H. Adler - The Journey

And so Johann stands guard next to his handcart, his broom and shovel leaning against it, as he noshes on what he leisurely lifts to his mouth from his pocket. The mouth is opened, the sandwich is shoved into the cleft, then the lower jaw lifts the front teeth and presses the sandwich into the upper teeth. Immediately the teeth slice through the porous mass, the hand holds the sandwich and pulls it away from the mouth once the bite has been taken, lowering as the tongue, gums, and saliva work together to accomplish the ravenous swallow as the moistened bite is choked down the gullet. Then it occurs again, until it’s all gone. Meanwhile the street is forgotten, the broom is forgotten, the daily tasks full of dust and trash are forgotten. After the snack the flat metal flask sneaks out of a different pocket. The cork, attached by a thread, is yanked out, the flask lifted high, the head tilted back, the mouth pierced as it opens small and round, the teeth recessed in order that the flask’s neck settles into the opening. It all happens fast. The cool, sugary chicory coffee with milk flows into the hole until it is full, the tongue itself between the mouth and the flask’s neck in order to stop the flow. Then the mouth is emptied after a series of hefty swallowings, more coffee follows until the last drop has disappeared. The flask is then corked before sinking into a jacket pocket.

When the meal is finished the broom is taken up a bit more joyfully. Happily the broom sweeps away as Johann goes about his work eagerly and with satisfaction. It bothers him somewhat that some people are pigs and make such a mess of the streets. Each day Johann arrives at an inn, outside of which it’s always a complete mess. It’s been that way since at least the start of the war. Today it’s a little better, but most every day one can see the results of hard drinking in the bar, each morning the street outside covered with puke spewed out amid uncontrollable laughter. The bellies having been filled up inside, they then spew it all out again in disgusting, thick streams. Johann’s broom sweeps it up as though it doesn’t bother him, the street soon clean again and gleaming in the light of day.

Johann is afraid of neither wind nor cold, he protects himself against each. Only when it rains too hard does it annoy him, because his coat gets as soaked as a sponge and heavy, such that it doesn’t dry out overnight. But Johann barely grumbles about it, because he is shrewd and knows that every job has its unappealing sides that one has to take in stride, Johann being quite happy to put up with them. Other people had to slave away much more and couldn’t help but complain. Their situation is much worse and often much more dangerous. The sewer workers, for instance, never had it as good and would jump at the chance to trade places with the street sweepers. Johann doesn’t want anything to do with having to stand up to his thighs in such filthy slop. It wouldn’t even be worth the high rubber boots issued by the town. Nor was Johann tempted by the ration card for heavy laborers that allowed them access to horse meat and real meat sausages. Better to do with a little less and yet live a better life as a street sweeper, as free and happy as the sparrows who are hardly afraid of Johann’s broom, but instead happily peck at nourishing bits of grain in the horse droppings on the street.

Life on the street is healthy and not as pressing as the drudgery of the munitions factory, where three other street sweepers have been seduced into working rather than remaining in the open air and seeing different things each day. People and cars pass by in a hurry, both familiar and unfamiliar, providing lots to think about and look at. That’s what keeps Johann feeling young. Even after many years he will still be able to work, no matter how long the war lasts, along with its need of able men. If there were peace, then Johann would probably already have been sent away into retirement. Now, however, nobody gives it a thought, the community at large is only too happy that he continues on. At the central department for street cleaning and rubbish collection, they told him within just the last couple of weeks:

“You’re right, Herr Pietsch. The fatherland can make good use of your broom, but might you think about munitions?”

“Please, I’d rather stay on the street.”

“How good of you, Herr Pietsch! There, too, the fatherland can use you and is grateful to you. How long have you actually worked for the town?”

“Forty years it will be come January. Wait a minute … yes, forty years indeed! I’m sure of it.”

“I’ll recommend you for a raise, Herr Pietsch.”

“Thank you, Inspector, thank you!”

“Faithful service should be rewarded, my friend. That’s how it is here in the fatherland. You will also get a certificate of appreciation, you’ll see, signed by the mayor himself.”

Praise from the inspector is nice, and a handwritten letter on behalf of the fatherland is even nicer, but Johann doesn’t need any of it. The raise, however, is another matter, for that is certainly pleasing. It would be nice to be paid a bit more for his contribution, as that’s the best token of appreciation of all. Then the dirt is swept away by the broom as the ghost train passes right in front of his face. Johann steps to the side, scratches an ear, and remains standing quietly, the broom at rest in his left hand while his right tugs at his chin. Johann stares ahead and thinks to himself, What kind of heroes are those who are being led by? Maybe they are prisoners of war, since they wear a symbol on their breast. These days all kinds of people are brought here from far away and sent off to work in order that they pay for the fact that they raised a hand against the fatherland. Perhaps there is a street sweeper among them whom Johann could show how one swings a broom and shovel in a strange country, since other countries no doubt had other ways. But there’s dirt everywhere, and it all has to be cleaned up. It’s the same in France as it is in Russia. But then why do people go to war? Everyone should just take care of their own streets at home. Street sweepers can get along wherever and work together to clean things up. Johann only needs to look into the faces of these prisoners, for there certainly are good fellows among them, not just “nothing but villains” as it said in The Leitenberg Daily . Those indeed are tired stallions with empty stomachs who would much rather be home than here, not knowing why they have to work for some other fatherland. Certainly they have wives and children at home from whom they’ve received no letters for quite some time. Johann imagines to himself the worry they must feel when they hear nothing from home. Back there is everything they have and love, and yet there is nothing they can do for their families. But things will once again be good, one only has to not lose heart. Everyone has his own broom to sweep, and if you just throw yourself into it everything works out eventually.

One day, yes, one day the higher-ups will have had their fill and will say: “That’s it! The war has gone on too long already!” The people in charge will sit together in a castle and confer with one another. Oh, it will take forever! Then a special edition of The Leitenberg Daily will appear announcing peace at last. Peace, people! and everyone will display his flag, there will be parades across the square, brass bands will play snappy marches, all the houses will be decked out, one two three, the bakers will bake special cakes, the town will ready everything for the return of the soldiers so that they will be properly welcomed. Then all of the streets will be full of people, one next to the other, the people will leave behind a ton of trash, though it won’t matter, for that’s also part of victory and Johann will happily put in the overtime so that Leitenberg is clean once again, if only it means peace, finally peace. In the cathedral the organ will roar, the bishop himself will read the Mass, and everyone will sing a Te Deum .