H. Adler - The Journey

Leitenberg has disappeared, but there is no special edition announcing it. The last edition of The Leitenberg Daily cannot be delivered. The locusts have made it impossible. There are no subscribers, no one to take out an ad. Birth announcements and obituaries are no longer published. Even the young lady at the front desk who devoted her career to handling these has turned to stone. Everything has marched off to the dumps in long processions, though the locusts are not accompanied by church dignitaries. Mindless legs attached to noses hobble along. Miserably they shuffle along, left right, left — stop. The corporal cries out in a rage, because the procession doesn’t move right along but instead scrapes and creaks along, left-right-right-lo-cust. Outside on the teeming heap are wriggling insects, spiders, and worms. Mutsch the cat looks at the mess and raises a threefold ruckus against the Beautification Association. The locusts think it’s an anthem marking the sudden appearance of Mayor Viereckl, and so out of respect they remove their hats. They are wildly happy and continue to buzz.

Amid its chilly, golden solitude the plague column remains. It stands tall above the compost. It is made of petrified wood, an ancient tree with mighty knots and bloody boils amid sunlight, a monument to itself that is imperishable. Balthazar Schwind smiles as he looks on at the endless ghost train that stands before him. The ghosts bow and lewdly wobble their rabbit ears, though perhaps it isn’t lewd, but rather out of the fear and horror that the ghosts feel when the chorus of locusts chirp their dissonant fugue. The reporter looks down at the sunken spirits of the rabbits and doesn’t know whether their mute reverence is directed at him or the saint that he towers above. Most likely it is him, because together the ghosts lift their noses upward toward him, rather than staring at the locusts, nor would monuments to saints mean anything to ghosts. They want the life that they no longer have. They want to be photographed in order to create verifiable evidence that they are there. If it were true then the incorruptible film would provide proof, because that which does not exist cannot be photographed. Schwind would be happy to oblige them, but the rusted apparatus prevents it. Vainly the reporter tries to turn the crank in order to forward the film, but the black box only crunches its worn-out gears and cries out for mercy.

“I can’t take a shot of you. It’s forbidden. It’s the last roll. There’s no more film. One quarter, half, I’m afraid it’s all gone. My dear rabbits, or ghosts, the good old camera is broken.”

“Please, take a shot! Only that which is forbidden can save us! We ourselves are forbidden. What will become of us if you don’t acknowledge that we exist?”

“I allow that you’re here, but I’m not allowed to allow that you’re here!”

“But there’s no one here to stop you, to prevent you allowing that which is not allowed. Dear reporter, high up on your column, be brave and don’t shy away from the impossible!”

“Your appeal almost moves me to tears. Yet what you claim is not true. The unallowed has been forbidden. I have received the strictest instructions for editing. Perhaps you don’t understand why because you no longer know what’s going on, but you must believe me! I could be suspended from the fatherland’s press corps, be censored, or receive some other penalty.”

“There is nobody to ensure that such deadly orders are complied with. We won’t betray you, for you are one of us. Don’t deny us any longer! Pull out that black thing with the long handle! We insist! Take a shot, right now!”

“I can’t turn the film, I already told you. If I pressed the shutter you would appear as a double exposure and that would be poor evidence for your unknown existence.”

“Mere excuses, Herr Schwind! We exist wherever one can take a shot of us! It may be a double exposure, but take a shot! We only need to be seen, and that you can do if you are a good reporter.”

“You’re wrong, for I want to! But I can’t do whatever I wish. You should know in your hearts that I have always wanted to report on you. But unfortunately nothing ever came of it, at least since the start of this war. The moment I wanted to do something it was over, and then I could only perceive the pain of the past. But not as having passed, for the pain was there. It’s still there, and is incessant. I also wanted to do a special edition on the eight-hundredth anniversary. But the hell surrounding us wouldn’t allow it. The fading away of Leitenberg got the best of me.”

“But we’re still here! You could do a wonderful issue about us! Take our pictures! After the war the Americans will pay a load of money for them. If the problem is that there are no people around, we can fill the gap. So let’s just start a new life, and we’ll bring you along with us. We are building a new future for ourselves in Ruhenthal. Come along with us to the other side of the river. There are deep woods there that prevent one being seen, making it perhaps even safer from aerial attack. We’ll name you the editor in chief of a new newspaper, which we’ll call The Ruhenthal Prospect .”

“Thank you for this honor, but I’m afraid I can’t accept it. The ban is still in effect and will remain so as long as I’m around. I’m alive and real here upon this column where you see me, that is, if you can see me.”

“Quick, take a shot! Develop it and come along with us! Ruhenthal awaits you! Ruhenthal will welcome you warmly and take care of all your future needs! You’ll have your own special accommodations, a proper bed for yourself alone, a loaf of bread each day, and a double portion of soup for lunch.”

Schwind wavers amid his indecision and wonders if he shouldn’t give in to the ghosts. He thinks of old ballads about the water carrier who wanted to entice his victims to cross the river. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to go along, since after the destruction of Leitenberg there will be no more hometown to live in. It is completely possible that he could also preserve himself amid the bewitched realm of the prisoners if he only chose the other shore. And yet, though Balthazar wants to take a shot and presses his thumbs against the camera case, his strength fails. The reporter realizes this is no game and is startled. He wants to lift his legs from the stony head of Saint Rochus, but he can’t. Schwind has lost the feeling in his legs and therefore calls down to the ghosts hesitantly:

“I’m afraid I can’t do it unless one of you climbs up here and takes the shot for me before helping me down from my lonely perch so that I can join you all amid the muck! But make it fast!”

But no, Balthazar Schwind cannot be helped, because the expectant and extended rabbit ears can no longer hear his voice since he can no longer speak, his voice having dried up. Thus he has to hold fast and follow orders, whether or not he recognizes those orders or not. He is now a part of the column itself, an idle and monstrous piece of fruit that is welded to the trunk. He is caught up in the inevitable and titanic fate of the born reporter who must fulfill his responsibilities whether he wants to or not. To always be there when something happens, that’s what the reporter’s code states, and Schwind now feels the guilt of his failure. He thinks of his ancestor Prometheus. He was indeed the one who gave humankind the gift of the newspaper, something for which he suffered for eternity. And now all it amounted to was to be welded to a plague column, to wait there and not join up with the ghost train, as in silent agony their offer had to be declined.

The reporter looked on with empty eyes as the train began to again move off into the unknown with no sign of sympathy for the one welded to the column. Only Johann Pietsch still stood at the base of the column, appearing undisturbed by all of the events and remembering his duties as he worked on without worry, battling against the immense piles of rubbish with his broom. It was a touching reminder that in this world there was still a clear sense of purpose and responsibility. But after a few strong efforts the sweeper realized that it was impossible to take care of all the dung and dirt. Johann looked up at the column as if Balthazar could provide some kind of illumination, but the reporter was suddenly no longer up there. Most likely he was free again after having thought about disobeying the rules, and now he could once more take his photographs and make his notes in order to write up a snazzy article about life in the town for his paper. To this end he had left his perch on the column, climbed onto his bicycle, and scooted back to the comfort of his office.