H. Adler - The Journey

Paul decides to leave the day after tomorrow. He then heads into the barracks. He’s tired from the short hike today, yet he’s happy, for soon he will travel the way that he wants to. Paul prepares a good dinner out of his provisions and chooses to have the best bits that he’s been saving until now. Otherwise he won’t be able to take everything with him. He prepares everything and sets the table as if he were expecting a guest. Never had Paul gone to such lengths before. The flowers he’d gathered were placed in a little pitcher on the white tablecloth, along with a wineglass and a genuine silver spoon for the stewed fruit. Paul enjoys his dinner immensely. Even though it isn’t dark yet outside, he lights a candle. Is it someone’s birthday? No one sees any of it, for Paul has locked the door in order not to be surprised by anyone. He could have propped up the mirror on the other side of the table, but he had not invited that fellow to dinner. He needs no witness to confirm that he has become a person again. He has granted himself the highest honor, which no one else can give him.

In his pocket he carries the folded-up identification papers that he had asked the Unkenburg city officials to grant him. The wording is nicely put and requests the assistance of anyone to whom the letter is presented. When Paul went to the office, where everyone sought the affirmation of their existence through official channels, he simply gave them the name that he had always gone by. The helpful attendant asked whether he had any other papers that would attest to the accuracy and truth of the name he’d given. No, he had no such papers; the lack of them was the very reason Paul was here. The attendant was already used to hearing this, though he still asked, half out of protocol, if he had any witnesses. Paul had no one he could present, a stranger among strangers has no witnesses, the best he could do would be to ask someone to say, yes, that’s Paul Lustig, but none could say they had known him for a long time. The civil servant just waved away any such need, and Paul was deeply grateful for his courtesy and understanding. He said his real name, he stepped out of his solitude and reentered the world, all of it carried out on a typewriter, where those who had been taken away were taken back into existence and not asked a penny for the privilege. The civil servant wrote and wrote what he was instructed to write, making sure not to note his own name anywhere, for he was indeed an official, a dispenser of verified existence by virtue of an imposed order, a man who is authorized to do so and who wields a stamp, there in his position where he serves the needs of justice. Paul told him his date of birth, told him the name of his hometown was Stupart, handing over all such information out of a deep desire to acquire a name, and then the miracle happened, one granted by the authorities, who had been appealed to, but about which no more questions were asked. In order to conclude the transaction, Paul took the pen that the official offered him.

“Here, take my pen. Sign here, but legibly, please!”

Paul hesitated only for a second, then he did as he had been instructed. With thanks he said good-bye, able now to convince anyone that he is alive and is official. The name he signed verifies that Paul can exist. He looks fondly at the piece of paper and thinks, Look, I have found myself again. What others wanted to eradicate when my life was no more than a nameless nothing, this official has restored only because I wanted him to. It’s the greatest victory I have accomplished. A small victory. A victory that thousands who show up before the officials in order to let their reality be put in order will attain. Yet a victory, a genuine victory.

Now there’s no longer any need for such assurance. Paul celebrates the birth of his own freedom, something no official can certify. The dinner comes to a tidy close, Paul gives thanks with a deep bow of his head. He gets up from the table and bows once again. His extreme behavior is unusual, this he knows, but no one would dare laugh at him. Paul lifts his hands before him. A current flows through them, Paul can feel a deep warmth. He no longer walks stooped over, he is sound and can feel the strength within himself. Decisions are now more likely than promises. Paul wants to leave because that was his plan. According to the Office for Former Prisoners, he could indeed travel soon. In some countries, large groups of people have already left. Paul, however, is too proud. He won’t go to any collection point, and he won’t let himself be loaded up according to some train schedule that is completely unknown. He doesn’t wait around to be told to be patient or to be granted patience when he finds himself at some meeting point. Such journeys horrify him, ones where he is suddenly whisked off and has no time to decide for himself what he’d like to do. When he wants to start out on his journey, he will arrange it for himself. Certainly he can’t do it all by himself, for there are only so many opportunities, but among them he will make the choices that he can. He lives by his own laws now; it’s the only way possible if what he wants is more than to be called by just any name like all the others.

Paul clears the table and makes the bed. He wants it to be nice for the chosen guest who will soon move in today. He folds the nightshirt and lays it carefully on the pillow. He pulls up the blankets and smooths them out. When the master of the house returns home he should feel cozy. Then Paul leaves. He wants to tell some acquaintances that he has decided to go away. Many would be happy for him to stay in Unkenburg. Paul had so often confirmed that nowhere in the world did anything special await his return, that he had no one upon this Earth, though he didn’t really count the cousin in America. Why then does Paul not want to stay? It would not be that difficult to begin a new life here.

Paul thanks them, but it’s too late, he has decided to go away. He must hold to the conviction that has grown within him. He must see the world and most of all the country that he had been taken from and from which he was set upon his journey. He would not stay in Unkenburg, for a month would pass, or maybe two, but he wouldn’t be able to bear any longer than that. Paul didn’t want to wait around for that. He wants to make the departure from Unkenburg as easy as the entry was difficult. He thanks them for all the kindness and friendship that has been extended to him here. Then he says good-bye, for his time has come. These days, whoever has a chance to leave is wise not to worry about parting. Thus Paul takes leave of his acquaintances. In reply to the question about whether he will ever come back, he simply shakes his head.

“I will leave tomorrow, if I can get a train. I wanted to leave the day after tomorrow. I think, however, that it will be better if I leave the city tomorrow. The day after tomorrow the Kanonenberg barracks will have to be cleaned out because prisoners of war will be brought there.”

“Is that the reason you’re leaving so soon? Stay with us and travel in a week’s time!”

“No, I will leave tomorrow, if I can. I don’t want to rest a moment longer.”

That’s how Paul feels. He wants to lose himself amid new contingencies in order to leave behind this haphazard life that he has just survived. It is a blessing to have only yourself to worry about and to figure out on your own which way to go, but the moment one destination is reached, this feeling would disappear if he were to rest there any longer. Any pause that jeopardized moving on would be painful and would undermine the freedom that only exists when the heart isn’t lost to its own desires, but rather chooses its own path, even if all the promises made, which would hold one back, are not kept. Paul explains this to his acquaintances as well as he can, because he doesn’t want to hurt them, for they have taken care of him and were happy to see how he was able to come back from the wilderness and regain his strength. They ask if there is anything else they can do for him, yet there is nothing that Paul needs, everything that he will need in the next weeks has been taken care of, it being senseless to think any further ahead than that. It’s also possible that the train will not take him as far as he hopes, and then he will have to walk a long ways. Paul was not afraid of long marches, but too many bags would be a problem. And so his friends didn’t weigh him down with anything else and simply wished him well. Herr Brantel asks Paul to just remember that in the country whose people had robbed him of everything precious and dear there were still decent people. Paul promises to keep that in his thoughts. Then he is ready to go, though Herr Brantel says there’s no hurry and brings in a bottle of wine.