H. Adler - The Journey

Paul sees the open steps in front of him and starts to climb them. He sees the writing on the buildings that announces a great many things. Perhaps there was something there he would want to read. Yet a glance confirms there’s nothing for him, it all has to do with people from Unkenburg: they must obey orders, they are warned, they will be instructed and it will be expected. Paul cannot read everything that is being announced here, but certainly it has nothing to do with him. Paul stands before the gate, the soldiers look at him. Should Paul turn back? Is it forbidden to enter? Must one have a pass? Who is allowed? How can he get in? Paul grows anxious and breaks out in a sweat, his heart beats loudly. The amount of power housed here is awesome and will kill anyone who is not allowed to enter. Paul is not allowed, he had signed papers from Stupart. If they ask, what should he stammer on about? He has no reason to be here, he stands inside a vacuum, under no one’s command. This would be a good time to climb back down the steps, yet maybe that would cause more trouble, for it would only show that Paul did not belong in Unkenburg. And yet he stands there in the magic circle of foreign power and cannot hide, it is much too late to do so, and yet to Paul’s amazement no questions are asked. Others go into the building and are not asked, others come out of the door and are not questioned. The soldiers only appear to keep guard without being concerned about the continual traffic in and out. Why a guard is even posted here is hard to understand. Paul imagines that perhaps their watch ended long ago; the soldiers only stand there because they have forgotten that their duty is over.

Paul finally pushes through and is in the hallway. There are no hands here, only arrows pointing this way and that. People are everywhere, weaving back and forth as if they know the point to and reason for existence, it having been revealed to them here. Everyone hurries along and is busy, keeps talking and has something to do, it’s a miracle that it all just goes on and on by itself. Paul can also move along any of the hallways without hindrance, reading the inscriptions on the many doors. On one it reads, OFFICE FOR REFUGEES. Soon Paul finds himself in a large room where many people are waiting. They are all tired and have knapsacks and boxes with them and look like they have no idea what to do. A couple of kids keep on making noise with no one there to reign them in, no one can get them to quiet down. Paul considers how long he wants to wait, for it looks like things are unfolding here quite slowly, and he isn’t a refugee any longer. Where is he fleeing from? He is with himself, and his home is with him wherever he plants his feet. The people are given little slips with numbers so that those who are impatient won’t fight with one another about whose turn it is. As Paul considers whether or not he wants to stay, he tells the person in charge of keeping order that he does not want to take a number. Yet he takes one anyway, mumbling a couple of words of apology before he says that it looks like it will certainly be a while, so therefore he will wait outside in the hall.

Paul throws away his number once he is outside the door and laughs at himself for being so foolish to look for an office that meant nothing to him. He then comes to another door, where he sees faces that are familiar — dull, gloomy souls whose gazes are dead, yet full of hunger, then cast to the ground, full of anxiety and pain, unbearable, the smell of death, the burning cold odor of the horror of the hacked-off hands in front of the ark, voices without names that are suddenly there and then again not. Paul isn’t certain, although they greet him in a friendly and trusting manner, but yes, here was the right place for reparations, each would get something, just be patient, it wouldn’t be much longer, because here is the Office for Former Prisoners. Yet that is not for Paul, he is not a “former” prisoner. Paul wants to have an official designation for himself in the present, not an honor granted to the past. He shuffles farther along. Then up to another floor. There someone stops him. Only Americans are allowed here, or people who have business here. Paul has business here, he says quickly and forcefully, he needs to speak with the commandant, the situation can’t wait. The commandant is unavailable, it will be at least two hours, he learns, since right now he’s in a meeting where they’re discussing the temporary governance of Unkenburg. Paul doesn’t let himself be dissuaded. Eight kilometers, four years, right and left, then across the entire city, that’s too much; there has to be at least a deputy to whom he can talk. — Perhaps Captain Dudley. — Okay, fine, it doesn’t matter, Captain Dudley it is.

Paul is announced and doesn’t have to wait long. There sits the young Captain Dudley at a desk, smoking like a chimney. Paul is no longer used to such smoky air, so it’s uncomfortable for him and he has to cough. The captain, however, already has company. Someone from Unkenburg stands hunched over before him. What can he do for him? He has brought a small box with him whose contents he unpacks on the table. The captain is very interested. He collects medals of the defeated. He’d be pleased to have all of them, the many lead shields in all their colors. He’ll give a hundred cigarettes for them. Is there any chance of getting more of them? — Yes, certainly, but it’s not easy now to get such loot, but the man from Unkenburg will come back again tomorrow, and not empty-handed. — He just needs to be on time, it’s important, the collection is not yet complete. Duplicates don’t hurt either. The captain is happy to pay, he’s not cheap, yes, cigarettes. Paul keeps waiting, he is exhausted and asks the captain whether he can sit down. Captain Dudley shakes his head. Paul doesn’t know whether that means yes or no, yet he sits down nonetheless and continues waiting.

The captain doesn’t stop admiring the treasures before him. He lifts up piece after piece, turns them in his hand and holds them before his eyes. He’s not ashamed to do so in front of Paul, at whom he glances impatiently. Paul, however, does not shrink away from the captain’s blue-eyed gaze, though now and then he looks around and stares at the pendulum clock that oddly hangs upon the wall, assiduously swinging back and forth. The droning clock was now striking the quarter hour. “Two hundred cigarettes, but make sure you bring them!” A half hour has passed. The clock has croaked it out with its rude little hammer. Will the deal take place? The assistant comes in and announces other visitors. Dudley gives a short wave, okay, well look at these, just a … just a couple of minutes, not too bad. The new guest also arrives like a train rattling along its tracks, to and fro. He is also American and has a uniform and a cigarette, a Lucky Strike. Therefore he doesn’t have to wait. That would be silly. He talks as fast as the mighty pendulum. Is the hour up? The captain can do nothing but listen to his countryman. His hands are hard, the table is silent. He doesn’t pay attention to Paul, who simply sits on his chair inside the pendulum clock, feeling like a fool. The captain shows the many new medals to his visitor. He picks one up that is bent, then he picks up another, turning it slowly back and forth. With a quick wave he snaps: “How terrific! Aren’t these things terrific?” The hunchback from Unkenburg rubs his hump, pleased and yet submissive, well, well, well, sure, he can also bring some for the other man, always something, every day. The deafening clock strikes three-quarters past inside its dusty glass chamber. He doesn’t want to be paid in currency. For God and the liberators he will do it for nothing, just Zig-Zag cigarettes, no-frills compensation. No, the other one says, it will be American cigarettes when you come back, not just nothing. Then Paul can be silent no longer. He jumps excitedly out of the chamber of his clock, his knees wobbling because his legs have gone to sleep. Paul yells out: