H. Adler - The Journey

Leopold wandered off, proud and angry, Caroline leading him away as the laughter grew behind him. Cross-Eyes tapped his head with the tip of his finger three times: “Totally nuts!”

In the courtyard, Cross-Eyes stands in the first light of dawn and is wrapped up in a heavy coat. Nearby are some helpers who for the most part stand by quietly, but who at a sign suddenly start running around like raving madmen before returning to stand motionless again. They are dressed alike, but not as smartly as Cross-Eyes, for not as much leather clings to them. Some policemen plod back and forth and look up at the sky. It’s not their concern. They rub their hands. There are also three men in full battle dress with their medals and badges of honor. They are proud men who hold their little heads high with a decisive air. Their legs fidget with impatience. One of them is somewhat small and yawns, blowing a little cloud of smoke from his throat. Another one, who is their leader, calls over to Cross-Eyes, who then stands at attention after he has yanked his leather cap off his head.

“Begin!”

Cross-Eyes gives his helpers a sign, at which the pack fans out. One runs to the entrance and remains standing there as he pulls a list from his breast pocket and unfolds it with great seriousness. After a short while the forbidden people head through the gate in twos, bent over with the weight of their bags. They call out a number and their former name. The helper writes with his pencil and sometimes waves his list back and forth and barks at the swarm: “Faster! Move on!” The forbidden gather themselves in the courtyard and organize themselves in rows of four. Altogether there are a thousand who used to be known as human beings. Cross-Eyes marches in front of the rows, turns over his whip, and strides without a horse slowly along the length of the front row, while with the whip handle he gives every fourth man a light swat on the shoulder, calling out loud: “Four! Eight! Twelve! Sixteen!..”

Yet not all one thousand could present themselves, even though there was space enough for a much larger group. Twenty-four members of the traveling group lay on stretchers. Between their legs and on top of them the sick ones’ belongings were piled such that they could not move. After Cross-Eyes had also counted the figures on the stretchers, he yanked his cap off his head and strode without a horse as fast as his crooked legs would carry his fat body to the mighty heroes, gathered himself together, and stood at attention.

“One thousand gathered. Twenty-four of them lying down.”

“Well done!”

One of the mighty heroes reached for the list and counted the number of those waiting once again. He hardly paid attention to the standing, which he quickly passed by, choosing instead to spend more time among the stretchers.

Across the courtyard a cry rattled out: “Medical report!”

Cross-Eyes yelled: “Medical report!”

One of his assistants charged into the Technology Museum.

The hero barked: “Filthy pigs!”

Cross-Eyes cried: “They’ll be right back in line!”

Then the hero barked: “Why aren’t they ready?”

Cross-Eyes cried: “Whoever’s fault it is will pay!”

Then the hero barked even louder: “Shut your trap, you pig! It’s all your fault!”

Cross-Eyes bowed and cried: “Yes, sir!”

Yet the assistant had returned with the list of the sick, wanting to hand it over to Cross-Eyes.

But then the hero yelled at him loudly: “Bring it here, or I’ll smack you in the mouth! Nussbaum, you come as well!”

The assistant and Cross-Eyes hurried toward the mighty hero, who began to review what they had written.

“What a miserable typewriter ribbon! Look at this, Nussbaum! Next time I’ll break your knees if the report is not typed more clearly!”

“Sorry, we put in for a new one. But no one sent us a new ribbon.”

“Disgraceful! There’ll be trouble for that.”

Cross-Eyes read the names of the ill to the hero, who then ordered that no one should be allowed to lie down who did not have a fever of 102 degrees. Nonetheless, it was obvious that almost all of those on the stretchers were very sick. Only two old men over eighty and a woman who had given birth to a stillborn the previous night were allowed to stay. Otherwise, all of the weak and sick stood in rank and file, as well as the old woman whose attack of madness had so disturbed Leopold. As the hero finished checking the list, he nodded that he was satisfied. The authority’s honor had been preserved, and only through an act of grace had the forbidden been transformed into the allowed.

“Load it up!”

It began to snow. Heavy flakes fell from above. They didn’t worry themselves about those gathered below. They blanketed the copper green roof of the Technology Museum. If you stuck out your tongue between your lips you could perhaps catch a flake, but it was dangerous to do that since it was forbidden. Zerlina was happy when a flake stuck to her eyelash and hung there. How easily she could have gotten rid of it with a finger or with a shake of her head or with a blink of her eyelids. But Zerlina stood still, making sure not to move. The flake melted and ran cautiously away.

As long as the heroes are there, it’s forbidden to move, which Zerlina knew, even if it was not underscored that often. Life is forbidden, something that never quite hits home, because it has not ceased to go on. Even in the courtyard of the Technology Museum no order has been given. They simply have forgotten to enforce what is forbidden, and thus life is frozen and has turned to snow. The same flakes could fall on the heroes or be carried by the wind and drift down outside of the museum courtyard and onto one of the surrounding houses or onto a street. There are no exceptions as to who is part of the moment. There are differences only in how fate is meted out, but not in fate itself, everything now being frozen. One no longer had to forbid movement, for there was none. What you saw with your own eyes could hardly be believed. It was null and void and could only be believed if you closed your eyes. Then the snow melted.

Such was the fabled height of spring in the mountains. The spring runoff could be heard rushing down the slopes. Below, flowers bloomed in all their colors. Here above, winter lived on, arriving toward evening with full force. Then the mountains were closed off by the vixen Frau Lischka, no one allowed to enter them, not even the intruders, no matter how much they knocked and pleaded at the gate. “Sorry, but there’s no one home in winter.…” Frau Lischka turns away from the entrance to the mountains, but does not worry at all about the troublemakers. She keeps watch over the stairwell and makes sure that the blackout is not violated. All the walls were iced over, and only with the help of ropes could one climb up the stairwell. The tenants sat behind the doors of their apartments and tended the fires in their ovens. Everything was bedecked and looked as if you could lie down in the snow, the flakes having fallen in plentiful heaps. Now one needed only to sleep, for tomorrow winter would be over. The sun will wake you and you can run through the fields.

Exclamations flew back and forth. Anguished cries. No, it was not snow, it was hail. Nonetheless, everything was covered with snow. Snowdrops could be heard. Tin roofs rattled. The crashing sound of pure rubbish. Everything has been brought along, nothing left behind. Frau Lischka no longer needs a doormat. Back home, the patients are safe and dry, only the poor doctor wastes away on a muck heap. What he needs is a shot to revive him, a shot of sun so that he won’t freeze. For there is no longer any heat. It is not necessary in the museum. The old machines don’t need any oil. The locomotive does not move, but when it breathes, steam rises from its smokestack. Perhaps it will take off. The forbidden ones are hanging upon it. If only they can make sure not to slip on the ice and under its wheels!