along the streets bored or afraid. Life has been drained from the townspeople, although they still want to appear lively, even though they have been dead a long time. Only out of habit do they thrust a leg forward. Paul looks out over them and is only curious to see that there are still buildings and not everything he remembered has disappeared. And yet it’s already finished, the town having become a beautiful stone corpse. All towns and cities are corpses that will soon be reduced to the rubble that they will bury. To contribute to this natural sequence of
events, in fact to hasten it, was the only sensible thing that Paul could think to do.
Paul is tempted to whisper some of these thoughts to the man next to him, whose name is Fritz, but Fritz pokes him in the side with his elbow in order to remind him that between the bridge and the Scharnhorst barracks all conversation is forbidden. Leitenbergers are not supposed to know that the ghosts can speak. And so Paul remains silent and lost within his thoughts and walks on, left, right. Yet looking about is not forbidden, otherwise that would force the soldiers to have to lead a chain of blind men consisting of nothing more than a set of noses hanging down from hollowed-out eyes. Only hands and feet would sway as they dangle, lead ropes needing to be stretched between them in order that the train could feel its way tentatively. Or one would have to chain them all to one another and blindfold their eyes, using blinders like on horses, turning them into blind cows. Only the eyes of those in the front row would need to remain uncovered, since they could do nothing more than watch the path and tread carefully upon the earth. The others would just shuffle along behind, their hands upon the shoulders of the one in front of them, a mute ghost train in no need of tracks to run on, moving ever forward with uneven breath, whether it be day or night, each limb of the train taking a halting step, though still wanting to feel everything there amid the withdrawal of all friendly relations deep within the incommunicable and abysmal, almost entirely lost.
Were this to happen, time would be erased. The journey would have only a direction, but no destination. It would continue and yet lead nowhere. Senseless would be the question about when you were born, for the day of your death could come long before the day of your conception. Have you never noticed how in a turbulent time everything falls apart? What you take for granted today can suddenly disappear, each of your false dreams no longer a certainty, savings now being a necessity since there would be no interest or compounded interest, since you would know nothing of calendars, nothing of dates, yourself having to roll along among the dreary masses, everything the same and fitting a single mold, though in other ways not, there being no such thing as together or apart, but also neither going nor staying, both the cause and the effect made meaningless. Instead of causality, something that is eagerly attested to and
yet never manifests itself, there would remain nothing but the dumped detritus of lost things, which cannot be collected because you wouldn’t know when to collect them, their worth having been destroyed and dismantled before they were able to convince anyone that they needed to be saved.
From this point onward there is no such thing as time. And yet what exists from this point onward? Senseless talk. When there is no time, there can be no talk nor will there be, for without verbs language is destroyed, everything scurrying along higgledy-piggledy on the wretched journey. Ridiculous is the First National Bank, as ridiculous as it was the day it was founded. The frost is just dampness when there are no seasons. Ambrose has no credit. There is no bank account, the bills are left unpaid since they are never written in the first place. It’s difficult for him to spoon the soup. He cannot find his mouth and cannot eat. Mutsch the cat jumps onto the table and licks the sauce and eats up the strands of meat. Mutsch isn’t blind. The animals can still see, for time has not abandoned them.
The animals take control of the town, because once time is taken away from the people, the animal age begins. They storm the bank, and the people devoid of time get the short end when the animals destroy everything after they find nothing in the bank to feed on or satisfy them. Mutsch the cat whips her tail about with angry gusto and roars like a lion: “Everything is rubbish!”
The street sweepers are continually kept busy. They can’t keep on top of their duties because the animals’ claws mess up everything. The endless stream of rubble overwhelms the street sweepers. They try to battle against it with snowplows while trying to clear a path through it. Yet it’s useless. They can’t make any headway and remain miserably stuck. Steamrollers are used to try to push back the mass. With senseless haste gears groan and wheels turn, but the rollers remain stuck, valves that have become useless now whistle sadly. Plows and rollers are driven into the ghost train, but the drivers take no notice and only curse that someone has put water in the gas tank, though that’s not true, and so they shout, Full steam ahead! as they shake their fists and pound on the motors while master keys are fetched and massive pliers and crowbars, though nothing helps, the town transports remaining stuck in a vise against which the technical staff of the community can do nothing despite all its skill and strength.