The Journey (37 page)

Then it’s quiet. Only the dead rabbit’s blood still stirs. It’s not a girl. Its head is different. No girl has fur like that. Anyone can see that. It’s an animal that ran off, and though it took the wrong direction, it’s still just an animal. It turned out to be a good direction for someone who is hungry. They are happy though somewhat sad, but it is certainly an animal. It came and was a gift, though some would call it a victim. Have some and build your strength! There’s already some wood burning in the oven. The animal is dressed and cut up, it stews in its juices and knows nothing. Whoever is hungry must eat it and be thankful. Sadness will do him no good if he wants to survive. Dirty salt is sprinkled on the fresh meat. Soon the victim is finished off and is no more. Justice demands that it be split between the seven voices. The brother eats it. It’s the animal that his sister loved. Had she herself not tasted its meat as well? Zerlina is gone. The length of her journey can never be measured. The hand that once showed where and how far is broken off. All of them are gone. Zerlina is with Leopold. She resides for eternity in Ruhenthal in the shadow of Leitenberg. It’s far from here. There is no memorial for her, only for the victims no one is willing to eat. No reporter is ready to write about her. The secretary refuses to even write it down. “That’s not appropriate for our readers. Perhaps the other newspapers in the next town …”

Yet in the next town the same thing happens. The secretary won’t do it.

“No, no rabbit flesh. The readers have had enough of that and want something else to read about. Maybe you should do a book about it. In another town there is a man who publishes books.”

The man listens to the story silently and sighs. “That’s not possible. For that’s the truth and not fiction. Yet my publishing house is not suited
to the truth.” The secretary nods. “In some other town there lives a man who deals in the truth.”

This man agrees to meet and listens patiently. “That’s unbelievable, too much of a fantasy. The times are different and demand the pure truth, not fiction.” The secretary follows suit. “You could maybe try another town. But I wouldn’t hold out much hope for this rubbish.”

And in the other town no one will even listen. The secretary states loudly: “Too late, too late! That was a hundred thousand years ago. Back then was the time for it. Not now. It’s something for the museum in the next town, it’s not too far.”

At the museum in the next town they laugh. “We’re all full up with that and don’t want any more, no, not even as a gift. Earlier we took in such material, although we never had much faith in it, but out of compassion we took it in and stacked it up. Nobody looked at it in the glass cases. The public protested. Now it’s all stored in the basement.”

“But what shall I do? It’s too much stuff to constantly keep schlepping around.”

“There is no other town, none,” says the secretary. “None. But stay out of this town and all the others!”

In no town will anybody listen. Nobody has ears for it. The first secretary yawns, the second secretary cleans her nails. The third secretary opens the door, the porter points contemptuously at the cemetery. There it says clearly: “All graves sold out!” All that is left is rubbish. Rubbish that is tossed away.

“Please, you really shouldn’t say that. Given the current conditions, suicide is complete madness. You will be seen as a complete laughingstock forever. We have to warn you about the repercussions of such a public act. What you can’t help doing we recommend strongly that you do privately and with no note left behind. At most just a note about some terminal illness or something. Then you can talk about your senses being confused. But it’s much better for you and future arrangements, which we will no doubt implement, if you yourself were not so proud, but instead just tossed the goods overboard. In the prevailing darkness they will simply sink away. There’s no need to worry that people today will try to save lost goods. They’re still here with us in the shape of empty buildings. For the moment that’s not too pleasant, but mainly for the revitalization of the
public authorities, with which we are already busy. Later you will get a receipt for the contents that can be redeemed at the Unkenburg police station, though it will only cover part of the damages. A commission established with the help of the former enemy has already begun work there. The empty shells of your buildings will also be cleaned until the facades gleam once again, and the necessary bricks will be set back in order so that you don’t come tumbling down. Until then, don’t abandon ship. We have just created a dove and given it wings. We will release it near the plague memorial. Wait a while before you return!”

Paul walks farther along the road that stretches out before him. Perhaps he should have followed the advice not to leave the ark. It smelled so awful there, however, and after the first meal he could not stay there anymore. They had gnawed on the pale bones of the animal. There was hardly anything left of Zerlina. Now only flight could save him. There was nothing to take along from the ark. Up onto the deck. It’s not far to the gate, no guard stands there. The gate is open. But can you go through it? Fear only lives in the ark. Freedom is possible only to he who conquers it. Jump into the sea of graves! What are you waiting for? There are so many on the ship, you shouldn’t leave it. The hand holds on to a post, the body hangs heavily from it. The bones hurt inside the belly, for they are sins, consumed sins. Are there any people out there? A foot carefully stretches out. It’s cooler out there than in here. The hand lets go of the post, the road is taken. There’s nothing to look at; therefore nobody looks back at you. A miracle that the feet still work. They lift up and down, and as a result move forward.

The day is cooler. On the road there are people wandering, always wandering. Among them are women. One looks so familiar. Paul speaks to her. Her name is Clarissa. Most people call here Clara, though she doesn’t like it when people call her Clara. Paul wants to know whether she knows of another who looks like her. No, she didn’t think so, but what was her name? Zerlina, no, I don’t know any Zerlina. She must be somewhere else. One comes across so many now. Indeed he is willing to probe more, but he doesn’t want to press the matter too hard. He doesn’t want to look for what doesn’t exist. Too often he has heard how maddening this can be. Paul had come to terms with it all; he will be alone if he is to go on at all.
He will try, if only that life go on. Paul looks up.
THE GOLDEN GRAPE
. The inn is undamaged; it’s not located in any town, but rather outside town, and now it offers refreshments and a brief rest. The innkeeper is back, the garden itself is covered in frost. Barrels of Leitenberg beer, freshly tapped, tasting bitter after defeat. The concession has not been lost, it exists once more in peace.

“Innkeeper, I’d like to place an order!”

“The end of the war is here, but not victory. I have nothing.”

“Don’t make excuses! You are an inn and a coffee shop. What are you waiting for? It says it right there!”

“I’m not quite back in business yet. Also, my family hasn’t returned. The barmaid had to be let go and is long gone. I have nothing.”

“Everyone is coming. Some refreshments, quick! You have a ration, don’t you? So bring something, innkeeper!”

“You are displaced and on your way home. You actually shouldn’t be allowed to sit under these trees. But I have nothing against it if you just want to disappear again. Only wagoners can stop here.”

“None of them come anymore, and I don’t want to just sit. I want something to eat, but not rabbit. The bones are too sharp. The menu, please! I also want something to drink! I’ll pay more than any driver.”

“Don’t take out your troubles on an old man! Look, the kitchen range is not working. I can’t even light a fire, everything was burned by the enemy. My inn is completely ruined.”

“It’s the same everywhere, everything is finished!”

“Yes, yes, yes, that’s it! It’s all finished!”

“Yet it will come back! So bring the sausages, the cheese! Quick!”

“Nothing! I have no rations!”

“Beer and wine!”

“The empty barrels were rolled out of the cellar. They were filled with rubbish. Then they were tipped over and smashed up! The staves are busted!”

“You’re not telling the truth. Get something onto this table quick, or … or …”

“Or what? Whoever has traveled a long way cannot stop. Displaced. Have you not taken note of that?”

“I haven’t traveled that far on this lovely, free day. I don’t have that far to go either. Yet I’ve been on the move a long time, though at the start I was only eight kilometers away. The hand told me that.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying. Free days have been postponed, perhaps all days.…”

“You’ve lost your mind, innkeeper! Or has nobody in Unkenburg told you that freedom has at last come?”

“I’ve never heard of Unkenburg. But that’s your business, which I don’t want to get into. You should know that it’s still a difficult time. Unrecognizable voices appearing everywhere have made it so. My friend, if I take a look at you, I don’t see a man, and all I hear is an unfamiliar voice. My wife and daughter were taken away, and you can just rest here quietly? Have you no heart at all, such that you sit here all the same when I have lost everything? Gone, gone, everything gone, yet there are those who still made plenty! Out of here, man! Out of here, you soulless creature!”

Paul is again on the road. Soon there should be the bridge, the ribbon of water, silver and deep blue, then the gate leading onto Bridge Street. It’s all so confusing. There is no corporal to be found, the soldiers have all left. They were taken away so that they could not march anymore. The plague memorial has fallen. How lucky that Paul was no longer nearby. From far off he had heard the muffled thud. The ark has been blown to bits, as well as the entire crematorium. Death sentences can no longer be carried out. The innkeeper’s powder keg has been drunk dry. The spittoon split in two, and Mutsch the cat has eaten all the provisions. Rubble from the plague memorial is in the cellar. It’s the ark’s bunker of ashes. Here everything is preserved by the lice that have been spared in the last bombing. Nurse Dora wants to take care of them, but Frau Lischka will not allow anyone down the steps because the walls could collapse. Hospital Director Zischke waves off all appeals with his hands, no, he has no beds for vermin, though he orders the schoolchildren to collect the bones. The children are excited and obey without any fuss, because it’s all for a better future, and so everyone is happy to pitch in. However, one can’t ask much of old Johann Pietsch. He has retired from service and turned in his broom at the high school.

Paul walks on and no longer feels tired. Bedecked vehicles travel by swiftly, the men on them waving and throwing little gifts to everyone,
which tumble in the dust. Paul could bend down for these treasures, yet he worries about his knees being weak, and he wants to keep his balance. It would be too easy to lose his way and have to start all over again from the beginning. He doesn’t want that. Whoever can bend over is welcome to. Many bend down and fall onto the road and begin to gather what they can, taking as much as they can into their mouths and hands, almost dizzy with excitement. They ask Paul why he doesn’t take anything. It doesn’t belong to him. It’s been tossed onto the road, something from which one doesn’t take nourishment. The road should lead to a destination, not provide treats. The innkeeper will lie in poverty in his garden if his wares lie upon the road. He should be given something, he’s the one to whom it’s due. Your goods are only secure if inside a building. Yet many notice how miserable this wanderer is, the one who will not bend down and is in such a hurry because he doesn’t know how to get to his destination and yet wants to get there, a hopeful wanderer, who it was easy to feel sorry for. Meanwhile they hand little bits to him from the ground, which he takes and thanks them for, sticking them in his mouth and pockets, a rich man to whom everything comes effortlessly.

His feet burn, for his shoes are terrible, yet the lazy blood begins to flow. Paul is very healthy and is happy to be on his way. He should take someone’s good boots while yelling at him, for that would be a bit of revenge. In swaying lines the prisoners of war move along the road, themselves forlorn and covered in dust, though wearing good leather boots. You only need to go up to one of them and not even ask any questions but rather just point with the hands imperiously and without feeling. The guy then just bends over and loosens the straps, hands over the shoes, and still has to be grateful that he’s only been stripped of his boots and is at least allowed to lie there. Paul stands before a pale young boy and looks at him imploringly.

“I can’t walk anymore in these shoes and I still have a long way to walk. You’ve had the best shoes available for the longest time, your feet don’t hurt at all. Now you’re almost there and can give me your boots, but I have far to go, very far to go. Come on, why don’t you hand them over? I could just take them like the others do, but I don’t want to just steal them.”

“I won’t hand over a thing that’s on my body. It’s all that I have left. You can get everything you need. Just go to the next armory!”

“Who are you? Where are you from?”

“My name is Robert Budil. I don’t know what’s happened to my parents, or my brother, who is likely dead. The entire regiment was wiped out. My brother was among them. Let me have my shoes!”

“Budil? Are you from Leitenberg?”

“Why? What do you know? Are you from Leitenberg as well?”

“No, I’m not from anywhere. But I know someone named Budil in Leitenberg.”

“Where does he live?”

“On Bridge Street. He had a very strange first name: Ambrose. I always remembered it whenever I walked by his house in my miserable shoes.”

“Ambrose Budil, that’s my father! Is he alive? Is my mother alive? When were you there last?”

“I was there a year ago, actually two years ago. It’s been a long while. I don’t know what happened to your parents. Maybe they’ve since left there. You must know better than I do, Robert Budil. Anyone with an apartment has something, indeed, as well as a lot more, and one can write letters then too.”