H. Adler - The Journey

“You may no longer …”

Yet there is only so much one can do, which the cripple is the first to properly understand, though prison does not represent the soul’s strongest possible restraint. The spirit is free, that’s what one learns. Does this freedom have no need of space? Is time enough by itself? What’s impeded when restrictions are imposed, freedom or you yourself? Why are you dissatisfied? You want the power to control things, yet you never possessed freedom. You are under restraint because the power to control matters has been stripped from you.

The intruders have weak flashlights, which they hold way out in front of them in order to pierce through the darkness of the stairwell. They intend something awful without letting on what it is. They restrict others yet do not know that they are also checked. The intruders are not crippled, hardly even lame, because their prison is everywhere and enjoys the protection of the power that knows no limits, as it can expand its reach farther with every step taken until the illusory feeling of limitless power leads them down the stairs and into the expanse of the darkened streets. The messengers are not afraid of the streets, even though they are cursed as well, but they have badges made of cardboard that they can point to whenever someone protests against the freedom employed during these hours when they also become crippled as they inflict the curse of expulsion. Now, however, their only wish is to stay healthy and on their feet and not to break their necks by falling down the steps. Nothing else worries these men in the stairwell, but this is only a guess that may not be true, for perhaps worries also press at the messengers that are not so apparent.

One of them is a handsome youth. His long hair often falls across his forehead, making him seem annoyed when, with a flick of his head, he flips back the strands, remedying the situation for no longer than a moment. Now he says: “You have to let your father go, there’s nothing that can be done.” Then he’s quiet again and looks down the stairs. A powerful kick would knock him off balance, such that he would fall and injure himself badly. He shouldn’t go barging into strange houses, especially in the thick of night. The fact that there’s nothing that can be done about it won’t save him. His life dangles from a thin thread since he is only following orders. He has sacrificed himself to his duties. Most likely he didn’t even apply for this job, but rather was told: “You have to do it. Do you understand?”—“I’ll do it. I understand.” Then someone handed him a piece of paper and a voice shouted, “Sign here!” He signed the sheet, though with these letters nothing is accomplished to which anyone would grant the least value, nor would anyone be pleased by the signature. Only a name appears, but the sensibility behind the signature is long since lost.

It’s hard to understand why you have to sign your name so often. No one should have to sign his name at the end of a letter, for as soon as you do, everything you spent so much effort listing out becomes null and void. Yet everything has a value that can be assessed. Even old bed feathers have their use. They can be cleaned, pulled out, and dried in a warm cylinder that is turned by a little motor. It’s clearly stated that one isn’t allowed to take bed feathers along. Everything has to remain behind; the luggage allowed is limited to a certain size and weight. Carefully place a piece of paper inside with your name, address, and date of birth. It doesn’t matter that you no longer have an address. The worst that can happen is that you don’t get the bundles and they are sent back; Frau Lischka will recognize them if you show her which ones are yours. That’s when it dawns on them that nothing belongs to them anymore, rather it all belongs to the authorities who transform the anonymous possessions into property once again through simple magic. Outside one can also see the luggage lined up with names, addresses, and the birth dates on them. The suitcases and bags are marked with chalk or have notes glued to them. It’s good to have everything ready. Practicality always watches out for itself.

“There, sign here, but make it legible! Why are you letting the pen wobble? You’ll end up with a blotch instead of your name. Didn’t you ever learn to write! Oh, of course, a doctor! You can write prescriptions. But it never bothered you when the patient died from taking the wrong medicine. As long as the bill was legible.…”

Lustig is a name like any other, even when the eyes fail and the voice falters. No healthy person has ever had to consider what it’s like to be nameless, for it would never occur to him. Only in graveyards is it customary to give up one’s name. If you want complete rest, you not only have to stretch out your legs but also relinquish your name. Only then can you plump up the bed feathers and hope for a satisfying sleep. “Sign your name, so that it’s clear you can’t do that! Three times, please! In ink, not with a pencil!” Countless hands are stretched out and hold something that needs to be signed. “Here, use my pen!” It doesn’t work. There’s no ink for the names. Someone must have a bit of ink. Indeed someone, but somewhere else, not here, for no one knows what he should write. “Sign your name where it says ‘I waive …’ ” Where there is no name the waiver is meaningless. It strains the eyes too much, and besides, in this blackout no one can see where he should place his mark.

The way down the steps seems endless, because from start to finish you never feel sure of yourself on the stretch of stairs that winds back and forth, living from moment to moment without knowing if the effort will be rewarded. Nonetheless that’s where you often went, back when you were a child, whenever you wanted to be by yourself and yet someplace familiar, there where it was easy to pass some time on one of the steps and think about what you were feeling. Once a week the house lady knelt on the steps with a full pail of water next to her, dipping a gray rag into it that she’d fish back out and with both hands wring out with some effort. Then the damp rag slapped onto the stone, the washing having begun, step-by-step.

Frau Lischka didn’t like it when someone went up the stairs while she was doing this, and everyone knew that Friday afternoon was no time to invite guests or for anyone to ramble up and down the stairs. Leopold’s patients were often admonished and scolded, sometimes sent back down and told to wipe their feet better. Order had to be kept, the building couldn’t go to pieces. When Frau Lischka cleaned the stairwell everyone had to stop and wait until the steps were dried with a second rag. “You can use them now, but take two steps at a time!”

Yet the intruders that were now running around, entering each house in search of their detainees, they didn’t care about order as they carried out their duties with feebleminded expressions on their faces. The stairs were no longer a sacred place, and the houses were worth nothing; it almost seemed as if they were no longer even there. Yet you could see them, they each had an address corresponding to a name, and they were marked with a sign alerting each passerby that nothing had disappeared, that everything was in its place. You only had to know your way around Stupart and everything became easy.

It was really easy, especially at night, as long as there was no blackout, since then no one had to risk guessing whether you were in a certain or uncertain place. But now you found yourself in an uncertain place. It was not even a place anymore, and perhaps any connection to an actual address disappeared when they took down the sign

DR. LEOPOLD LUSTIG

General Practitioner

for now nothing of what once had been was allowed to remain. Thus there was nothing more at all, though memory refuses to accept this, striving continually to give order and shape to it all.