Cihlar & Egeler - The Saint and her Fool

He left that same night with only the clothes on his back.

From Wurzburg on he travels as a craftsman, and the way he speaks of the journey, it is indeed similar to the accounts of his ancestors – the hardship of those who had starved and fought in the desert with Kaiser Friedrich or the ones who had lived with the Dutch, much like frogs, in the flooded country during the Spanish Liberation War – as they no doubt later related to their children in front of a warm kitchen stove in the comfort of home.

„I am lucky: I arrive home on a rainy day. Rain drops are dripping from the trees onto my head and the sound of wetness all around is like a gentle murmur to me, and the clouds are caressing the meadows. How refreshing the linden trees smell to my soul! I am glad that a veil of rain conceals my view of the gaping emptiness where once the steep, dark roof could be seen. It is evening and I say to myself: Now you must walk around over the rubble so it won’t seem quite so bad in the morning. I claim the keys from the forester to open the gate, which is still intact. He seems very pleased to welcome me although there is something rather mysterious about his manner. The old gate opens with a creaking noise, a sound I yearned for and often heard in my dreams, and I feel as though I have never been gone.

For a moment I close my eyes and clench my teeth against what I know I am about to see, yet holding on in my mind to how it had once been to pass through this gate: The towering castle walls would rise into sight and the two dogs come running to greet me and then I would hear the sound of Father’s cane tapping. However, as I open my eyes, the scenery is completely different from what I had expected: The forest has begun to take possession. There, against the stone wall, is the well, still intact and murmuring a melody mingled with the sweet song of a blackbird. There is a wild rosebush hanging over the well and one of the linden trees is still alive; its treetop is bear on one side but covered on the other by thousands of yellow blossoms. It smells like home. The forester leads me through the rubble and along a wall of loose stones, which he had piled up himself, to a place where several charred beams had collapsed, thus forming a roof. Then I pass a high wall built of boards, behind which there is a door that opens onto an enclosed courtyard. In former times, this was where the servants used to sit. And this large, lofty room with its four, thick-walled window niches has remained undamaged, although the windows are concealed by heaps of rubble. The green tiled stove is still there, and the table, the long benches, the old tin work; the chamber, too, where the servants stayed when they had guard duty; and an old, but sturdy bed and a green enamelled washbasin … which I proceed to fill at the singing well. And with this water I wash the sorrow from my body and my heart. And although the forester, who discovered the place last year while tracking down a fox, does not want to have me staying there overnight, I know I have to.”

„Oh, I want to hear the singing well! Please take me there.”

„Now that you have heard everything, my Rose, listen to my secret. I assumed you were asleep. If people were to hear my story, they would laugh at the insane Earl of Ruins. I had known, though, on that first night in the old servant’s bed: He who owns such a precious home as I do – a home that was once the greatest fortune to so many souls, a home where so many battles were fought and blood was shed so their children could live in peace and where these souls found their final resting place in the shade of its trees – should never, ever abandon it. A home such as this requires loyalty and its heirs have a duty to maintain it with all their might for future generations.

The Earl who built Thorstein Castle, stone by stone, with the help of his peasants eight hundred years ago had surely also suffered hard times, maybe not as difficult as its present Lord who now lies in rubble on a servant’s plank bed. But if he were to walk through the door now, with his leathery, tanned face and the armour helmet on his head, I would like to think I would be able to withstand his critical gaze. That is why, from that point onwards, I have not had a moment’s respite, knowing that the crows are circling over their destroyed nests. They have called for me, the fathers of the past, and will not leave me alone. They have chased me along the northern countryside where the clouds hang so low. They were there, too, while I was wandering around the suburbs of Berlin between millions of lights and crowds of homeless people. They have touched my heart to make me understand why a human being becomes restless and bitter, and lacks a sense of responsibility: The German heart cries out for a home.

If there is no one left to remember the morals, deeds and sorrows of those who went before, then the soul goes on a quest and becomes restless, trying to stuff itself with all manner of things until it spills over. All this tears the soul to pieces and can never bring fulfilment. I would like to rebuild it again, my home; I had often quarrelled with Father about this. It is to be rebuilt the same as before: the tower, the palisades, each corner and every angle. My father and forefathers are surely looking down grimly and laughing at me, not even caring to mention the million required or asking if I plan to earn the money by painting wallpaper.

They would surely say: Why do you need a fortress? Do not think for one moment that you could achieve, with all your efforts and plans, what we have been able to do! We built the way we did because we had no choice. Against whom would you bring out your guns and cannons? You have no reason for that now. With this realisation, my dream faded away and I lay on my plank bed and cried like a baby.

Now it will be a solidly built house even if it means I shall never be able to afford a new bed and have to sleep on those old planks for the rest of my life. I have begun the work with my own hands, sweating out the misery I felt in Berlin. Just like the first Earl of Thorstein, who had built the castle with his own hands, I have had to strain each and every muscle in my body to lift those huge, heavy stones. What better explanation could there be for the fact that my forefathers were all so broad shouldered and strong? Nowadays, when children seem to be born with a round ticket for the world tucked into their tiny hands, there must be those who know where they belong and what they are living for. And will maybe die for.”

„But you must build up your roof once more, where the sky is so empty between the trees, so you will be able to look up again with joy in your heart,” whispers a rather dreamy, wispy little voice.

He is startled that she has been listening so well. Well, she will surely have forgotten it all by tomorrow. And now suddenly there is a warm, golden light gleaming through the branches of some elderberry bushes. The Earl of Thorstein knocks at the shutter and a woman’s head appears. The poor woman is so shocked by the news she has just heard that she cannot withhold it a moment longer and speaks even before she knows why he is here.

„Have you already heard, Milord? The little Princess, the poor child, who isn’t quite right in her head, she drowned in the moat! They have been looking for her with poles and torches for hours.”

„Nonsense, Frau Scheiterlein! Hurry now and gather Peter’s stockings and Sunday shoes in a basket und bring them to my dwelling – immediately!”

Taking long, hasty strides, he continues his way along a row of tall trees, passing a wall. Then he arrives. The child’s heart is beating so fast from the sound of the woman’s loud voice and she has crept deep into her bundle of cloth. And now there is the squeaking and groaning of the gate as it is opened and closed.