H. Adler - The Journey

The dead, however, let their tongues dip into the holy water. They lap it up, since they are so thin and parched. They lick up the water, the bishop can do nothing to prevent it, no matter how much he cries out or warns them. It is the bitter wine of hell that will not cool your thirst, but rather will only inflame your intestines with hellfire. Yet it does not bother the dead, they do not listen and do not believe him, because they smell the soup in front of them, a sour, made-up concoction of water, salt, and moldy beet husks with algae swimming in it that is tasty and not to be turned down. Suddenly an American is standing there and looks on amazed. The bishop wants to stop him, because it’s not right for him to enter the church. First one has to save the dead, the holy walls of the crypt; the living can wait. But who now are the living and who the dead? The American is matter-of-fact and wants clear instructions. The bishop is still confused and because of exhaustion can give him no information. He points toward the destroyed cathedral with dried-up stumps of fingers and then to the bloody pools of soup next to the ark and hesitantly complains.

“Deprofundis clamavi.”

The American doesn’t understand a word and doesn’t want to beat around the bush. He doesn’t know the language that is being spoken. Impatiently he warns the bishop that he should tell him the truth.

The bishop whispers: “Suscipe deprecationem nostram qui tollis peccata mundi! Miserere nobis! Miserere nobis! Miserere!”

The American wants to hear only one thing. “Living or dead? Yes or no? Answer in English or in German!”

The bishop no longer hears, and smiles. He points toward heaven and to hell. Then the American turns away from the bishop in horror. He thinks, Such a thing would never happen in America, as he looks on at the haggard people crawling blindly across the ground, their open mouths falling upon the soup. Then the American shakes his head, his cigarette falls from his mouth. Already some of the crawling people are at his feet, scuffling for the glowing butt. Then the American takes up his camera in order to try to capture what his eyes can’t believe. He waves to the slurpers and with his hands he gestures for them to form a group. Even though their thirst has not been abated, and though they are free not to follow his command, they still do what he asks, perhaps out of curiosity or more so out of an old, familiar obedience inspired by just a wave of his hand. Yet the American is understanding.

“I’m not taking a picture out of curiosity. I’m taking it for the sake of the memories of the authorities who sent me here to save you. Please, relax and look natural! It will only take a second!”

“Tell me, Mr. America, I have a family member over there who is also a photographer. Do you know him?”

“Oh, America is a big country.”

“He’s a good photographer. His name is Albert, Albert Schwarz. A dear son. His mother was taken away. Away, Mr. America, do you understand? Ashes … nothing more … She was my aunt. Who no longer has a dear son. Tell Albert Schwarz!”

“Sorry. Please, just a moment! I want to take another. You are safe now. Snapshots. Good luck. America will help. Don’t worry. Moral rearmament.”

“One request, Mr. America!”

“Sure, sure. Do you have Albert Schwarz’s address?”

“No, I don’t have anything. I need something else. I live in the city of Stupart, Mr. America. Can you send me a picture of myself? I want to have one for my obituary. My address? You can address it to Frau Lischka.”

“Well, I can’t promise anything. You know that the country … America is immense. Have a cigarette!”

“I don’t have any other evidence. No one will believe me. People will laugh. Please, send it to me!”

“Sorry, America is immense, come and see it!”

Paul has turned away. He knows that no one will believe him, even if he could show them a picture. He has to move on. He is determined above all to put everything behind him. He no longer looks at the chopped-off hands. Now he has to get to Unkenburg fast. Maybe it’s better if he also just forgets about himself. The strength left in him has no room for the past. Is this not an escape? No, it’s necessity. There is a road to Unkenburg, so one can get there. If only the legs could work better! The head is clear, but the body is pained by the past that still won’t let go of it. If he were still afraid, he would keep on the move for sure. Yet no one is after him. Only worry presses at him, and it’s that which must lend wings to his every step.

Vehicles travel by in long chains. Happy exclamations sound out everywhere, the victorious army. Has Paul won? With what has he won? For whom? For the dead? For himself? He should put a sign around himself that says he is a victor. Yet who would believe him? Does a victor look like he does? Paul would get somewhere faster if he were to ask a young soldier for a ride on his vehicle. In five minutes Paul would be in Unkenburg. Yet he doesn’t stop any vehicle. He would like to do so, but his waves are misunderstood, the boys think that he’s greeting them as one of the defeated, and so they wave back at him respectfully. They are telling him: Nothing will happen to you, we’re not that way, we’re from America, we’re here to offer freedom and to not step on the enemy who is licking the dust. Whoever does penance will be forgiven.

Paul is the defeated. He has to bow down, even if it’s a mild yoke. First he has to prove who he is before anyone can trust him. Is he not a victim? Victims are the defeated, even if they are alive, and especially when they are alive. Yet how can Paul prove who he is when he’s so weak? Who in fact has defeated him? The victors? The defeated? Paul belongs to neither. The victors are as foreign to him as the defeated, neither will listen to a word he says. The victors and the defeated will reconcile, while he will remain lying in the dust. No, he won’t lie down, he has never given up. He wanders on, indefatigable, and wants to go on. He is on the road. He has no home at all, only the road that goes on and on. Is this Beggars Way? One must submit to servitude. Yet Paul was never a servant. Instead the defeated, a captured lord. Paul is a beggar king. His realm is without location, nor does the road itself exist. He walks along it because no one prevents him from doing so, yet he has no rights to defend. With luck there is enough confusion so that no one will question him. Paul is in no-man’s-land and wants to be in someone’s land. But is that a good idea? Is it not better to remain amid indeterminacy? No one will let him go hungry. He can join up with anybody. Anybody can become his friend, it’s easy.

Paul must flee. He must find the end of his road in order to leave it behind him. As soon as he reaches town, the road will disappear to all sides, that way, this way, clues to it everywhere. Doors will await him, behind them apartments, the features of home, little bits of security amid the brief rest found in the decorated brick boxes. Unkenburg is not the final destination, but it lies in this direction. But in what direction is that? Straight ahead. Now unknown voices begin to buzz.

“We’re walking this way.”

“We’re walking that way.”

“We’re walking.”

Little bundles of possessions are exchanged from hand to hand. Paul is not empty-handed; he becomes ever richer. When he fled the ark, before the doves had returned, he had nothing. Now at least he has a bundle of this and that. Paul owns something; no one will have a problem with him now. Did he buy what he has? They were gifts, though every possession is only something allotted. Paul thinks to himself, This moment was expected from the very beginning, now the moment of the birth of creation is also being born. Is it free to make of itself what it will? You must do something. Movement left or right or anywhere. That’s the first step of freedom — anywhere! It’s a moment without headlines or newspapers. Whoever enjoys this moment, whoever knows that he doesn’t have to read about it, he is free. All demands must fall away, it can be no other way. This does not mean that anything goes, but rather it is freedom. Yet each looks for a direction to follow. Will they only lose themselves by following any direction available? Will they be able to stick to it? Will they stick to the road they’ve chosen? Isn’t Paul himself on a road he cannot get off? Ah, such confusion! When will all this thinking cease? And when will life begin?