The Journey (21 page)

“I’m afraid I can’t do it unless one of you climbs up here and takes the shot for me before helping me down from my lonely perch so that I can join you all amid the muck! But make it fast!”

But no, Balthazar Schwind cannot be helped, because the expectant and extended rabbit ears can no longer hear his voice since he can no longer speak, his voice having dried up. Thus he has to hold fast and follow orders, whether or not he recognizes those orders or not. He is now a part of the column itself, an idle and monstrous piece of fruit that is welded to the trunk. He is caught up in the inevitable and titanic fate of the born reporter who must fulfill his responsibilities whether he wants to or not. To always be there when something happens, that’s what the reporter’s code states, and Schwind now feels the guilt of his failure. He thinks of his ancestor Prometheus. He was indeed the one who gave humankind the gift of the newspaper, something for which he suffered for eternity. And now all it amounted to was to be welded to a plague column, to wait there and not join up with the ghost train, as in silent agony their offer had to be declined.

The reporter looked on with empty eyes as the train began to again
move off into the unknown with no sign of sympathy for the one welded to the column. Only Johann Pietsch still stood at the base of the column, appearing undisturbed by all of the events and remembering his duties as he worked on without worry, battling against the immense piles of rubbish with his broom. It was a touching reminder that in this world there was still a clear sense of purpose and responsibility. But after a few strong efforts the sweeper realized that it was impossible to take care of all the dung and dirt. Johann looked up at the column as if Balthazar could provide some kind of illumination, but the reporter was suddenly no longer up there. Most likely he was free again after having thought about disobeying the rules, and now he could once more take his photographs and make his notes in order to write up a snazzy article about life in the town for his paper. To this end he had left his perch on the column, climbed onto his bicycle, and scooted back to the comfort of his office.

The times had once more become humane. Peacefully the big hand of the town clock followed its proscribed course. Refuse is still strewn about, but the locusts have taken off and there is no trace of the ghosts. Peacefully the sun shines on the gaudy sign of
The Leitenberg Daily
, whose publication is no longer in question. There people stand in front of newly displayed pages and nurse their thirst for war and their hunger for news about the latest events in the city. Above, on the first floor, in the safety of Schwind’s brightly lit office, the otherwise impossible is first born, the story having just been finished, which now tenderly rocks in the security of the newspaper’s offices before, a little while later, the people gratefully learn what’s happened. Schwind looks at his secretary, slaps his forehead in amazement, and realizes that though everything in the story had happened, it existed no longer, it was over, and therefore could be printed. If he hasn’t expended every last beat of his heart while pounding on the typewriter, then perhaps he’ll last another quarter hour, even a half. The newspaper is time’s bandage and shows how things can heal. Read it and you’ll be healthy again! The voice you hear is your own, it’s a success. Time is also back on its feet, the high point of happiness having been scaled, because the newspaper is back, appearing punctually and available everywhere. No longer can events just flutter away, they are gathered and remain, turned into paper and taken care of for your benefit. Numerous
copies end up in the rubbish, but certainly not all of them. Some survive and will still be around to tell your grandchildren the truth.

Thus the newspaper’s words prevail over you. The ripened pages are carried out in flexible bundles, the word of the day is finally offered up, still smelling of ink. Carriers run through the city with satchels and thick bundles, paperboys call out loudly with chirping voices on every corner: “Here it is! We don’t have to tell you what’s happened, because it’s folded up four times and printed, it’s now dry, it’s been saved!” The pages are handed over to people walking by in exchange for small coins as addicted eyes sink into the latest events of the day, though none exist any longer. And so it endlessly goes, souls drinking in a perpetual yesterday, which they are granted as if it were their own. Each recognizes it for himself for just a few moments, feeling blessed by the powers of the editor to reveal the innermost secret of existence, but the words can hold on to it for only a short while, in fact for just a few moments, because even when it lasts for a quarter of an hour, a half, or even a whole hour, after a single day everything is simply over with, an unappeasable desire pressing at the poor townsfolk as
The Leitenberg Daily
unleashes once again the fury of transitory life.

Except for a few copies, each day’s edition is done away with when, after an array of fates, the copies meet their end when tossed into the rubbish. The butcher Alexander Poduschka regularly collects old newspapers to wrap his wares in, for he doesn’t want to give his customers the officially allowed allotments of meat, sausage, and fat in their naked, natural state. Poduschka blesses each day’s printed pages, his faithful customers bringing them to him quite happily since they know he can’t get any other paper. And so the victories of our heroes, the disgraceful acts and lies of our enemies, as well as the hardly noticeable article on the special new tax measures are carefully wrapped around thin slices of sausage. Then the headlines become damp and greasy, the clear print blending together in dreamlike fashion. With some effort one can still make out the words, yet nobody likes the melting together of current events, as each yearns instead for the bland food within, crumpling up the useless paper without a thought and sticking it in the furnace in order to light a fire. Such is the fate of the headlines among the people. Soon nobody remembers anything of them. Once more all effort is for nought. What exists is consumed,
everything is consumed. No crumb is wasted, because the need for each is immense, and there are many unlucky people who would be overjoyed to have strewn before them the crumbs left behind by naughty children who don’t want to eat them. Mother, the teacher at school, everyone had said that one had to be grateful that all of the needy had been so well taken care of during this war. There were no longer rich and poor, only justice existed for a just people. What was taken from the ghosts was given to the people. Everything was the same for everyone. In huge letters, what Mayor Viereckl had told the schoolchildren on the eight-hundredth anniversary appeared on the front of the offices of
The Leitenberg Daily:

The ghost train has arrived at the Scharnhorst barracks. Leitenberg is behind them. Paul only remembers being led through the streets and the marketplace. The prisoners can once again speak openly, for talking is allowed here as long as it isn’t too loud. And so questions and answers shuttle quietly back and forth.

“Did you see at the marketplace that they …?”

“No, I didn’t notice it, but when …”

“They live as if it were peacetime. They don’t have to go without anything but …”

“It’s easy to feel jealous, yet their day will come, and maybe sooner than …”

None of it is true. The prisoners have seen nothing. They have indeed seen a great deal, but what they glimpsed has told them nothing. Everything has become impervious, making strained conjectures useless. The headlines in the vending machines of
The Leitenberg Daily
offered no clues. Despite sharp eyes trying to read the dense columns, nothing was gleaned from them. The war has not ended, imprisonment has not ended, the slaughter goes on. Only belief ventures to penetrate the impenetrable through wishes that soon turn into wild rumors that appeal much more to the dazed than do plausible hopes.

Paul turns around. The town is obliterated. Now it was lost to the depths, a gray cloud of smoke floating above it. Near the barracks it is quiet, because here there are only a few houses with large yards that no longer appear to have any connection with Leitenberg. The streets are
unpaved and meander off into neglected cart paths. The sidewalks are marked by long curbstones, but they are also unpaved. Grass and wild weeds spring up among the sand and do not sense the gravity of the nearby town in which freedom no longer exists. There might also be people living here who keep their curtains closed, leave a broom leaning against a wall, or forget a little wagon in the yard. Should it be that there really are people hidden behind these walls, they nonetheless know nothing of the town’s oppression as long as they can remain holed up in their quiet neighborhood. Here they have retreated and remain protected from the danger of streets trampled by people who for good or for evil are heaped together. Public announcements are also made here, but they mean nothing, their clumsy earnestness greeted by a supple tomfoolery, causing the edicts to hardly ever expect that anyone will pay attention to them.

The red mailbox is ignored, everyone having lost confidence in the mail, such that it remains empty of all news. Probably there is a yellow notice plastered to it on which one can read:
MAIL WILL NOT BE COLLECTED FROM THIS MAILBOX UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
. The power of the town officals to fill this lost neighborhood with nervous haste and disquiet does not reach this far; the normally brazen municipal envoys become shy here and hesitant when stepping up to make an announcement on behalf of the authorities. Who knows if these streets have ever even been swept?

It’s unusual for barracks to be located right here in this neighborhood. Usually the army likes being a bit cut off from the town because it can go about its business without anyone seeing the nasty things that go on. In order to be completely certain of protection from prying eyes, every entrance is completely shut, and even in front of the main entrance three guards are stationed. One soldier stands motionless in a guardhouse, one marches with a loaded weapon back and forth, a third stands in the middle of the entrance and denies entry or exit to any unauthorized person. Here one has to have permission to do anything. Yet only a few are permitted, and only under very specific orders, which cannot be violated. Whoever might still want to try anything forbidden will pay for it. Because everyone knows this, that which is not allowed never occurs. Everything is kept strictly in order and therefore nothing really happens, it all just goes according to plan. No one can really say how it all happens. Proceedings simply run right along according to unalterable orders that are
fulfilled reluctantly, but without complaint. The proceedings take forever, though they are carried out in herky-jerky fashion because they have been practiced only once. The preservation of the future is guaranteed as soon as the instructions are handed out. Captain Küpenreiter has given them out, he himself not having thought them up or issued them at his own bidding, for he is only here to execute the will of those in the know, though he is not simply a tool of obedience. When Küpenreiter says something, it’s clear to everyone and it gets done.

The sentry who stands in the middle of the entrance suddenly shakes his head. This is an agreed-upon sign that the prisoners can move through the barracks entrance. They have earned the right to do so. The slaves enjoy the rights of their masters and are better off, despite their powerlessness, than those who live freely in reduced circumstances. “Grab those shovels and picks!” They’re allowed to do so, even if they must do so. The slaves are free. They can listen and obey. They drink in the commands and are allowed to follow them. The soldiers can also listen and obey. The slaves and the soldiers. Everything is arranged, and thus it just happens. The route across the open yard is well known. The experience has been imprinted. One after another like a row of ducks. The citizens of Leitenberg have to remain outside, even Mayor Viereckl himself. The slaves move along on their own feet through forbidden terrain. They enjoy the air of the closed-off district. Together with their masters they share a similarity that allows them to live a shared life. If you’re not allowed, then you can’t. That spells freedom, Fritz! You’re free to do what you must. You must, because you exist. The journey happens as it is supposed to. It follows the itinerary that was prepared beforehand. You see Küpenreiter, who for you is unapproachable, and yet you also sense his closeness. You belong to him, not he to you. He can yell at you, but you can also listen to it because you have such beautiful rabbit ears that can hear so well. Just be careful! You must. Whoever is not allowed will be locked up. Küpenreiter doesn’t like to leave his soldiers, because when he screams at people in the town it means nothing. They are not part of the army like you are, Fritz, for only you enjoy the complete and unmediated freedom that disturbingly slips in between the order and its fulfillment. Only those who remain in bondage perpetually feel the inevitable power that hangs cryptically over the free.

The prisoners step one after another into the familiar sheds. They recognize the place, although the room appears to be shrouded in darkness after they come out of the glaring light of day. They know where the rifles are stowed, which they are not allowed to touch. They also know where the picks and shovels rest, which they are allowed to grab. They may take them and place them on their shoulders and cross the yard once again, their eyes blinded by the light. Now they hold in their hands something strange that has been created by the efforts of unknown others. The prisoners arrive by themselves, and by themselves they leave and head back out to the entrance and out of the barracks. The sentries let them pass undisturbed and never once worry about the shovels or the picks, because the prisoners have a right to them. That’s why they move along unafraid and march confidently through town. They have a clear conscience, for they are only doing what they’ve been ordered to do.