The village of Wüstringen is gay with flags and bunting. We are all assembled—Georg and Heinrich Kroll, Kurt Bach, and I. The war memorial has been delivered and is now to be dedicated.
This morning the ministers of both denominations celebrated their rites in church; each for his own dead. In this the Catholic minister had the advantage; his church is bigger, it is brightly painted, his stained-glass windows, incense, brocaded vestments, and acolytes clad in white and red. The Protestant has no more than a chapel with sober walls and plain windows; now, standing beside the Catholic man of God, he is like a poor relation. The Catholic is attired in a lace tunic and is surrounded by his altar boys; the other is wearing a black coat, his single splendor. As a professional advertising man I have to admit that in these things Catholicism has an enormous advantage over Martin Luther. It appeals to the imagination and not to the intellect. Its priests are arrayed like native witch doctors; a Catholic service with its colors, its atmosphere, its incense, its picturesque usages is incomparable as a performance. The Protestant feels this; he is thin and wears spectacles. The Catholic is red-cheeked, plump, and has beautiful white hair.
Each of them has done what he could for his dead. Unfortunately, among the fallen are two Jews, sons of Levi, the cattle merchant. For them no spiritual comfort has been provided. The two rival men of God join forces in opposing the presence of the rabbi—supported by the president of the veterans' organization, Major Wolkenstein, retired, an anti-Semite who firmly believes the war was lost because of the Jews. If you ask him why, he straightaway brands you as a traitor. He was even against having the names of the two Levis engraved on the memorial tablet. He maintained they had beyond question fallen far behind the front. Finally, however, he was outvoted. The mayor exerted his influence. His own son died of grippe in 1918 in the reserve hospital in Werdenbrück without ever having been in the field. The mayor wanted him, too, to appear as a hero on the memorial tablet and so he declared that death is death and a soldier a soldier —thus the Levis got the two lowest places on the back of the tablet where, no doubt, the dogs will piss.
Wolkenstein is wearing complete imperial uniform. That, to be sure, is forbidden, but who is going to do anything about it? The strange transformation that began shortly after the armistice has gone forward steadily. The war which almost every soldier hated in 1918 has slowly become, for those who survived intact, the great adventure of their lives. They came back to the everyday life that had seemed a paradise to them when they lay in the trenches and cursed the war. Now it has become commonplace again, filled with cares and vexations, and at the same time the war has gradually risen on the horizon—far off, survived, and for that very reason, without their intention and almost without their cooperation, changed, transfigured, falsified. Mass murder has become an adventure from which they have escaped. The despair is forgotten, the misery glorified, and death, which did not strike them, has become what it is most of the time to the living—something abstract and no longer real. It only gains reality when it strikes close by or reaches out and seizes you. The veterans' organization, now drawn up in front of the memorial under the command of Wolkenstein, was paci-fistic in 1918. Now it has become strongly nationalistic. Wolkenstein has adroitly transformed the memories of the war and the feelings of comradeship, which almost all of them had, into pride in the war. Anyone who is not nationalistic desecrates the memory of our fallen heroes—those poor, mistreated, fallen heroes who would all have loved to go on living. How they would sweep Wolkenstein from the platform where he is now speaking if they but could! But they are defenseless and have become the possession of thousands of Wolkensteins who use them for their selfish ends concealed under such words as patriotism and national pride. Patriotism! For Wolkenstein that means wearing a uniform again, becoming a colonel, and once more sending people to death.
He thunders mightily from the tribunal, warming to his theme: the inner cur, the dagger in the back, the uncon-quered German army, and the oath to our dead heroes, to honor them, to avenge them, and to rebuild the German army.
Heinrich Kroll listens reverently; he believes every word. Kurt Bach, who as creator of the lion with the lance in his flank has been included in the invitation, stares dreamily at the shrouded memorial. Georg looks as though he would give his life for a cigar; and I, wearing a borrowed morning coat that is too small for me, wish I were at home in bed with Gerda in our vine-draped room while the orchestra in the Altstäder Hof bangs out the "Song of the Siamese Guards."
Wolkenstein ends with three cheers. The band strikes up "The Good Comrade." The choir sings in two-part harmony. We all join in. It is a neutral song, innocent of politics and revenge—a simple lament for a dead comrade.
The ministers step forward. The shroud falls from the memorial. Kurt Bach's roaring lion crouches on top of it. Four bronze eagles with lifted wings are poised on the edges. The memorial tablets are of black granite, the other stones of highest workmanship. It is a very costly memorial, and we expect to be paid for it this afternoon. That was the agreement and that is why we are here. We shall be practically bankrupt if we do not get the money. In the last week the dollar rate has almost doubled.
The ministers consecrate the memorial; each for his own God. During the war when we had to attend divine services and the ministers of the various denominations prayed for the victory of German arms, I often reflected that in just this way the English, French, Russian, American, Italian, and Japanese men of God were praying for the victory of their armies and I used to picture God as a kind of hurried and embarrassed club president, especially when He had to listen to the prayers of the same denomination from enemy countries. For which should He decide? For the one with the most inhabitants? Or the one with the most churches? And what of His justice if He let one country win and the other, where the prayers were no less diligent, lose? Sometimes He seemed to me like a harassed, elderly emperor, ruling over many countries and forced to keep changing his uniform to receive different deputations—now the Catholic, now the Protestant, the Evangelical, the Anglican, the Episcopalian, the Reformed, according to which divine service happened to be going on at that moment. Or like an emperor reviewing the Hussars, the Grenadiers, the Artillery, and the Navy.
The wreaths are put in place. One of them is ours, with the name of the firm on it. In his high falsetto Wolkenstein strikes up the song
"
Deutschland, Deutschland über alles
."
Apparently this was not provided for on the program; the band is silent and only a few voices are lifted. Wolkenstein flushes and turns round in a rage. The trumpeter and then the English horn take up the melody. Both drown out Wolk-enstein, who is now gesticulating violently. The other instruments come to life and about half the crowd gradually joins in; but Wolkenstein has begun too high and it all becomes rather squeaky. Fortunately the women take a hand. They, to be sure, are standing in the background but they save the situation and bring the song to a triumphant close. For some reason I think of Renée de la Tour—she could have done it all by herself.
The social activities begin in the afternoon. We have to stay because we have not yet received our money. Due to Wolk-enstein's long patriotic speech we have missed the noon dollar exchange rate—no doubt a substantial rise, and a loss for us. The day is hot. My borrowed morning coat is too tight around the chest. There are thick, white clouds in the sky, and on the tables stand thick goblets of Steinhäger schnaps and beside them tall glasses of beer. Faces are red and glittering with sweat. The feast for the dead was rich and abundant. That evening there is to be a great patriotic ball in the Niedersächsischer Hof. Paper garlands hang everywhere and flags—black, white, and red, of course—and wreathes of evergreen. A single black, red, and gold flag hangs from the garret window in the last house in the village. Those are the colors of the German republic. Black, white, and red were those of the old empire. They have been forbidden, but Wolkenstein has declared that the dead fell under those glorious old colors and anyone who exhibits black, red, and gold is a traitor. That means that Beste, the cobbler, who lives there is a traitor. He was shot in the lungs during the war, but he is a traitor. In our beloved fatherland it is easy to be denounced as a traitor. Only the Wolkensteins are not. They are the law. They decide who is a traitor.
Excitement increases. The older people disappear. A good many of the veterans as well. Work in the fields summons them. The Iron Guard, as Wolkenstein calls the others, remain. The ministers have long since departed. The Iron Guard consists of younger men. Wolkenstein, who despises the republic but accepts the pension it gives him and uses it to agitate against it, makes another speech which begins with the word "Comrades." That is too much for me. No Wolkenstein ever called us comrades when we were in the army. Then we were filth,
schweinehunde
,
idiots and, at best, men. Only once, on the evening before an attack, were we called comrades—by that slave driver Helle, a former commissioner of forests, who was our first lieutenant. He was afraid he would get a bullet in the back next morning.
We go to the mayor's house. He is sitting at ease over coffee, cakes, and cigars, and he refuses to pay. We were prepared for something of the sort. Fortunately Heinrich Kroll is not with us; he has stayed behind to admire Wolkenstein. Kurt Bach has gone out into the grain fields with a muscular village beauty to enjoy nature. Georg and I stand facing Mayor Döbbeling, who is supported by his hunchbacked clerk, Westhaus. "Come back next week," Döbbeling says comfortably, offering us cigars. "Then we'll have the whole thing straightened out and we'll pay you at once. In all this confusion it wasn't possible today."
We accept the cigars. "That may well be," Georg replies. "But we need the money today, Herr Döbbeling."
The clerk laughs. "Everyone needs money."
Döbbeling winks at him. He pours schnaps. "Let's drink to it!"
It was not he who invited us to the celebration; it was Wolkenstein, who gives no thought to gross commercial matters. Döbbeling would have liked none of us to be present—or at most, Heinrich Kroll. He would have had no trouble in handling him.
"It was agreed that we were to get the money at the dedication," Georg says.
Döbbeling raises his shoulders equably. "That is practically the same thing—next week. If you were paid everywhere as promptly as that—"
"We are paid, otherwise we don't deliver."
"Well this time you have delivered.
Prost!
"
We do not refuse the schnaps. Döbbeling winks again at his admiring clerk. "Good schnaps," I say.
"Have another?" the clerk asks.
I
"Why not?"
The clerk pours. We drink. "Well then—" Döbbeling says. "Next week."
"Well then," Georg says, "today! Where is our money?"
Döbbeling is offended. We have accepted his schnaps and cigars and yet we are still rebellious. That is against the rules. "Next week," he says. "Have another schnaps for the road?"
"Why not?"
Döbbeling and the clerk grow animated. They think they have won. I glance through the window. Outside, as though in a framed picture, lies the late afternoon landscape—the courtyard gate, an oak tree, and beyond them, infinitely peaceful, extend the fields in bright chrome and light green. Why, I wonder, do we sit here quarreling? Isn't life itself out there, golden and green and silent, in the rising and falling breath of the seasons? What have we turned it into?
"It pains me," I hear Georg say, "but we must insist. You know that next week the money will be worth much less. We have already lost money on the job. It took three weeks longer than we expected."
The mayor looks at him craftily. "Well then, one week more or less won't make any difference."
The litde clerk suddenly bleats. "What do you expect to do, then, if you don't get your money? You can't take the memorial away with you!"
"Why not?" I reply. "There are four of us and one is a sculptor. We could easily take the eagles with us and even the lion if that proves necessary. Our workmen can be here in two hours."
The clerk smiles. "Do you really think you could take apart a memorial that has been dedicated? There are several thousand people in Wüstringen."
"Not to mention Major Wolkenstein and the veterans," the mayor adds. "Enthusiastic patriots."
"Besides, if you should try it, it would be hard for you ever to sell another tombstone here." The clerk is grinning openly now.
"Another schnaps?" Döbbeling asks, grinning also. They have us in a trap. There's nothing we can do.
At this moment a man comes racing across the courtyard. "Mayor!" he shouts through the window. "You must come at once. There has been an accident!" "What?"
"Beste! The carpenter—they have—they were going to pull down his flag and that's when it happened!"