H. Adler - The Journey

Then Katie called out, “They’re coming!”

No, not the boys. Which is why Ambrose doesn’t even look up and has no interest in his soup. He is tired, much too tired; rest is the wages of work. Ambrose wants nothing to do with this horrible yapping. Digestion is all the salvation one gets.

“They’re not coming, Katie! Stop thinking that they are!”

Ambrose, however, doesn’t consider the banished, whose scraping feet can be heard on Bridge Street. He sees his boys before his eyes and knows that they will never again walk down the streets outside. My boys, my boys, yanked from their home, whisked away, though for a good cause, for the war, the country’s security, the peace of the citizenry, as well as applesauce, the tax on consumption, glory, and soup. So it’s for the good! The victory palm already stands in the vase beneath Grandpa’s picture. One can’t be quite as sure of the good Lord, but almost, for there must be one, though without a beard, and there will be peace in the land, here beneath His long nose, as they march left and right through the applesauce of the good Lord watching from above, amen. Amen! Then the journey will be over. Garlands will hang from the bridge. WELCOME TO THE GOLDEN GRAPE, SERVING COFFEE AND WINE. Katie, wouldn’t it be wonderful to march with them? No more ghosts. No more paper, just my dear boys. We wouldn’t throw anything away. Not even bones, we could grind them into a fine flour instead.

“My dear, you’re sleepy. Go to bed.”

“No, no! I’m not at all. Just a quick nap. And now I’m fine. I just barely dozed off. But it doesn’t matter. Not at all, Katie, I swear, most of all to you.”

Without war there can be no victory. That’s what Ambrose had been told. The Leitenberg Daily had written the same thing. The result being left, right. That’s the way it was. Written words are sacred, because you can hold them in your hand. You can throw them away, but they don’t disappear from the public library. That which is written down speaks the truth, which is the most sacred thing of all. On each little cube it says, “I am Vita-All. Just add me for extra spice and nutrition in your soup. Katie, toss me in; Ambrose, left right, will love it! Since he already likes having gruel and soup, it will also help his terrible teeth!”

Everything is a mess. The boys who will never walk the streets again, the ghosts of Ruhenthal who march on by, it’s all a mess, even Katie is a mess, and Ambrose is a mess, the potato soup with Vita-All is a mess, and then whoosh! the brimming spoonful disappears between the rotten teeth, swishing around the left jaw, the right jaw, then down the middle and into the stomach, into the pit, buried, everything covered up, thrown into the rubbish where it boils and bubbles. Tasty sauces bubble up in order that Ambrose can rise and shine once more. For he’s there again after his winter’s sleep, going up and down the steps. Then he takes to the streets. He sees soldiers passing by, carrying out the pleasurable business of guarding the ghosts in order that they do not run away. Though they’ve been forbidden to do so, that won’t do any good if one isn’t careful. The riffraff from Ruhenthal are only afraid of the cold bullet in the belly. They all have a little tummy that has grown thin and dirty, because they are pigs who don’t wash, their women nothing more than hollow straws full of thin soup. How it would spray about if one peppered the pack with shrapnel! Then the voices of the ghosts would scream loudly and croak on the spot, Bridge Street full of rotting corpses, the war on, the result a bloody mess and no applesauce, the remains needing to be thrown onto a wagon with pitchforks. Then off to the dump and away with them! Let’s have at it! Into the pit with hip-high boots! Roll up your sleeves! Dig those graves! Cover them over! But that’s too much work. There’s a better way. And so the gasoline is brought out and lit, a huge hygienic fire billowing. Then ashes are all that’s left, which can just be spread about.

Ambrose smiles with pleasure. He stretches and lightly dreams, but he doesn’t sleep, no, he doesn’t sleep. Katie has moved the easy chair next to the window and into the sun so that the man of the house can sprawl out with his legs spread wide. He is a little tired, yet he feels completely fine, for he’s feeling fine, and because of that he can digest his meal in peace. Potatoes and carrots swell the belly, yet Ambrose has to eat them if he’s to get his fill, since there’s no meat. Katie must do everything she can in order to have enough to feed Ambrose, because a hungry husband in the house is a problem and will only lead to trouble for the wife. But Katie always managed to bring it off because she loved her Ambrose, and love was more inventive than necessity. Because of that Ambrose is nearly satisfied and only grumbles a bit. Things could be better, certainly, but after four years of war it’s bearable, you get used to it since you only live once. If one were to consider everything that happened under this foolish heaven, then it would be unbearable, which is why Ambrose doesn’t want such things to trouble his head.

Whatever happens will happen, meanwhile the soup is served. First the eyes take it in, then the belly senses it. Sleep, Ambrose, sleep on! Ambrose hears his mother’s voice. It sounds so warm and friendly that he cannot imagine how such a charming voice can call from the grave, but that must be because the Leitenberg Cemetery is so beautiful. There is not a more beautiful garden in the entire town, not even the one by the castle, and for All Souls’ the cemetery is filled with endless garlands and bouquets, the entire landscape smelling of damp earth and ruffled late autumn blossoms, of flickering oil and tallow candles, Masses sung in all the churches, credo in unum deum, credo, credo , done in the third conjugation. After four years of high school at least some Latin still remained, and there is still a God in heaven, everyone knows, though He doesn’t have a beard, the pope having said so himself. With a little Latin one understands a lot more in life than uneducated commoners, plebis plebis , that being the third declension, not to mention that one also has a credit line and a savings book for the First National Bank, the Leitenberg branch. A worry-free old age is ensured, credo in unam sanctam , for there is always enough to go around if only the currency doesn’t depreciate still further.

But when the currency becomes worthless paper then you can burn it. To hell with credit! The coal is almost gone, yet Katie must still heat the house and light the oven. The cinders are emptied out. The coal shovel scrapes its way into the expended remains of the burned-out coals, a soft sound, as the crumbs are tipped into a dented bucket. Katie sprays water on them so that the ashes are not so dusty. Ambrose carries the bucket downstairs and tips it over, spilling it all out. Only when it snows are a part of the cinders spread on the sidewalk in front of the house so that people don’t slip. Otherwise they could fall and break a leg. That’s punishable by a fine. The town can’t be icy. Better that it be covered with cinders, but tidy, because safety is the first demand. So says the First National Bank, and so had Ambrose learned in school. Everything in the world since the first days of creation had been aimed at ensuring safety for everyone. It is the prime aspiration of the state and the public at large, it is the aspiration of every citizen. For then commerce and trade flourish. Anything unsafe is cleared from the sidewalks, that being the first law, dies irae , and so away with that awful snow, the massive broom sweeps it all away, the cinders cure the dangers of winter.

The streets are cleaned throughout the year, for even in summer danger can arise. Horses and dogs soil the pavement, papers and trash fall to the earth. Then come the sweepers who push with a gentle swaying motion the little dustbins in front of them. Once they have gathered up enough, they load their cargo onto a shovel, all of the street’s woes stuffed into handcarts that the sweepers busily push through Leitenberg. Each morning they show up on time, going about their daily work in peace and with care, for which they receive a weekly salary. It’s light work that serves to spread the peace. Which is why no street sweeper ever seems to apply himself as vigorously as he should. Instead, he takes a break and takes out a sandwich from his pocket as a way of relaxing in the face of his endless sweeping.