H. Adler - The Journey

Keep moving! You’re not allowed to stop here and while away the hours. No one prepared this harvest for you, none of it is for you, no matter how much you may want it. “Look, a tomato! It’s almost ripe!” It’s better to chase away all such thoughts before they start to cause you great pain. Keep moving! Out in the countryside already you pass the surprising somberness of individual houses covered with vines and surrounded by overflowing gardens in which productive hands and nature’s powers vie with tender plants and bushes. Who will win the battle between them? Meanwhile you pass barns, workshops, small factories, dumps, and sheds, all of which announce the presence of anxious owners who must live nearby, their need or greed serviced by these facilities. You’re not allowed in, you’re not allowed either to take care of anything or destroy anything, because no one is allowed in who doesn’t have the right to enter already.

Only the inn called The Golden Grape heartily invites anyone in, but it is empty and quiet. The door is closed, the windows of the dining room gray with dust. Ridiculous are the musical notes painted on the walls, ridiculous the sign and the inscribed lead plaques with all of their advertising slogans, which are already rusted and no longer mean anything. Still, you read them.

SHADE GARDEN

LEITENBERGER BEER

COFFEE AVAILABLE

Yet you don’t believe them, since they are a joke. The powers that be had called for a war that no one wanted and that put everyone in debt. That’s why the beer became scarce and finally dried up, coffee also disappearing from the planet. At the very least there was no way to stock The Golden Grape, and so sadly enough the inn is closed and dirty. Perhaps the innkeeper had been taken away and it was closed for good.

“My dear sir, you’ve tapped kegs and served up beer for free long enough. It’s time to leave it all behind. If you don’t wish to die, then it would be better to come along now in order to die later. In any case, here you’ll have nothing to do for the foreseeable future. The magistrate and the citizenry of the town of Leitenberg will gladly confirm that.”

The innkeeper was a portly man who bowed respectfully to all authorities and never raised a peep as long as things concerned himself alone. On the other hand, it seemed to him unfair to close the inn as a result of his — as he hoped — temporary departure, since there was still a wife and some daughters, along with a maid, who could keep things running.

“Look how many there are …,” as he made one sad gesture after another at the members of his house. “Look how many there are who can cook and serve, who can carry booze back and forth. My business won’t fail. There’s plenty of customers.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Herr Innkeeper, or at least you’ve only partly grasped the truth. You’re right, your business won’t fail, for the statutes don’t forbid your wife from running it. But the times are against you, and that’s what is shutting down your garden and cozy booths.”

“You mean the war?”

“That’s right. You have to understand that there’s no more beer and wine, no sausage, no cheese.”

“But there are still allotments! Smaller, but they still exist! If there isn’t enough of one thing, then there’s enough of another. It just keeps changing. Not everything disappears all at once.”

“That’s right, it doesn’t disappear, but is redirected and shipped elsewhere. Only a few important restaurants are still open, and even they have to limit what they can serve. Here outside the town, where at most wagoners stop or on a sunny day good country people come to enjoy your shade garden, business has to be sacrificed until the victorious end of the war. The business must close.”

“My inn doesn’t matter? Nor the wagoners or good country people?”

“They’re not important. The drivers will disappear no matter what, and as for good country people? Herr Innkeeper, open your eyes!”

“Don’t mock an honest man! My inn is important, I say, important, for I and my people live off what’s left over after taxes.”

“None of you need live any longer. It doesn’t matter if you do. Just think of our new anthem!”

“ ‘Everything will soon be over, everything will soon be finished’?”

“Why do you say it with such a questioning tone? The anthem is simple and clear. It’s meant for those on the journey, yes, for the journey.”

“But the wagoners, even if they no longer trot along with a team of horses, but barrel along instead, sir, they travel nonetheless! They need their beer, yet another drop appearing out of the bottle.… I always poured a full glass for free! Twice I’d fill it up! I’d sacrifice my own profits for the beauty of a well-poured pint. I gave away good beer.”

“Travelers can drink water, it’s also bright and clear. We need sober lads if we’re going to win.”

“And the Sunday guests?”

“There aren’t any more! Days off have been done away with!”

“Good country people. I know a slew of them!”

“There’s no such thing. They’ve been done away with!”

“Why should my wife and children suffer?”

“We all must suffer! That can’t be helped! Everyone has to pay the price!”

“Yet people say …”

“Lots of things are said, but everything is different than what you hear. Words mean nothing, they can easily be taken back. What is still of value will be so because it is what is willed.”

“My people shouldn’t have to starve!”

“No one wants that, Herr Innkeeper, at least as long as it can be avoided. Though many in history have starved. But it won’t come to that. There are means of support if you need them. Nothing will happen to anyone. In general the prospects are good, there’s no need to worry. Especially if your wife and oldest daughter volunteer to work. Everyone is needed. It’s been ordered. That’s the way it is. If there are no extenuating circumstances, there are no exceptions.”

“How about my family …?”

“Not reason enough. There are families everywhere. There are no grounds for exception in your case. The world is big. Your wife is strong. Your daughter is able. We must win.”

“And so I must leave house and home?”

“Yes, you must leave everything. No one can stay who is of no use. Here you are of no use. Everything will be taken care of in this manner, because it’s for the best.”

“And the little children?”

“The local authorities will take care of them. You have our word. You can leave them behind.”

Then the innkeeper was gone, taking along only a pair of kisses and a packet of snuff in his pocket. On his way, over the mountains, into battle without beer or coffee. With the last pint poured, the keg is empty. All the other family members are gone as well. Only traces of them remain, but they are not apparent to anyone who can read them, since the memory of them no longer exists. The inn stands empty and listlessly waits for the time when it will return after much has changed, that is, if it hasn’t already been destroyed, its bricks having crumbled into sand scattered to the wind.

Yet you’re still here, despite having been so transformed that your displacement can be brought off painlessly. None of you want to sit in the shade garden of the inn, since you would be afraid and wouldn’t even know how to sit on a proper chair. If the innkeeper’s wife came herself she wouldn’t serve you, rather she’d be frightened and would implore you to disappear. You wouldn’t be able to stand this request, it would remind you of ancient prohibitions. Whoever articulates this within his thoughts allows death to awaken. You are like yellow chickens lined up once again, and the dust that covers you no longer offends anyone, because you are not who you are but rather are led through Leitenberg like strangers. The bridge that spans the wide river already awaits you. The moment you cross it another wish is fulfilled; you are transformed yet again. No one will recognize you.