The Journey (20 page)

“Someday it will happen!” Balthazar Schwind said aloud as he grabbed onto the stony nose of the saint and looked down into the rubble and the ruins that proclaimed the end of Leitenberg, something that was certain and unavoidable once there was not a single inhabitant who knew anything about the history of his town.

Captain Küpenreiter, an officer from the Scharnhorst barracks and a foreigner from far-off Unkenburg, could never once say for certain what town he was in, it always being just a place where he was commanded to do his duty. From the drawer he pulled out a strategic map and picked up a compass with which he measured distances on the map. After a heavy sigh, Captain Küpenreiter said with relief:

“Look here, Schwind, we’re located some three hundred meters west of this contingent—you recognize it, don’t you? Here is our barracks. They can hardly be defended in an attack, unless you put too many men at risk, at least more than we already have in the garrison. A strategic retreat here toward the north, where you see the marked path that runs along this undulating slope, that would certainly be the best choice under certain conditions, most of all if we assume the enemy is not able to attack this highly advantageous position and control the path through a continual barrage. Should that occur we would have no choice but to hand over this side of the river without a fight and dig in on the other side. There are woods there that can provide good cover, even from aerial attack. The supply line for ammunition and provisions could be maintained along that
road. That’s where we’d have to go, although unfortunately that would mean losing the barracks. Besides, they’d have to shoot up the place themselves, and this town here, that’s right, the place you call Leitenberg—that’s right, just have a look, Schwind, the name is right here on the map—Leitenberg would also be lost. All that would be left would be a wasteland of rubble. It won’t be easy, but it will fall to the citizens to have to build tank traps and dig themselves into the streets in order to stop the enemy. You have your doubts, Schwind? You shouldn’t! With a bit of courage from the citizenry one can inflict a fair number of casualties on the enemy, even if one cannot stop them in the end.”

“But, Captain, the front is two thousand kilometers from here.”

“That may be so. I’ve never actually measured it, Schwind, but we have the strategic map here at our disposal in order to ascertain it precisely.”

“You can’t mean that the enemy will invade our fatherland, can you?”

“My job is to protect the fatherland! My good man, I am a soldier! For me, the possibility of an attack or the need to defend always exists. I love the country that has asked me to serve it.”

“From a military standpoint, is the situation that bad?”

“A soldier does not have opinions, but only assesses the situation according to orders.”

“But, Captain, we’re talking about eight hundred years of Leitenberg, the homeland, the people of this beautiful region, the citizens!”

“That’s all well and fine, but it is of no concern to me. They are, after all, nothing more than hindrances when forwarding the war.”

“But you must have a home yourself! Think of your mother, of the house in which you first gazed upon the light of the world!”

“My home—that’s another matter altogether! But in any case, one has to forget all that when you’re a soldier. Look at this map on the wall.
That
is my home! Look at all the pins in it. The ones with the little white flags mark our positions, those with the blue are the enemy’s positions. Our regimental staff prepared it for our next maneuvers. Everything will work like clockwork. Almost like the real thing. In the next few weeks we will lead operations across this terrain. My good man, this will be something that you’ll have to see for yourself! In one sector there will be intense fire, and for people’s safety we’ll have to clear out a village for a couple of days. It’s the village next to the firing range. You can see it here on the map,
Schwind, there! It’s called Dobrunke. There’s no real danger, mind you, but the townspeople are always curious and incautious, so it’s easy for something to happen. We officers never like to see something like that happen, because it can make the military unpopular, especially when someone is hit by a stray shot for which any soldier normally would congratulate himself in battle.”

Balthazar Schwind says good-bye to Captain Küpenreiter and is sad that the officer of Leitenberg knows nothing about the town, even though so many good soldiers have come from there. Yet no one knows the place any longer, neither the natives nor the strangers. The reporter thinks about who else he can interview. If those who were healthy knew nothing, then perhaps there was a slight hope that the sick would still know something of the town’s history. One would think that the head of the hospital, Zischke, would certainly be well informed, but indeed he had no idea either.

“The question that you’ve posed is far outside my concerns. We have three hundred and twenty-seven beds and twenty-seven spots in the emergency room. At the moment we are completely full, and there’s a long list of cases that are waiting for us to tend to them. It doesn’t matter to me where the cases are from. We only consider the urgency and the place on the list. No one is allowed to remain in the hospital longer than six weeks except for pressing reasons. For the most part, patients either get healthy in that amount of time or they die. For longer-term illnesses, it usually involves in-home care, the patient either rallying or dying, thereby making it unnecessary to keep him here. The only exceptions we make are for the war wounded. There is normally no special medical reason to support this, but it has to do with remaining humane, for we have to find some way to reward our heroes. National law not only demands this but also the gratitude of the people. However, it would be hard to say what influence the hospital could possibly have on the past and future history of Leitenberg, for in principle, these days all hospitals in the country are alike. Since they are no longer privately run, the differences between them have practically disappeared. Because of that, any further developments in the hospital’s running have much more to do with advancements in medicine than the future of the community of Leitenberg. Remember, of course, that we don’t belong to the town. We are national. The name ‘Leitenberg Hospital’ is a holdover and causes confusion. There’s a history behind it.
It would please me to see the eight-hundredth anniversary help spread this useful bit of information among the population.”

“Many thanks. Would you mind if I asked a patient what he thought of the anniversary?”

“Unfortunately that’s not possible. There’s no possibility of that happening. Interviews have been banned in the hospital according to a clear policy made by the director, who happens to be me.”

The local reporter broods. He feels just fine sitting atop his column, but he also appreciates that it’s a last refuge. Below on the pavement everything is already unsafe, because this pavement will not hold up and no longer has any history ever since it has been overrun with locusts. The stones say nothing, they being nothing more than dumb witnesses, since no memory attaches to them. Nobody here can even have such a memory. The old parchments in the town archives are of no use as long as nobody reads them nor can read them, for whoever is still alive is overwhelmed, while the only ones free are dead. What does it matter that the street sweeper Johann Pietsch swirls around the column with his broom raised high when for him the slippery pavement is nothing more than a surface on which to pile up rubbish, one as good as any other, though at the moment Johann wants nothing more to do with it since he’s just doing his job. He himself has no idea that Mass was once served in front of this column. Each year, on the name day of the saint who guards against the plague, people gathered here and held a Mass under an open sky. Masses are no longer celebrated. At least not here. There are no people here who would want to hear them, no consecrated priest who can pronounce the creed, no
gloria in excelsis deo
. What is there left to praise? The heavens no longer exist ever since the sky has been occupied. And where there is no heaven, there is no earth beneath it.

Leitenberg has disappeared, but there is no special edition announcing it. The last edition of
The Leitenberg Daily
cannot be delivered. The locusts have made it impossible. There are no subscribers, no one to take out an ad. Birth announcements and obituaries are no longer published. Even the young lady at the front desk who devoted her career to handling these has turned to stone. Everything has marched off to the dumps in long processions, though the locusts are not accompanied by church dignitaries. Mindless legs attached to noses hobble along. Miserably they
shuffle along, left right, left—stop. The corporal cries out in a rage, because the procession doesn’t move right along but instead scrapes and creaks along, left-right-right-lo-cust. Outside on the teeming heap are wriggling insects, spiders, and worms. Mutsch the cat looks at the mess and raises a threefold ruckus against the Beautification Association. The locusts think it’s an anthem marking the sudden appearance of Mayor Viereckl, and so out of respect they remove their hats. They are wildly happy and continue to buzz.

Amid its chilly, golden solitude the plague column remains. It stands tall above the compost. It is made of petrified wood, an ancient tree with mighty knots and bloody boils amid sunlight, a monument to itself that is imperishable. Balthazar Schwind smiles as he looks on at the endless ghost train that stands before him. The ghosts bow and lewdly wobble their rabbit ears, though perhaps it isn’t lewd, but rather out of the fear and horror that the ghosts feel when the chorus of locusts chirp their dissonant fugue. The reporter looks down at the sunken spirits of the rabbits and doesn’t know whether their mute reverence is directed at him or the saint that he towers above. Most likely it is him, because together the ghosts lift their noses upward toward him, rather than staring at the locusts, nor would monuments to saints mean anything to ghosts. They want the life that they no longer have. They want to be photographed in order to create verifiable evidence that they are there. If it were true then the incorruptible film would provide proof, because that which does not exist cannot be photographed. Schwind would be happy to oblige them, but the rusted apparatus prevents it. Vainly the reporter tries to turn the crank in order to forward the film, but the black box only crunches its worn-out gears and cries out for mercy.

“I can’t take a shot of you. It’s forbidden. It’s the last roll. There’s no more film. One quarter, half, I’m afraid it’s all gone. My dear rabbits, or ghosts, the good old camera is broken.”

“Please, take a shot! Only that which is forbidden can save us! We ourselves are forbidden. What will become of us if you don’t acknowledge that we exist?”

“I allow that you’re here, but I’m not allowed to allow that you’re here!”

“But there’s no one here to stop you, to prevent you allowing that
which is not allowed. Dear reporter, high up on your column, be brave and don’t shy away from the impossible!”

“Your appeal almost moves me to tears. Yet what you claim is not true. The unallowed has been forbidden. I have received the strictest instructions for editing. Perhaps you don’t understand why because you no longer know what’s going on, but you must believe me! I could be suspended from the fatherland’s press corps, be censored, or receive some other penalty.”

“There is nobody to ensure that such deadly orders are complied with. We won’t betray you, for you are one of us. Don’t deny us any longer! Pull out that black thing with the long handle! We insist! Take a shot, right now!”

“I can’t turn the film, I already told you. If I pressed the shutter you would appear as a double exposure and that would be poor evidence for your unknown existence.”

“Mere excuses, Herr Schwind! We exist wherever one can take a shot of us! It may be a double exposure, but take a shot! We only need to be seen, and that you can do if you are a good reporter.”

“You’re wrong, for I want to! But I can’t do whatever I wish. You should know in your hearts that I have always wanted to report on you. But unfortunately nothing ever came of it, at least since the start of this war. The moment I wanted to do something it was over, and then I could only perceive the pain of the past. But not as having passed, for the pain was there. It’s still there, and is incessant. I also wanted to do a special edition on the eight-hundredth anniversary. But the hell surrounding us wouldn’t allow it. The fading away of Leitenberg got the best of me.”

“But we’re still here! You could do a wonderful issue about us! Take our pictures! After the war the Americans will pay a load of money for them. If the problem is that there are no people around, we can fill the gap. So let’s just start a new life, and we’ll bring you along with us. We are building a new future for ourselves in Ruhenthal. Come along with us to the other side of the river. There are deep woods there that prevent one being seen, making it perhaps even safer from aerial attack. We’ll name you the editor in chief of a new newspaper, which we’ll call
The Ruhenthal Prospect
.”

“Thank you for this honor, but I’m afraid I can’t accept it. The ban is
still in effect and will remain so as long as I’m around. I’m alive and real here upon this column where you see me, that is, if you can see me.”

“Quick, take a shot! Develop it and come along with us! Ruhenthal awaits you! Ruhenthal will welcome you warmly and take care of all your future needs! You’ll have your own special accommodations, a proper bed for yourself alone, a loaf of bread each day, and a double portion of soup for lunch.”

Schwind wavers amid his indecision and wonders if he shouldn’t give in to the ghosts. He thinks of old ballads about the water carrier who wanted to entice his victims to cross the river. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to go along, since after the destruction of Leitenberg there will be no more hometown to live in. It is completely possible that he could also preserve himself amid the bewitched realm of the prisoners if he only chose the other shore. And yet, though Balthazar wants to take a shot and presses his thumbs against the camera case, his strength fails. The reporter realizes this is no game and is startled. He wants to lift his legs from the stony head of Saint Rochus, but he can’t. Schwind has lost the feeling in his legs and therefore calls down to the ghosts hesitantly: