The Journey (35 page)

Each Anybody appears to be in the same situation. Perhaps each one
knows that he has never been here, but rather has been transformed here. Back then it was someplace else altogether, but he cannot recall, he does not remember the name or the direction. This one with an idea is unsure of what is Nothing or what is Something, then he chooses Something. He feels overwhelmed by a past he does not know, yet which he can sense, Something having won out after all. This grants great courage and strength to the body, allowing him to decide to act. As soon as he exists, then he can ask questions. He stops another Anybody and tries to gain his attention. That doesn’t work. Anybody doesn’t stop and stumbles on uncertainly, not knowing he himself is a Nobody and not even an Anybody. Yet he tries again to help this Nobody recognize Something, and indeed, he’s there, he gives a start; is he in fact now an Anybody? Yet he does not know anything, but rather mumbles dark sounds from an unknown tongue, it all having been a mistake. Better to try something else. The Question asks the Question whether Anybody knows which way to go? No, Anybody doesn’t know, he knows no one in these parts. There are no roads here, they are elsewhere. But there must be roads, says the answering voice. The word
road
means something. Because of it this conversation makes sense and therefore has meaning.

Now the Question grows silent and wanders off. He tries his feet, which don’t betray him. Here is a wooden pole with many hands pointing outward that have not been knocked off. This crossroads is in good shape. Each hand is sure of the direction in which it points and knows the name of the town it points toward, which indeed might exist, because the hand also says how many kilometers away it is. One has to go that far in order to get there. Unkenburg is only eight kilometers away, says the hand. Clearly the outstretched finger points the way, that being the direction one can follow. One has to give the body a direction and then guide it in order that it can make the connection. From here the body must go forward, because Unkenburg is a ways off from this point. One thinks about the distance ahead, and then sets off.

What one was once capable of must also occur now. Once time is restored, the familiar and reliable exist again. Once time exists again, you must trust how long it takes to get somewhere. But what is Unkenburg? It’s not recognizable, the memory of it is still lost in the brooding. It is a place, though there is no one there. Are there other names you might
know? They are not to be found here. They must be farther off than these hands indicate. How many kilometers is it to Leitenberg? It doesn’t say. And to Stupart? That’s a large city that certainly must be known everywhere. But
Stupart
is not written down, no matter how much the eyes search for it. It’s better not to keep trying to look for it, for your strength won’t hold out long enough to press through the unknown. The main city of Stupart should certainly be known. But no, it’s not. It was known, and through long patience perhaps it will be discovered again. You have to hold on to the known even when it is not known. And so Unkenburg. It’s that way.

Yet the mouth shapes the words
Leitenberg
and
Stupart
. These old names sound sad. Eight hundred years have passed, if not more. The city must be much older. The source of the name is locked away somewhere in the realm of speech. The names of old places are lost and forgotten. At the moment it is wiser not to pretend that this city ever existed. If anyone says “Leitenberg” or “Stupart,” there are immediately ears that hear it, faces that turn in the direction of the sound of the voice. Now the mouths of strangers open and slowly send back a sound of their own, one that’s a little sad, dark, and incomprehensible, yet sympathetic and friendly:

“Never heard of it. No. Don’t know it. Must be someplace else or it doesn’t exist. So much has been destroyed. It’s certainly not here.”

Then the strangers’ mouths say some names that the voices listen to closely, names of places they’ve never heard of. Each one swears it’s known by another name, all of it a confusing back-and-forth, painful, bleak, buzzing, an antediluvian stammering that grows ever louder, becoming an unrecognizable scream. All the places that once existed are named, yet nobody knows them, the speakers standing there alone with their names. The moment a name is tossed into the circle, the chorus answers with this litany:

“Never heard of it. No. Don’t know it.”

They don’t know and have no idea. Then the toothless mouths shut upon their empty questions. All of the names of the places have been ticked off and not one has been found. Only the murky voices of the chorus slip deeper and deeper into the monotone singsong.

“Don’t know it—Don’t know it—Don’t know it—”

Gradually the muddy chorus peters out, becoming sadder and darker,
a silent rain, until it can no longer be understood. But then another voice rises from the muddy depths, crying out incessantly:

“To Unkenburg! To Unkenburg!”

Is it the wise old railroad that calls out so? No railroad runs in this lost land. Only the rails stretch out ahead as they sleep in desolation on the moldy ties, though they are barely disturbed and still bend in sharply controlled curves. However, there is no longer any service on these tracks. The rails are also not lit up, their silver-gray withers and turns brown with rust. Only one question travels along the stretch and weighs down the telegraph wires, in which it remains stuck and never sees light of day. The high poles stand there starkly, barely holding up the wires. The railroad has fallen into disrepair without any attendants there, yet perhaps the tracks don’t lead to the destroyed graveyards, but rather to a place that still exists, and maybe that place is Unkenburg.

This name had once been heard. A captain had once had a general’s staff map on which all the names were listed. Wasn’t it Captain Küpenreiter? He was from Unkenburg, for it was there that he first saw the light of the world, and his mother lives there still. So there may be hope after all. Light and the world would mean salvation. Certainly Unkenburg is small enough that the captain can be found. He will certainly be happy to have someone there who once stood with a shovel on the shooting range at Dobrunke. The captain had made an inspection and was satisfied with the job. Küpenreiter was who he was looking for, the house where his mother lived. Yet the captain was long gone, nor was the mother there. He has been taken prisoner and draws maps for the enemy. White flags, blue flags, maneuvers take place in the countryside as if for real. Küpenreiter must remember Leitenberg, for one can’t forget it. Too bad they took him prisoner. Or did he get to the other shore in time so that he could take cover in the woods? One would hardly think so. He would have had to flee very quickly and leave all the maps behind. But without maps he is lost, because he knows none of the names and can’t make out the coordinates. Full of sorrow he thinks of the Scharnhorst barracks, which have fallen to pieces and disappeared in the country left behind. Two thousand kilometers away. A hand had simply pointed to it and it was no more. It collapsed in the middle of the rubbish pit.

The plague memorial has survived intact. Schwind the reporter was
right to wait it out there. He has dropped the camera, so no more pictures will be taken. Yet his hands are still free. He holds on with only his feet, but his hands are free and point off in many different directions. Yet nobody says which one is the best, and the reporter gives no reply no matter how often he is asked. He can’t, in fact, for he gave away his voice and no one has given it back. If one looks at him more closely it becomes clear that he has no face. He’s no longer alive, he only stands there and waits for the new day to dawn, though whether it will happen remains questionable. Yet to anyone who stands below him, it appears completely different; he believes the time has come and he won’t settle for getting no answers. Angrily he looks up at the plague reporter and lets him know that he no longer has any patience. Then Balthazar realizes that he who waits below will not put up with any nonsense, and fears for the future of his newspaper, which he cannot afford.

Balthazar waves to him to come closer to the column and shows him the way to Unkenburg. Whoever gets there first can write an article. There
The Unkenburg Daily
is being published. The paper is looking for freelance articles and will pay for them. Normally, unsolicited contributions sent in without return postage are not considered, but right now they are making exceptions. Extraordinary measures are needed to take an unusual step forward. No one will be upset, the editors have gotten used to hearing the unthinkable and now even expect it. How can
The Unkenburg Daily
special edition be published when the team needed to produce it isn’t yet there? Also, it’s a paper born amid the end of the world. Indeed, the last issue reported on the end of the paper’s run. Balthazar Schwind strains hard and recites from memory:

“Because of the lack of anything essential we have suspended our existence until further notice, yet we hope that the crisis will soon pass. In light of this, any reports about anything essential will be highly valued. The unforeseen circumstances force us to take the sad step of closing without knowing exactly when another issue will appear, though in the time in between we do not want to fail to face such difficulties as best we can and survive them. To this end it will obviously require the cooperative efforts of our staff in order to overcome the present emergency, and so we ask for patience on the part of our readers, since we have complete confidence that we will soon be able to restructure. For the duration of this brief suspension
we request your continued faith and understanding in order that we have the necessary time to gather our resources and begin anew.”

The ghost below who hears this knows that not much could have changed, but it’s comforting for him nonetheless, because in the meantime he has figured out who he is. Very quietly he also confesses this to the reporter, who has gone silent again. His name is Paul and he will live, provided that no one begrudges him the time to live. He won’t be writing any articles, though, as he needs to find a road home, for he doesn’t want the journey to go on forever. He’s also tired and wants to find someplace where a room and a bed are waiting for a wanderer to use them. Until then the newspapers will have to wait or keep putting off their reappearance. Yet Paul, who knows little about himself at the moment, will soon realize that all that’s gone wrong will not release him from such confusion, for it will be some time before he will have any clarity about his journey.

Meanwhile the toads
*
crawl out of their holes and begin to read. At first they don’t find much and have to be satisfied with the writing on their hands, but soon they have smeared these monotone prayers and pull newspapers out of their wide mouths, which they then spread out before them and quickly read as they hop upon them. They are pleased that their newspaper has not forsaken them on this day. Each toad puffs himself up with pride, because today he finds once again his own meaning, for it’s right there in the paper. Not only are day-to-day affairs restored but also the future itself is on display and exists because it has been printed. Every toad can read about himself today, for they themselves are the subject of the news. The newspaper, which until now was only the mirror on the wall, is now a manifestation of the market that has materialized and is full of public sorrow. The difference between the reader and the editor has disappeared. They are both toads who await their passing and who enjoy themselves in between. Things have come full circle. Hearts are worn on sleeves. The future is suspended, insurance is no longer bought, no credit is given, business has ceased.

This is why the windows of all offices and shops are closed. The toads cannot do anything or take care of anything. They say that things are only delayed, but Paul does not believe them. He asks that they give him a sign
if things are going to happen for real. Then they run away from him in cowardly fashion. Paul doesn’t know whether they take him for a fool or hightail it out of fear. It’s not hard for them to hide themselves. The field of graves is endless and full of puddles in whose mud the toads can quickly disappear. Not only is the train not running, there is also no longer any traffic. It must be lucky not to have any suitcases when things are at a complete standstill like this. Possessions that cannot be shipped only weigh one down. The town in which one stands can provide no security. Paul must acknowledge that it will not be easy to get away from this hole in the wall. But whoever wants to leave must do so at his own risk. Accidents can occur, because epidemics are everywhere just waiting to explode. Deaths cannot be avoided, because of the overwhelming nature of current conditions. The editors, however, don’t post any death notices. The Unkenburg Department of Health has handed over authority to Dr. Zischke, the director of the hospital, after his strong recommendations. At the last gathering of the sad survivors it was decided to not meet again, as well as to entrust the administration of the archives to Poduschka the butcher and meat smoker, as all hands rose in a unanimous decision. Sausages that wanted to practice in the future could use the stethoscope of the former health minister. Following through on the consequences of the most recent developments, the toads, as well as their next of kin, are forbidden under penalty of law to prowl around near the city crematorium.

Particularly troublesome are the unrecognizable voices that suddenly pop up from the dead. They don’t care about the newspapers, but appear when they wish and refute everything that’s been said. None of them can prove who he is and therefore is ignored. Paul believes there is no need to worry about not having any identity papers. It’s just an accident that the reporter happened to remember who he was and used a name that he could recognize himself by, though Paul granted it no worth, for it did not certify who he was, because there was no signature on a piece of paper. It’s clear that the voices are for the most part felt to be offensive to the local population, since they continually scream about revenge, although the inhabitants are completely innocent, especially since the voices cannot prove the losses they claim. The menace expressed by the voices states how their existence should be treated as harmless, as if order still prevailed. Yet the voices want revenge for what is habitual to the toads. Revenge
for the bricks that still exist in other walls! Revenge for the goods that they now have! Revenge for the families that one loves and wants to protect! Revenge for the fact that anything still exists! Revenge for what exists! Revenge, revenge, revenge!