H. Adler - The Journey

The eye focuses and then discovers names next to the hands. They once named roads. Yet now there are no roads. The names mean nothing, they are faded, the color having drained from the names, separated from the hands, which are nothing more than dust-covered stumps. And no matter how much the gaze wishes to join together the hands and the names, it still cannot figure out how they belong to each other; they are so badly injured that they no longer mean anything. The names are mixed up and cannot find their owners. Yet there are no owners, there are just Anybodys, who are not names and not hands, but rather figures that belong to no one and which creep between the hands and the names, looking for a direction in which to head, although the eye sees no direction to recommend to them. They turn this way and that, each step changing the direction, then they grow tired and appear to rest, but only for a short while, an irrepressible drive pushing them on. Yet there is no road they can take, since none exists.

Each Anybody appears to be in the same situation. Perhaps each one knows that he has never been here, but rather has been transformed here. Back then it was someplace else altogether, but he cannot recall, he does not remember the name or the direction. This one with an idea is unsure of what is Nothing or what is Something, then he chooses Something. He feels overwhelmed by a past he does not know, yet which he can sense, Something having won out after all. This grants great courage and strength to the body, allowing him to decide to act. As soon as he exists, then he can ask questions. He stops another Anybody and tries to gain his attention. That doesn’t work. Anybody doesn’t stop and stumbles on uncertainly, not knowing he himself is a Nobody and not even an Anybody. Yet he tries again to help this Nobody recognize Something, and indeed, he’s there, he gives a start; is he in fact now an Anybody? Yet he does not know anything, but rather mumbles dark sounds from an unknown tongue, it all having been a mistake. Better to try something else. The Question asks the Question whether Anybody knows which way to go? No, Anybody doesn’t know, he knows no one in these parts. There are no roads here, they are elsewhere. But there must be roads, says the answering voice. The word road means something. Because of it this conversation makes sense and therefore has meaning.

Now the Question grows silent and wanders off. He tries his feet, which don’t betray him. Here is a wooden pole with many hands pointing outward that have not been knocked off. This crossroads is in good shape. Each hand is sure of the direction in which it points and knows the name of the town it points toward, which indeed might exist, because the hand also says how many kilometers away it is. One has to go that far in order to get there. Unkenburg is only eight kilometers away, says the hand. Clearly the outstretched finger points the way, that being the direction one can follow. One has to give the body a direction and then guide it in order that it can make the connection. From here the body must go forward, because Unkenburg is a ways off from this point. One thinks about the distance ahead, and then sets off.

What one was once capable of must also occur now. Once time is restored, the familiar and reliable exist again. Once time exists again, you must trust how long it takes to get somewhere. But what is Unkenburg? It’s not recognizable, the memory of it is still lost in the brooding. It is a place, though there is no one there. Are there other names you might know? They are not to be found here. They must be farther off than these hands indicate. How many kilometers is it to Leitenberg? It doesn’t say. And to Stupart? That’s a large city that certainly must be known everywhere. But Stupart is not written down, no matter how much the eyes search for it. It’s better not to keep trying to look for it, for your strength won’t hold out long enough to press through the unknown. The main city of Stupart should certainly be known. But no, it’s not. It was known, and through long patience perhaps it will be discovered again. You have to hold on to the known even when it is not known. And so Unkenburg. It’s that way.

Yet the mouth shapes the words Leitenberg and Stupart . These old names sound sad. Eight hundred years have passed, if not more. The city must be much older. The source of the name is locked away somewhere in the realm of speech. The names of old places are lost and forgotten. At the moment it is wiser not to pretend that this city ever existed. If anyone says “Leitenberg” or “Stupart,” there are immediately ears that hear it, faces that turn in the direction of the sound of the voice. Now the mouths of strangers open and slowly send back a sound of their own, one that’s a little sad, dark, and incomprehensible, yet sympathetic and friendly:

“Never heard of it. No. Don’t know it. Must be someplace else or it doesn’t exist. So much has been destroyed. It’s certainly not here.”

Then the strangers’ mouths say some names that the voices listen to closely, names of places they’ve never heard of. Each one swears it’s known by another name, all of it a confusing back-and-forth, painful, bleak, buzzing, an antediluvian stammering that grows ever louder, becoming an unrecognizable scream. All the places that once existed are named, yet nobody knows them, the speakers standing there alone with their names. The moment a name is tossed into the circle, the chorus answers with this litany:

“Never heard of it. No. Don’t know it.”

They don’t know and have no idea. Then the toothless mouths shut upon their empty questions. All of the names of the places have been ticked off and not one has been found. Only the murky voices of the chorus slip deeper and deeper into the monotone singsong.

“Don’t know it — Don’t know it — Don’t know it—”

Gradually the muddy chorus peters out, becoming sadder and darker, a silent rain, until it can no longer be understood. But then another voice rises from the muddy depths, crying out incessantly:

“To Unkenburg! To Unkenburg!”

Is it the wise old railroad that calls out so? No railroad runs in this lost land. Only the rails stretch out ahead as they sleep in desolation on the moldy ties, though they are barely disturbed and still bend in sharply controlled curves. However, there is no longer any service on these tracks. The rails are also not lit up, their silver-gray withers and turns brown with rust. Only one question travels along the stretch and weighs down the telegraph wires, in which it remains stuck and never sees light of day. The high poles stand there starkly, barely holding up the wires. The railroad has fallen into disrepair without any attendants there, yet perhaps the tracks don’t lead to the destroyed graveyards, but rather to a place that still exists, and maybe that place is Unkenburg.

This name had once been heard. A captain had once had a general’s staff map on which all the names were listed. Wasn’t it Captain Küpenreiter? He was from Unkenburg, for it was there that he first saw the light of the world, and his mother lives there still. So there may be hope after all. Light and the world would mean salvation. Certainly Unkenburg is small enough that the captain can be found. He will certainly be happy to have someone there who once stood with a shovel on the shooting range at Dobrunke. The captain had made an inspection and was satisfied with the job. Küpenreiter was who he was looking for, the house where his mother lived. Yet the captain was long gone, nor was the mother there. He has been taken prisoner and draws maps for the enemy. White flags, blue flags, maneuvers take place in the countryside as if for real. Küpenreiter must remember Leitenberg, for one can’t forget it. Too bad they took him prisoner. Or did he get to the other shore in time so that he could take cover in the woods? One would hardly think so. He would have had to flee very quickly and leave all the maps behind. But without maps he is lost, because he knows none of the names and can’t make out the coordinates. Full of sorrow he thinks of the Scharnhorst barracks, which have fallen to pieces and disappeared in the country left behind. Two thousand kilometers away. A hand had simply pointed to it and it was no more. It collapsed in the middle of the rubbish pit.