H. Adler - The Journey

Because of these screams for revenge, anxiety has spread everywhere, senseless anxiety; everyone who lived here and still lives here simply wants to settle into the lazy feeling of their own slumbering consciousness. Why are they being bothered and not allowed to just live? They should just stay in their houses and keep the doors closed. My goodness, the cries for revenge are scaring our innocent children! We’ve done nothing, it wasn’t us, it was the others! Off with you! Look elsewhere! Elsewhere! Everyone here in Unkenburg is good. The stench of fear travels like gangrene through the streets, and because broken windows provide no shield against it, it enters all the buildings and causes the inhabitants to choke in their rooms. Paul, however, is not afraid of revenge and wants no revenge. He doesn’t understand such baseless fear, for if indeed the time has come again when one can simply be, then no one should despair any longer. Everything imaginable has already occurred, the need for revenge having long passed. The hands of ruin have made manifest their power, and they were chopped off and tossed away. The great opportunity is now here, immediately after the end and right before the beginning. Anyone who is here should come along, but not tremble with revenge and be consumed by anxiety! The new day has not dawned, it is still just a possibility, moments occur that can still dissolve, although they are fleeting and do not last, mere accidents that can indeed cause fear, but find none, for they are simply the present.

Everyone has left. The country roads are full of people, but many of them homeless who have lost nothing and smile dreamily when a shiver of horror sweeps over them. The road runs past fallow fields that are not tended by anyone. Any old stuff grows upon them, anxious plants that no one wants to eat, whether because they are the weeds sprung from vengeance or taste of the dead because they have sprouted up in the middle of the rubbish pits. Such fruits of the earth do not give rise to pangs of hunger among the locals, and the homeless turn away from them in disgust as well. Nobody steps upon the contaminated earth of the fields that simply stretch out unattended, nor do the hands point toward them, and even today nobody wants to lose his way among them. The roads are indeed free of impediments, yet in the fields the war still lurks. The homeless gather together confidently on this road as they celebrate their resurrection from death and sing little bits of long-lost songs. A great migration has begun. Weariness has not yet been overcome, yet the will is more than strong enough to move forward and forget what is behind so that the past can be sealed off and the future can open up.

“It’s eight kilometers away. There’s a town there that I want to go to.”

“It’s destroyed.”

“Not completely. It can’t be. Someone told me. Bricks are still standing, walls. It must still be inhabitable. In fact I can see the towers from here. Those belong to Unkenburg.”

“I’ve just come from there. Unkenburg is no more. It no longer burns. The flames of revenge have been stifled by anxiety, though the rubble is still smoking.”

“And are there no people there?”

“There are some people there, but they are strangers. They want nothing to do with us. I’m headed in the opposite direction. Come with me!”

“No, I’m going to Unkenburg, because that’s what lies ahead of me. I’m not turning back, because where you’re headed is where I came from. There’s nothing there. Turn around! Come with me!”

“I can’t turn around either. It’s too painful to turn back. I have to take care of myself. I chose this direction and I don’t want to back down now.”

“I’ve chosen the other direction. I don’t want to go back to where you’re headed. I barely made it out alive.”

“And the same was true for me at Unkenburg. I can’t hang around here anymore, I have to keep going. Safe journey!”

Thus it doesn’t matter. You only want not to be where you have been already. Freedom cannot be built on those places where no freedom existed. Each needs to change his place, since he can’t change the time. So the wanderers move off in opposite directions in order to realize their freedom. The destination is uncertain. The only thing for sure is that it’s not here, it’s elsewhere, far off. These wandering voices are now the masters of the fallow fields and will found a new order. Will they really do it? Paul doubts it. They will wander and find no home in which they can transform the order of their wishes into reality. Yet was there ever any order? That’s the question. There was only the attempt; vanity was the only order that really existed. All orders have collapsed, all have led to betrayal and brought no peace throughout human history. Yet isn’t now a new beginning, when things will finally be better? Paul had lived through the moment of birth. He had stepped from nothing. He sensed the wounds of a new being that spread through every limb, and so being was indeed there, which he loved and yearned for. No new world can be erected as long as the old one stands, for the old must first give way, which is why its destruction is not in itself evil. Even if it were, what is left has nonetheless disappeared, and thereby a new day has begun.

The past is erected as a memorial and placed in the Technology Museum. It shouldn’t be just sent away, but it must be removed from the present so that it causes no harm. In the museum it can be watched over in order that it have its proper rest with no one to disturb it. Visiting hours must be set up and observed. No touching what doesn’t exist! Can this save the new world? The new world is life itself, happiness and radiance, newborn possibility in your hands, because the resurrection has occurred. It’s good that no one has celebrated it. What one celebrates tends to be useless. One shouldn’t make too much of the good, but rather the bad. Good wants to do what it can. Things were indeed dark and immersed in death, there was no hope, nor any expectation. In a thousand planes rested what would soon rain down, the thunder of the bombs roared around the forest camp. No hands moved there as a voice in the huts wavered and called out.

“A white flag is hanging on the gate. We’re free.”

The voice spoke loudly, but without emphasis or expression. There was no doubt in it, yet it also did not sound convinced. It was just said so that it could be heard if one could hear it at all. Yet it was night. Liberation is not what happened, because it was something that none could grasp. What they could grasp was the night. Thus it was a liberation without joy, even if it was repeated by every voice. Nothing was written about it in the papers. There was nothing there about what had happened day in, day out. And so it seemed endlessly long. Had it been months? Years? None could say. Nobody had entered from outside the sleep of the dead. It was dark in the huts, no one would know they were there. Why was it all over? Why was anyone free? Were you not free in order that someone could free you? Could you really be free if you had to be declared so? The voices were alone. And if they had kept on repeating that the moment had come, it would have made no sense and been an empty sound. The dead lay between the huts and reeked. Freedom had come, yet there were the dead. Didn’t one have to fight for freedom first? The fighting was a ways off, two thousand kilometers away, one thousand, one hundred, twenty, eight, but nonetheless a ways off. It had not reached the forest camp. The breath of the living rattled in their throats, only the strongest had any idea of what was happening. Yet even they didn’t really know, for they couldn’t turn back the night. They crawled to the windows and doors and saw nothing but night. And so they looked at the night. Was that liberation? They felt what wasn’t, they thought what couldn’t be, they had nothing of what was. Thus they were reminded, you have to wait for the day when indeed a day can exist.