H. Adler - The Journey

The woman talks on, but Paul hardly listens to her; he is transfixed by the sight of the apartment and wants to press it into his consciousness: a room with furniture, a room where everything is intact. There is the bed where the refugee sleeps, a tasseled blanket thrown over the bed that’s not new, but smoothed out so that it looks nicer. Each morning the bed needs to be made in order that the room remain pleasant. At night the blanket is lifted and folded back carefully, underneath it are the white sheets. Paul would love to grab hold of the blanket; underneath there must be a mountain of sheets as white as blossoms. The wood is brown and gleams with polish, the woman having wiped it with a dust cloth. Emmy had done it once a week. The furniture also is not new, yet it is well taken care of. It had been purchased in the hope that it would last a long while. The children are well brought up, they don’t kick the paneling with their shoes. There stands the vitrine, the family’s treasures, their inheritance and memories. Paul bends forward and sees a lot of glass and porcelain. Something one has but doesn’t need, it’s just beautiful, because gifts are always beautiful, though pointless. Yes, they are souvenirs, the woman confirms with a smile. Most likely she is pleased that such things interest her guest. Not a bit of dust mars the view, she is a good housewife. That one belonged to her grandfather. He had indeed smoked this pipe, it’s made of real meerschaum. Today nobody smokes such a pipe, there’s no tobacco. There’s also a plaster figurine there, it’s the boy who is pulling a thorn out of his foot. They had the very same figurine back home, just a bit bigger. Paul said that his mother had taken it when her parents’ household things were divided up. It stood there on the piano. Paul can recall when his mother had brought it home. There had also been a lute just like this one on the wall, though it didn’t have as many strings and was made of lighter-colored wood, more yellow than brown. His sister had played it when she sang, though sometimes she played it quietly without singing, plucking lightly at the strings. Now the lute is gone. — Why? — It’s broken. — How did that happen? — Don’t ask, it’s too sad to tell.

“Will you go home now?”

Paul hesitates. He should not have intruded. Frau Wildenschwert doesn’t mean to press him, she is just curious and talks and talks without end. He doesn’t want to talk about himself.

“You’re one of those people that was set free, right?”

Paul can’t disagree. But “set free”? Who had set him free? Nobody he knew. He left. Nobody had tried to stop him. The ark was forgotten on the beach. He walked eight kilometers, and back and forth throughout Unkenburg.

“Yes, I was one of them. But that’s all over now.”

“Was it really so horrible? There have been so many lies. Indeed, no offense, but at the very least it doesn’t appear that respectable people were taken away.”

Paul listens with burning ears. He doesn’t want to say anything that he’s thinking. Perhaps it hadn’t involved respectable people. But what does that mean? And where are the respectable people now? Respect? What respect is there left? Respect had disappeared from the world. Whatever happened outside as the ark sailed on and whatever rotted within it — all of it had rotted to the core. Yet no one today can slander those taken away, those who were gathered behind barbed wire and left to die.

“I lost everything. Father, mother, sister, my name, apartment, possessions, and home. If I make it home, I will not be at home. I am your guest and don’t want to bother you.”

Frau Wildenschwert says she is sorry. She can’t do for her guest what he deserves, but she can offer him some coffee, there’s also a bit of schnapps in the house. Paul won’t allow himself to be bought off through gifts. He goes along with it, for he needs it, but he’s not a guest who was expected. An intruder is usually an official with a task at hand and thus someone who needs to handle matters appropriately. The orders are gone through carefully and not simply carried out haphazardly, like when Herr Nussbaum’s messengers hunted down their victims in the middle of the night while desecrating the apartment. Yet Paul has no orders from a government office, not even a bogus office; his appearance here is inexcusable. The disturber of the peace in the best room, his presence detestable since he has no right to be here. The best thing to do would be to say a sincere thank-you, turn around quickly, and hurry out of there with his tail between his legs. But Paul has no control over himself, he has lost all his strength. Because of his weariness his gaze remains fixed on a painting. It’s a medium-size oil painting that shows the Unkenburg Cathedral, still intact, in bright light, the sun beaming down too strongly, though the colors are not too bad, just a bit overdone, too much that’s too pretty for an aged cathedral.

“Yes, that was our cathedral. Before the enemy, excuse me, America …”

“It’s nicely painted. It’s not entirely destroyed. Just the one tower is broken off, the slate roof done in. It can all be repaired.”

“Not inside, it’s completely gutted! Barbaric! The marvelous remnants of our glorious past! Not even the stones are spared! And they’re supposed to be human beings?”

“The theater is much worse off. I saw it. Only the stage is left.”

“The theater … that’s right. But the cathedral! Have another schnapps! It seems to suit you. It was in the middle of the High Mass when the sirens went off. What did the faithful do to deserve that? With effort the bishop escaped without being wounded. It was almost a miracle. What is it that we’ve done that allows our city to be laid to waste? We were peaceful people and wanted only to live in peace with the world! A country of justice and order! A prosperity achieved through the fruits of labor! We’ve been hounded by envy and hate. What took us a thousand years to build was swept away in an hour! Rubble like sand castles that children build and then destroy. What right do they have to do that? Everything, everything taken away from us! Before the war we had a lot of tourists, even Americans. They couldn’t believe the beauty of Unkenburg. Now what can they look at? Have another schnapps!”

“Thanks. Please, no more, really. I’m not used to it. My legs will get too heavy. The velvet on your chair is wonderful, so soft and comfortable. You’ve lived here a long time?”

“It’s our home. Two years before the war started was when it was finished. We’ve lived here eight years. That is, until my husband …”

“Where is your husband?”

“Drafted. They took him away. He’s been gone five years already. I haven’t had a word from him in over a year. I can only hope that he was captured. I still believe he’ll come back; one has to have faith when you have children.”

Paul can no longer remain sitting. He paces back and forth in the room. The master of the house is missing, but his home is still there, the apartment is in order. No doubt that’s his picture in the frame. Herr Wildenschwert looks on solemnly. Why did he go to war when he had such a nice apartment? When one goes away, the family cannot stay in the apartment. What kind of loyalty is that? Everyone must have gone to Ruhenthal of their own free will. The couple were married in the cathedral, and the bond that was sealed in the cathedral cannot be broken by the hand of man. The train takes everyone away. The hand pointed in the wrong direction. Anyone who allowed himself to be led in that direction was a fool, or so they say, they who sit here lamenting inside an undamaged building. His picture is no substitute for him when his children look at it every morning. The moment he leaves, the country ceases to exist. The children can leave, Herr Budil, that’s okay, but not the parents; they must spoon out soup when the table is set. Today there is sausage; Herr Poduschka made some extra. Does one braise rabbit in the Wildenschwert household? There are so many ways to prepare it. Fresh out of the box is the best. The lid opens, Snow White can now leave Ruhenthal. All the others there are now also free, and so they leave on freshly cut crutches, Herr Wildenschwert also is there with a fresh crown of nettles resting on his pale penitent’s head, two legs and a nose, left and right, the last broom thrown onto the rubbish heap and never, ever, ever seen again.