Authors: H. G. Adler
The captain doesn’t stop admiring the treasures before him. He lifts up piece after piece, turns them in his hand and holds them before his eyes. He’s not ashamed to do so in front of Paul, at whom he glances impatiently. Paul, however, does not shrink away from the captain’s blue-eyed gaze, though now and then he looks around and stares at the pendulum clock that oddly hangs upon the wall, assiduously swinging back and forth. The droning clock was now striking the quarter hour. “Two hundred cigarettes, but make sure you bring them!” A half hour has passed. The clock has croaked it out with its rude little hammer. Will the deal take place? The assistant comes in and announces other visitors. Dudley gives a short wave, okay, well look at these, just a … just a couple of minutes, not too bad. The new guest also arrives like a train rattling along its tracks, to and fro. He is also American and has a uniform and a cigarette, a Lucky Strike. Therefore he doesn’t have to wait. That would be silly. He talks as fast as the mighty pendulum. Is the hour up? The captain can do nothing but listen to his countryman. His hands are hard, the table is silent. He doesn’t pay attention to Paul, who simply sits on his chair inside the pendulum clock, feeling like a fool. The captain shows the many new medals to his visitor. He picks one up that is bent, then he picks up another, turning it slowly back and forth. With a quick wave he snaps: “How terrific! Aren’t these things terrific?” The hunchback from Unkenburg
rubs his hump, pleased and yet submissive, well, well, well, sure, he can also bring some for the other man, always something, every day. The deafening clock strikes three-quarters past inside its dusty glass chamber. He doesn’t want to be paid in currency. For God and the liberators he will do it for nothing, just Zig-Zag cigarettes, no-frills compensation. No, the other one says, it will be American cigarettes when you come back, not just nothing. Then Paul can be silent no longer. He jumps excitedly out of the chamber of his clock, his knees wobbling because his legs have gone to sleep. Paul yells out:
“Herr Captain, are you not done yet? Or do you finally have some time for me?”
“Sure, just a minute. As you can see, I’m busy. It’s important.”
“What? Busy with your medals?”
“So you also have some medals? Great.”
“No medals! I need to talk to you!”
“Can’t you wait a bit? You can see that I’m busy. I can’t take on every single case.”
“You’re not taking on any case while playing with medals! I see what you’re up to!”
“What’s it to you?”
“Nothing. It’s about many others, me even, and perhaps even you.”
“Okay, if it’s that important to you, talk!”
“I won’t say anything in front of this man.”
“Who? Who are you talking about?”
“This one here! You know who I mean! The one with the medals!”
Captain Dudley grows angry and jumps up. The cigarette falls out of the corner of his mouth. He is at least ten years younger than Paul, whose look he doesn’t like. He’s cold to him. The captain waves at the hunchback, who gathers up his little box and offers a submissive good-bye. At last he is gone.
“What do you want? Make it quick!”
“I wanted to see the commandant, yet someone steered me toward you. I’ve come from the forest camp, which needs help.”
“Where is this forest camp?”
“It’s hidden. Eight kilometers away on the main road and then twenty minutes through the valley, then a path leads through the woods.”
“That’s too far. We’re only responsible for Unkenburg. Who sent you here?”
“I came on my own. But they really need help. There are more than a thousand sick people. Something has to be done!”
“We already know about the camp. You don’t have to worry. I’ll make a note of it. Everything will be taken care of. They’ll pick up the sick.”
“Herr Captain …”
“Yes, what now?”
“What is going to happen? I’m standing before you …”
“Go to the Office for Former Prisoners! Take your problems there! Not everyone can come to me. I have much too much to do. Did you hear me? Get out!”
“Can you verify the present? Can you verify that I exist?”
“What? Say it again, but in English!”
“Excuse me, I made a mistake! I was looking for a human being. I knocked on the wrong door.”
Both Americans smile and say something to each other in English, but Paul closes the door and listens no longer. He’s ashamed of having complained about something that he should have taken care of himself. What was he asking for there? Why didn’t he get out of there ages ago? Captain Dudley is not the kind of man that you go to and simply talk to, especially when you have no orders to do so. Paul has not found the right means and has only managed to arrange a visit that is senseless and pointless. It’s not that easy to go back to how things were. One must begin more slowly, from the bottom up. One shouldn’t go to important men first. Paul should have known better. Aren’t there unfamiliar faces pressing against the door of the Office for Former Prisoners? Have they not already said what is necessary to do themselves? Everyone needs something, yet nobody exists for real. Paul has no duty here, he can and should think of himself. He is liberated, things will go on as they will.
Paul sits down on a bench in the hall and looks at the many people passing by him. They are all strangers: people from Unkenburg, people from this country, people from far-off countries; nothing but strangers caught up in incomprehensible affairs. No matter how much Paul tries to find an entry into this world, nothing works. Is he too wounded? Have the others not lost as much, such that they know right off what they need to
do? Even if they have their own worries, they appear to be satisfied; they indeed have
their
worries and can think about them, namely what to do and what to leave for later. Everything to them is self-evident. Certainly none of them goes to the commandant without a clear reason. Silly matters or ancient history are not what they’d present, when instead there are more important concerns. Is it so difficult to find the right approach? For Paul it’s difficult. Maybe it was good that he stopped off at that strange apartment earlier, but even there he should have recognized that each is caught within his own circle and that you can’t expect secrets to be easily shared with the secrets of others, or even demand that they be. Whoever follows only his own inner needs is selfish, but he at least won’t be easily derailed. Paul has been derailed and can’t find a track, be it good or bad. Any road that he chooses today leads into emptiness. He suffers states of awareness without any ties to reality. Is there any way to begin anew? Right now all he wants to do is wait. He had rushed himself and yet had only ended up chasing something mad, his steps unconscious, weak and powerless, heading in an unknown direction. Others hitch a ride with the victors on their vehicles and travel along without worry. They were simply asked where they wanted to go; then many simply expressed their wishes as if they were orders. Such travelers could get an appointment with the commandant, but not Paul.
Paul doesn’t know what he should do. He can’t stay at police headquarters. He doesn’t want any help from the Office for Former Prisoners. After four years of not living in an apartment, he doesn’t want to be crammed into crowded group quarters, not even for one night, no not at all. Should he impose upon Frau Wildenschwert or knock on the door of a different building and ask to be taken in where no doubt refugees will already be sweating and freezing in each of the rooms? Walk on ahead for so many streets, then left, then again right, then around one corner more and down into a cellar where the bombed-out names squat? Paul has had enough and wants just to be on his own.
For a while Paul doesn’t perceive that a stranger is standing before him. It’s a man from Unkenburg. Only someone who is from this city can give such a look. Half asleep, Paul takes his advice. On top of Kanonenberg on the other side of the city there’s an empty barracks. Paul listens in amazement, could it be the Scharnhorst barracks? They have hardly been
damaged, despite the destruction of Unkenburg. If Paul would like to go there the stranger is willing to take him. Paul accepts his offer and thanks him, the man from Unkenburg helps him up. Paul walks on almost blind, without thinking, shutting down his overexcited gaze and half closing his eyes. He hardly listens to what the other man says to him, and walks and walks, the stage swimming before him, then the cathedral, the general in the park, as once more they pass through the burned-out center of the city and its rubble. Paul doesn’t pay attention to anything and doesn’t know where he is, though he feels that he must be getting close to the place where he first entered the city that morning. The stranger leads him to the open gates of the barracks. It consists of many individual buildings with little lawns in front of them and bordering on a large courtyard on whose edges stand freshly blooming linden trees. The stranger tells him that the barracks are now empty, any of the doors can be opened. The man from Unkenburg says something else, but Paul just nods his head and understands none of it, he is too tired, he says a sleepy thank-you, the stranger is gone already.
Paul hesitates for a while. He has no pass, he shouldn’t be here. The guards might suddenly show up. What is he doing here? It’s so quiet, the late afternoon is clear and silent. Paul could be arrested for making himself comfortable in a strange building where he has no right to stay. Yet the weariness that sets in with twilight dampens such anxious thoughts. The gate has already been snuck through silently and surreptitiously; soldiers don’t bother the intruder who walks across the smooth, spread-out sand. The yard is wide and yet unviolated by a single step, a gathering field of undisturbed peace. Only one building has been hit and its roof collapsed, the others have survived all the horror. Now Paul hesitates no longer as he moves unconsciously; a door stands open, Paul doesn’t take long to decide. Already he has stepped inside, trusting his feet more than his eyes as he clomps heavily up the steps and enters a long hallway. All the rooms are open. It looks quite welcoming. The soldiers have left behind what there is. Beds, tables, stools, cupboards, stoves stand there quietly. Paul selects what for him is a dream of a room, one that must have belonged to an officer. A bed lies here with clean sheets. Paul needs nothing more, and so he turns the key from the inside, takes off his shoes, the dark green coat, the pants, everything, as he tries to find a window,
hears something fall, then it’s dark. Paul shuffles back, bumps into something, keels over, and is already lying in the commandant’s bed fast asleep.
At one point Paul wakes up. He feels sick and miserable. He has lost everything, though it could also be that he himself has been lost. Afraid, Paul yells out, “Where am I?” Yet no answer is offered in return. Indeed the question could not have been heard, his voice was not there, it’s spent. Paul has no voice. He has no idea whether it’s night or a new day. Curtains hang all around, which don’t allow in the slightest light, making it impossible to figure out what time of day it is while in bed, requiring the desire and ability to get up. Paul also doesn’t know if there’s a window. He only hopes so, as he hopes also that he can find a door, a switch in order to have some light in the room, or at least a candle and matches. Yet that’s asking too much. Everything is thickly tarred with misfortune, the viscous slime having hardened so that it is impenetrable. He seeks nothing but peace in the grave. There you can relax because you are forgotten and don’t have to remember anything. Paul is surprised to find that the grave could feel so soft and comfortable. His limbs are not held in, he can move them, even if just slowly. Whatever happened, it’s fortunate that Paul has been allowed to remain alive in his body and not been reduced to ashes. It was a huge cathedral with two towers and a colorful slate roof, the high building having collapsed, dissolved into one’s consciousness, and that was for the best. Then there was nothing more, the worries faded, no hunger pangs, and no thirst. The high office that had been held had indeed been brought down, the blessing could no longer be given, yet from now on was one continuous holiday, because time had been done away with as well.
The journey is over, and there is no one who can do evil. The judgment of blind hatred that drools with revenge remains unimposed. The recent peace has been much too short to justify having such horrors consume the heart with overwhelming force. The crypt in the basement of the cathedral is the best grave. Nobody comes there and nobody is disturbed. The other dead ones had it a little better. Did they have a different hand directing them there? There is no longer any hand, none whatsoever points into such darkness. The direction has been lost, any way forward leads only to nothing, which is why nothing moves forward; not a step can be taken, neither left nor right. Even if the feet want to, there’s no going forward. No orders can be given where every command
is ignored. That’s why it’s better to get used to being dead and not to look for any way out. Seek nothing. That’s at least a pure goal, to remain distant from everyone and solitary, but without any pain, just a feeling that rises within oneself. All desire is also extinguished. Not even freedom is longed for or thought about. When everything exists, even that which does not, but nonetheless is, then joy is attained, one that no striking of the hour can disturb. Every effort has withered away. All knowledge striven for now means nothing. The next moment can’t even occur, for it will not happen, it will not pass, it’s severed itself from all Being, because every moment is now eradicated. No other existence is possible, it doesn’t even attempt to assert itself; what is not itself is eradicated, done away with, no longer accepted, for it cannot be withstood; it is tossed away. The hand now dipped into the darkness, perhaps closed, perhaps open, yet without any fingers, no way to point and no meaning.
How wonderful that one can breathe freely in a grave. Paul feels the soft, warm air that doesn’t stir, a sweet, dark honey that moves through the tomb. Honey, and not the tar of misfortune. Does Paul still have hands? Do the dead have hands? If there can still be horrors inside the grave, that would be one; but Paul is calm because all around him the stillness remains unchanged. He can still risk believing in himself; what he is seeking is not a bad thing and will not hurt anyone else, nor disturb anyone. He can do what he wants in the grave, and thus not be called upon to bear witness or hear confessions. The hem of justice, which everyone seeks in the end, is like a shadow; but where is there room for injustice? The desire for punishment has faded from the body, for a blesséd compassion does not assert guilt, and is not guilty. If there is any thought of pursuing such a thing now, it is dismissed outright, especially when a world outside continues to exist that could put fear even into the dead. Yet nothing is outside, nothing has remained in the past, but what comes from within has nothing to do with creation and means nothing, has no reason to be and no content. No protest holds sway; yet because there is something that can still assert its strength, so the unburdened spirit arises, it comes to its senses, it lifts itself up and it sinks down, it collapses upon itself in order to rest quietly, as it falls back upon itself before it rises out of itself again.