H. Adler - The Journey

The train slowly chugs through the colorful morning landscape. It climbs. To the left and right larkspur and scabious and other flowers grow out of the dust of the streets and do not shrink away from the people passing nearby. The street shrinks to a narrow pass that is bordered by fences, behind which plums and apples can be seen. Then comes the freedom of a street that opens out beyond the narrow pass as they slowly move on with their cautious feet, left and right and left and right. Don’t look around, like in duck-duck-goose. Whoever travels last, travels best. Caroline always said that it’s always better to ride in one of the middle cars, because in any train accident the risk to one’s life is much less there. The window has to be closed in order to guard against the engine smoke. Otherwise kernels of soot can become lodged in the cornea and one has to then carefully wipe them away. But above all, travel on. It’s not so steep now, and the engine runs along freely. No one had better pull the emergency brake! Any mischief will be punished, because it will disrupt the traffic, as well as cause danger. Take express trains that only stop in a few stations. Enjoy the luxury of a dining car. It’s an endless journey that no one should have to finish. Fritz, the passengers should get on well with one another! Children need to be kept on a leash in the train. Exceptions are only tolerated in especially dangerous conditions. The journey’s final destination needs to be reached on time, and everything must be executed punctually. That’s why the soldiers have brought along their rifles. You take part in the journey at your own risk. Orders are only followed, fear is superfluous. No using the facilities when the train stops in a station! The fruit gardens, the vegetable fields, it all can begin to rot. No, let your fear fall by the wayside; it should have gotten off at the last stop, it’s a blind passenger, a lost piece of luggage that no one inquires about. Fear will be auctioned off by the stationmaster and sold or stowed away behind the impenetrable fog, or in the river that flows into Leitenberg and passes by. Eventually fear will be swept into the sea in which everything is lost and through which it will be transformed by the sharp corrosiveness of salt. The execution is over, but what it leaves behind will merge with all fears and be carried to the grave.

The mortuary in Ruhenthal is empty. Stamping merrily, the horses wait outside in front of the transport wagon onto which the bearers slide the coffins. The dead have attained the peace they deserve. They have not sought their death, but they have attained it. It does not matter where the end has been fulfilled. What matters is that everyone has met his end even before the journey commences. Sorrow is slight when vanity is not allowed to adorn it. Once summoned, the forbidden find it easier not to exist. The fulfillment of a command is no longer expected. The briefly held services for these dead are not decked out with memorials. Death announcements are not mailed off. There are no funeral clothes. Somber faces do not hang around. The ancient prayers and farewell songs are performed, but with marked hurry, certainly not because there is just one, but rather so many to say good-bye to. Time is pressing. It’s very cold in the hall. Two weak lightbulbs cast a murky light. On each coffin there is a note. Otherwise those left behind, who have shown up pale and half frozen, won’t know where they should put them in the half hour they have to serve life’s transience.

“Where is Father?” Zerlina asks in an even tone.

“I believe he’s over there,” Caroline answers woodenly.

Paul bends over to inspect the writing on the note cards. “No, Father is here.”

Then they walk over and stand there. Leopold is dead. He didn’t want to die in Ruhenthal, but he didn’t make it and was taken away before he could go home, which is what he always wanted.

“It’s not so bad here, everything is all right, though it could be better. I want to get away from here. A doctor belongs in his practice. I’ll go to the Ministry of Health and give Dr. Kmoch a piece of my mind. The patients are waiting. I need to help them get well.”

Leopold is sick. He lies in his narrow room on a rough wooden bedstead. In addition to him there are seven other old people. None of them has any strength. They cough. They are sick, but they will recover. That’s what they have promised themselves and said to one another. Nurse Dora doesn’t disagree. She is impartial. She comes and brings soup. She brings a bedpan. She brings bone char. She carries away the spittoons. She takes the broom and wraps it with a damp cloth when she sweeps so that the sick don’t cough as much. Once a day the doctor comes. His name is Dr. Plato. Leopold had asked for his help. He had asked that a proper diet be prescribed. But here the doctor prescribes nothing. Dr. Plato has no time. He hardly listens to Leopold’s recommendations. In many such cases fresh air would be recommended. Chronic cough calls for it. But if you open the window here, only dust flies in, and it’s much too cold. Here there’s hardly anything but aspirin and bone char. That’s not enough to handle everything, and bed rest alone is not enough. There should be no more than three patients in this room. When the window is closed there’s an awful smell. The diet contains too many fluids. The preparations leave a lot to be desired. Dr. Plato has no idea of the requisitions that should be made available to any modern doctor. The new generation has learned nothing, even though their education has been extended by two years. It’s madness to just keep giving people thin soup. The heart and kidneys can’t stand it. If you just prick them, water will come pouring out, but why have so much going in in the first place? Besides, it would only help their state of health, but as long as the general approach does not change there is no help that will last. One shouldn’t be surprised that illness in Ruhenthal so often takes a fatal course. It is the task of medicine to use all available materials and the latest scientific understanding to cure all illnesses, to handle all possible complications in a timely manner, to extend the life of each patient, and to warn the healthy as soon as possible before the onset of real pain. But there can be no talk of that here. Has Dr. Plato never heard of the Hippocratic oath? It doesn’t appear he has. Which is why injustice prevails, positions of responsibility fulfilled by nothing more than goodwill. Nurse Dora cannot do it all by herself. Someone will pay for it someday. A Dr. Lustig is forced to haul rubbish, but a young greenhorn …? Leopold does not want to dwell on it too much, yet he is annoyed that the most basic responsibilities have been disregarded.

“That’s unheard of, Zerlina, that never happened in my time! One would be ashamed for anything like that to occur. They should let the newspaper know about it!”

“There is no newspaper here, Father.”

“Yes, how unfortunate! When there’s no paper the public fails to get the necessary information. A healthy press can call attention to a number of problems. The government becomes more attentive and leads an inquiry. I’ve often seen it. There was a case … a case … I don’t recall now, Zerlina. Have you seen no newspaper anywhere? What’s the news?”

“Please, Father, don’t talk so loud!”

“I can talk as loud as I wish. Treading softly doesn’t suit well my sense of academic honor. I am a free man, do you understand? Nurse Dora understands better than you do.”

“But Father, no one says that you are not as free as one can be in Ruhenthal. But look, there are others around you who want their peace and quiet.”

“No, Zerlina, that is too much! I am amply considerate, that I know. The patients are fond of me. I was always against having so many patients in such a small room and amid such unhygienic conditions. Dr. Plato doesn’t want to listen to me. You can’t blame me!”