H. Adler - The Journey

Therefore, away from Stupart, away from despair and the stench of tar that piquantly yet sinisterly almost robs one’s breath. The streets have been recently ripped open, their naked entrails exposed, thick, bulging cables wind their way and are operated on; they are bound and taped together, an earthworm that rests nastily in the dug-up earth, though such misery must be covered up, the assistants shoveling brown clumps on the wounds in order not to sicken the eyes of the citizens, who are pained and almost brought to tears as they turn away from pipes, wires, and drains. Tar is sprayed by the doctors from large pails, anything scandalous is covered over and sealed off, the water mains and the telephone lines, everything banished and placed under the earth in order that the healing can fully begin. Then the feet can once again feel at home on smooth ground. The dead, who give life to people, shall not be seen. As soon as anything is dug up again it’s buried again right away. It’s a ceaseless business that continues on. Thousands of people make their living at it, making sure the dead are protected by water mains and telephone lines. The dead praise the work of the living, which nourishes them, for it sets in motion an endless cycle of discovery and encasement upon whose continuance the condition of the earth’s existence depends.

Every creature takes part in this, but except for humans the rest are happy not to be aware of it, taking it as natural and enjoying the fact that they eat and drink from the dead, as well as living off of them and uniting with them. In fact, when they see that what they handle while living is really dead, they immediately understand and unconsciously their own being goes numb. The city is sad because everything here is human; its past is not something that can easily be restrained. Wherever the eye looks or the hand is extended, they encounter nothing but the residue of human time, the tracks running in crisscross fashion and close by one another, such that no one can escape them. They are everywhere and threaten to break through the brightness of day in ghostlike manner. Everything is but a remnant of those who have disappeared, whether it be the height of the towered cathedral or just a kernel of dust that floats up from the shadows to the sunlight. The work of the living only finds itself isolated in the realm of the dead, everything else that joy can be taken from comes from hands that have long since rotted. They press at the day with all their strength in order to overcome their absence, yet they do not exist, even though they are there because they are remembered, obtrusive, and hideous, as if they were not guests who had long since departed.

Zerlina must flee, just as she fled Ruhenthal. She must bore a deep hole, deeper in the ground than the graves of men. She must be alone and alone she must dig, for she must not be discovered. She must slink away like a thief, for no one will tolerate her escape. Whoever wants to live must live in jail, guarded by the police, yet Zerlina wants only to live. No one will understand that a person no longer wants to live among people. But to be just a person, that’s what she wants, to be accountable only to herself, one who proudly dares to verify the memory of her possessions. Descending the bottomless shafts of the stairwells, deeper and deeper like a princess under a spell who wants only to disappear from the human realm. Quietly she wanders down through the core of the tower, passing all the niches and arches, not looking around, just feeling her way, no torch lighting her way, but walking along in a determined manner, carefully down the length of the street until she arrives at a still moment, and then away, away, inconspicuously and quietly, away!

What salvation it would be if the police and soldiers don’t notice Zerlina, and she succeeds. She wears no jewelry and only simple clothes. She calls no attention to herself, she is a little seamstress, a typist who has just finished up her workday according to plan. Now is the time when she is allowed on the street, there being no curfew for hardworking girls who need a bit of fresh air in order to recover from work. Zerlina is not Zerlina, the friends of the family have proved it. She is someone else to whom no lover turns, someone unknown whose life has been saved by someone, but all of that is indeed long over, no one dwells on it now. She is a harmless passerby who after a while has shuffled on. Other passersby also walk down the street, all of them hurrying, knowing where they have to get to. Zerlina indeed has a certain destination, even if she doesn’t know it, but that doesn’t matter. She still senses people everywhere, even on the edge of the city, though there are fewer now, the houses spaced out more, smaller and more modest, followed by the rubbish heaps where children run, playing and letting their kites race with the crested larks, soaring upward. Nobody pays attention to Zerlina. Zerlina isn’t even aware of herself. A boy and a girl look dreamily at the sky. They don’t know what they’re doing, and they also have no sense of a beginning and ending.

Two men are there with alarm whistles and clubs, and they release their dog. Already he’s running, charging over stones and graves, then back again and panting with his flapping tongue. All of that would have been nothing for Bunny. But here it’s serious business that transpires, an anonymous, almost nonhuman occurence that continues uninterrupted, even when there are brief pauses when one might think that everything has come to a standstill and nothing is happening. But the masters praise the dog, he wags his tail and sways back and forth on his front paws and lets himself be petted. It always happens the same way, the close observer not missing the smallest detail, tiny gestures, a hand that rises and points, a head that gives a slight nod. It all takes place as usual. Then it’s over. It is, certainly it is. The wind blows, no, things cause the wind to blow, finding it easy to set it in motion. Hair becomes disheveled, yet it doesn’t bother the grass when a breath tests its flexibility.

Zerlina wanders. She feels no hunger, she feels nothing at all, not even the buzzing of the disoriented flies. She pushes her feet forward in alternating fashion, striding in total freedom, starting out on a new path, or a path that has already been trod by others. Here in the bosom of the landscape it does not matter that everything has happened already and is now repeated over and over. That is only a music woven out of the same sounds. It’s there, it must certainly be there, for the ears are full of the pleasure of its continuance. Thus there is only discovery and pursuit, nothing new at all. Only the moment is new, which knows nothing of other moments. But there is always what has been, for it has not disappeared, but instead remains within the moment; it is there and reveals itself. Zerlina must grab hold of it again, she cannot deny it, since she also feels that everything was already fated and predetermined. Her steps will become other steps, they are meant to be taken and will be taken, according to the same law; and yet — Zerlina’s journey is also a new one. Never before has she pressed so far into the unknown with such ardency, never has she trusted the path so, despite not knowing it. But so the others walked before her, at first quickly, then slowly, then creeping, shuffling, dancing, running, hopping, and jumping. Then a foot hit a root, a gross oversight that leads to stumbling, the hard fall unavoidable.

But Zerlina is tough and doesn’t let such an accident scare her. Already she pulls herself together again and hurries along all the more blithely. She has left all of her fear behind her, because she is certain that no one observes her behavior. Only she herself is concerned with Zerlina. Yet she can’t guarantee that she won’t fall now and then. This time, she in fact falls deeper. Zerlina sits at a long, low work table. She is imprisoned in the workshop. Vera is also here, and all the other women and girls. Are they all imprisoned? Zerlina doesn’t dare look around as she feels and smells the work that surrounds her, the thin brown cardboard, the hands folding it properly as it turns into a box that will be glued, the top set on it, the building now complete, ready to be moved into. How lovely are the apartments, all you need to do is open a little door cut into the side, which one can slip through, little arched windows having been cut into the top, and the box is now pleasant and comfy.