They had fallen silent, shoulder-to-shoulder, absorbing the closing phrase of evening. Through the breaks in the pine trees beyond they could see the windmills. Hans heard the old man mumbling. Wait, wait, I don't think so, said the organ grinder, I don't think so (you don't think what? asked Hans), sorry, I don't think it's true (what's not true? Hans persisted), about being stuck at one point. I said the idea is always the same and that's true. But we also like to reflect on it, turn it over in our minds, like those windmills. So maybe we aren't so stuck after all. I was looking at the windmills, and suddenly I thought, are they moving or not? And I didn't know. What do you think?
Â
In the midst of the crowd in the streets around the market square, Frau Pietzine was watching the Christs, Virgins, Mary Magdalenes go by, and with each new step of sorrows and tears she realised she felt better, a sense of comfort pulsed through her, this shared piety absolved her for something she perhaps had not done. With each beatâboom!âof the drums, with each beatâboom!âshe clasped her rosary beads andâboom!âhalf-closed her eyes. Every Maundy Thursdayâboom!âFrau Pietzine would venture out with heavy heart to seeâboom!âthe processions and recallâboom!âwith sadness, all the other Thursdaysâboom!âwhen her husbandâboom!âwould escort her to the stand opposite the town hall. It was no doubt lonelinessâboom!âthat had changed the
meaningâboom!âof that crowd for everâbefore it had been a kind of landscape, a distant backdropâboom!âwhich she could ignore provided her faith and prayers were sincere, but for the last few yearsâboom!âFrau Pietzine would hurl herself into the crowdâboom!âletting it engulf her, and discover in its murmurâboom!âa frantic companionship. When she rememberedâboom! âthe touch of her deceased husband's bony fingersâboom!âFrau Pietzine instinctively sought the frail hand of her youngest son in orderâboom!âto clasp it in hers, offering the protection she could now only giveâboom!âbut never again receive. God give you health and strength, my beloved sonâboom!âFrau Pietzine muttered, and no one could have deniedâboom!âthat hers was the most sincere prayer of all those utteredâboom!âthat whole week in Wandernburg.
On the far side of the square, on the corner of Archway and King's Parade, the Levins were also watching the processions at a distance from the main crowd. Mortified by her husband's indifference, Frau Levin did her best to counteract the impression they might be giving to those beside them, by standing bolt upright in an uncomfortably rigid posture that suggested rapt attention. Worst of all, she thought, was not her husband's radical ideas. It was the smirk on his face that betrayed his differences and, in the end, his contempt. A contempt which, due to his pride, condemned them to the most humiliating margins of Wandernburg society. Why would her husband not yield even an inch, if only for the sake of appearances? If his beliefs were as solid as he maintained, why this insistence on having nothing to do with popular religious conventions? Were they not mere conventions, poppycock, expediencies as he kept saying? Why, then, did he continue to repudiate them? Herr Levin, in the meantime, wearing the same fixed smile, was thinking the exact oppositeâof the humiliation of having to accompany his wife year in, year out, as a gesture of goodwill, to see this grotesque
display of opportunistic penitence and sham religious devotion. Herr Levin was equally if not more dismayed by the dreadful, jarring bandsâeach time he heard the trumpets' piercing, metallic blastâtara-tara!âhis nose wrinkled instinctively. What is the point, he said to himself, of pretending we are what we are not? Tara! And what was the point of converting to something elseâtara-tara!âif at all events they, the others, would never accept them as one of their own? Tara! If we came here to suffer exile, to grow and returnâtara-tara!âwhat meaning was there in trying to escape fate? Tara! This was precisely the thing that most angered Herr Levin about his wife's behaviourâtara-tara! How could she be so naive as to imagine they would accept her if she obeyed their rules? Tara! And if she were to obey anyone, wasn't it more reasonable that she should do as he said? Tara-tara! Besides, reflected Herr Levin, the idea of Godâtara!âis not reached through theatre. If all these people devoted the Easter week to studying theologyâtara-tara!âastronomy or even arithmetic, they would be closer to faith than they were nowâtara!âor did these bigots really believe all would be revealed to them one fine day, just because? Tara-tara! I hope, Frau Levin thought at that very moment, we shall be going to church today at any rateâtara! I hope, her husband thought simultaneously, that on top of everything else she's not planning to attend Mass. Tara-tara!
Not far from the Levins, Hans stood craning his neck, exasperated and curious. Even though he detested crowds, he had been forced to join in because every street in the city centre, including the street where the inn was, had been besieged since early that morning. He had been woken up by blaring bugles, and, after trying to ignore the din or bury himself in a book, had gone downstairs to have a look. How peaceful it must be in the cave now, he reflected, smiling to himself. As he weaved his way between elbows, wide-brimmed hats and parasols, he had the impression of witnessing a dual spectacleâthe faithful
taking part in the procession and the neighbours who had come out to watch them. No matter how much that gregarious display seemed to him like a mixture of the Inquisition and pagan spring worship, he had to admit he found it fascinating. After watching the most celebrated floats go by, Hans was in no doubtâthe most ornate of all, the one that had stood out as it rolled down Border Street, had been the carriage belonging to His Excellency Mayor Ratztrinker, with its exquisite lines, folding hood and towering driver's seat upholstered in velvet.
Hans turned round and found himself face to face with Father Pigherzog, with whom he had exchanged no more than a few words outside the church in those early days when he had been following the Gottliebs. Ah, how he yearned to see Sophie. Happily, her salon was the following day. Father Pigherzog spoke to him first. Well, smiled the priest, what do you think of Wandernburg's famous Easter processions? Are they not extraordinary? You took the words out of my mouth, Father, Hans replied. Is it not astonishing? the priest went on, I would go so far as to say that such popular zeal, such a fervent display of spirituality is unique in all Germany. If I may be permitted to give my opinion as a novice, Hans said, I'm not sure spirituality is what brings this crowd onto the street. I feared as much, Father Pigherzog sighed, you are a materialist. You are mistaken, Father, Hans said, I believe in all kinds of unseen powers. Unseen and of this earth. Well, the priest shrugged, I only hope you are at peace with your impoverished notions. All I ask is that one day you consider how alone we would be without the Heavens to protect us. Indeed, Father, replied Hans, alone at last!
At last we are alone, Father, Frau Pietzine whispered through the grille in the confessional. I am so in need of your advice! What is ailing you, my child? came Father Pigherzog's voice. It's, she said, well, all the rest you know, but this is about time,
Father, do you understand? More than anything it is about time. (Try to be a little more specific, my child, whispered Father Pigherzog's voice.) It's nothing definite, moments, times when I fear everything is in vain. (Nothing is in vain, my child.) This morning, for instance, my youngest son gave me his hand and I squeezed it hard and it felt so small and defenceless, Father! And then I was afraid, afraid of my son's frailty, and of my own, do you understand, Father? Because I realised that neither I nor anyone can protect him from the trials of this life, from the suffering that awaits him. (The Lord can do so, my child.) Of course, He can do so, but how can I explain, there are things not even God, but only a mother should do for her children. (I see no contradiction in this, you are a mother and a child and He is the Father whose children procreate in his name.) Oh Father, you explain everything so well! Do you see why I need your advice? If only you had known me when my faith was strong, in the bloom of youth! When I was unassailed by doubt, all innocence and devotion to God. But then I met my deceased husband, may the Lord keep him in His glory, oh woe is me! (He is resting in eternal peace now and can hear us.) May the angels take notice of you, Father, and we were betrothed immediately, and I gave him four children, thanks be to the Lord, Father, and without a moment's pleasure. (God bless you, my child.)
The children filed through the entrance to St Nicholas's Church in two columns, one of boys and one of girls. They walked down the side aisles and past the transept until they reached the apse, where Father Pigherzog, at the high altar, was waiting to bless their Easter offerings. The smallest children's gaucheness, their mixture of nervous silence and stifled giggles, brought a sunny contrast to the gloomy interior. One by one, holding small bouquets of boxwood, they approached the altar laden with sweets, egg-shaped candies, coloured ribbons,
garlands and miniature toys. Their bright faces clouded with fear as Father Pigherzog loomed over them. This was not the case for Lisa Zeit, who held out her brass ring with an absent expression, and who only appeared flustered when she thought the priest had stared at her chapped fingers before blessing the ring. Lisa had not thought seriously about God since she was nine years old, but as she curtsied and stepped back, she could not help wondering why God had given her such smooth skin only to let her hands be ruined. On the opposite side of the apse, in the boys' column, Thomas Zeit awaited his turn with a miniature lead soldier in an oval box. Just as he reached the altar, Thomas pressed his legs together and began wrigglingâhe had suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to let out one of his small explosions. Don't you dare, he ordered himself, staring hard at his offeringâthe diminutive soldier inside an Easter egg, musket shouldered, in uniform and campaign boots, cap tilted to one side in an attitude of weary anticipation, as though he wished he could fire or surrender once and for all.
The deacon stammered his way through the Epistle, and the choir sang the Gradual. Frau Pietzine sang along, her bosom swelling. Father Pigherzog finished blessing the incense, recited the
Munda cor meum
and began reading the Gospel in the calming voice Frau Pietzine loved so muchâhe was such a wise, simple man who was dedicated to his calling. But what might hers be? she wondered. What should it be now? How many sins would she commit not because of straying voluntarily from the path, but because she was lost? And why the devil did these new shoes of hers pinch her feet so? Oh forgive me, Hail Mary! Father Pigherzog had begun his sermon and was cautioning his flock against the dangers of the mechanical rationalism of our day that could so easily lead to a vulgar form of atheism, a life without God, turning men's souls into mere merchandise. Life, brothers and sisters, insisted Father Pigherzog, is not a transaction or an
act of convenience. Living, my brothers is to act without looking, to look only into our own conscience, honouring with sanctity the ⦠(Why, dear God, Frau Pietzine lamented, why did I buy them, however pretty they are, when I knew they were too small? It serves you right for being avaricious, how right Father Pigherzog is!) ⦠much less the wretched materialism that holds sway, yes, holds sway over our families, our jobs, even our newspapers. Ah, my brothers, those newspapers! Those scurrilous pamphlets! We do not say reading is sinful in itself, nor that ⦠(Praise the Lord, Frau Pietzine thought, relieved, in that case romances are â¦) ⦠But tell me now, to
what
kind of reading do we refer? Does the complete freedom so vigorously demanded by some necessarily mean the impunity of the word, sin in print, heresies for purchase? ⦠(But the romances I read are loaned to me, Frau Pietzine thought, justifying herself) ⦠than decency? Can entertainment be said to be as worthy as virtue?
Suscipe sancte Pater
, they prayed, offering the bread and wine, which the deacon nearly spilt over the sides of the chalice.
Offerimus tibi, Domine
, Father Pigherzog intoned, glaring at the deacon out of the corner of his eye. And the incense floated up, dispersed and was gone. While the choir finished chanting the offertory, the priest washed his hands intoning the lavabo. Frau Pietzine adored watching Father Pigherzog as he washed his handsâhe had the purest, most trustworthy, comforting hands of any man (well, she corrected herself, not exactly a man, or at least not in that sense, he was more than a man, or less, or both?) she had ever known (known and touched, but in the pure sense of the word). This was why her favourite parts of Mass were the Eucharist, the lavabo and above all Communionâreceiving Communion from the hand of Father Pigherzog (who had just said
Orate, fratres
) was like exchanging lies for truth, the taste of flesh for the crystal waters of the spirit. The priest recited the final prayer and said:
Per omnia saecula saeculorum
. And the choir said: Amen.
The bread came apart like cotton wool.
Pax Domini sit semper vobiscum
âhow easily Father Pigherzog broke the bread! After the Agnus Dei, the priest kissed the deacon and the deacon hoped Father Pigherzog had forgiven him for having almost spilt the wine. When the priest wet his rough lips in the blood, Frau Pietzine's breathless bosom shuddered as the moment of Communion approachedâit was she who had asked Father Pigherzog to allow the parishioners to receive Communion. The priest took the host plate from the altar boy, holding it between his second and third fingers, holy, pure, learned fingers!
Libera nos
, and when it was time for the words
da propitious
, he crossed himself and held the plate beneath the host. The altar boy uncovered the chalice, bowed, and the priest took the host, broke it in two, obliging wafer, nimble fingers,
Per eundem
, and half of it fell gently onto the plate while the other broke into pieces, weightless specks,
Qui tecum, per omnia
. With what infinite care and grace, oh Lord, did Father Pigherzog make the sign of the cross three times with the half he was holding in his right hand,
Pax Domini
, above the chalice. As he dipped the morsel into the chalice,
Haec commixtio
, rubbing his fingers together in order to purify them, Frau Pietzine's eyes rolled up.