Andres Neuman - Traveller of the Century

In the midst of the crowd in the streets around the market square, Frau Pietzine was watching the Christs, Virgins, Mary Magdalenes go by, and with each new step of sorrows and tears she realised she felt better, a sense of comfort pulsed through her, this shared piety absolved her for something she perhaps had not done. With each beat — boom! — of the drums, with each beat — boom! — she clasped her rosary beads and — boom! — half-closed her eyes. Every Maundy Thursday — boom! — Frau Pietzine would venture out with heavy heart to see — boom! — the processions and recall — boom! — with sadness, all the other Thursdays — boom! — when her husband — boom! — would escort her to the stand opposite the town hall. It was no doubt loneliness — boom! — that had changed the meaning — boom! — of that crowd for ever — before it had been a kind of landscape, a distant backdrop — boom! — which she could ignore provided her faith and prayers were sincere, but for the last few years — boom! — Frau Pietzine would hurl herself into the crowd — boom! — letting it engulf her, and discover in its murmur — boom! — a frantic companionship. When she remembered — boom! — the touch of her deceased husband’s bony fingers — boom! — Frau Pietzine instinctively sought the frail hand of her youngest son in order — boom! — to clasp it in hers, offering the protection she could now only give — boom! — but never again receive. God give you health and strength, my beloved son — boom! — Frau Pietzine muttered, and no one could have denied — boom! — that hers was the most sincere prayer of all those uttered — boom! — that whole week in Wandernburg.

On the far side of the square, on the corner of Archway and King’s Parade, the Levins were also watching the processions at a distance from the main crowd. Mortified by her husband’s indifference, Frau Levin did her best to counteract the impression they might be giving to those beside them, by standing bolt upright in an uncomfortably rigid posture that suggested rapt attention. Worst of all, she thought, was not her husband’s radical ideas. It was the smirk on his face that betrayed his differences and, in the end, his contempt. A contempt which, due to his pride, condemned them to the most humiliating margins of Wandernburg society. Why would her husband not yield even an inch, if only for the sake of appearances? If his beliefs were as solid as he maintained, why this insistence on having nothing to do with popular religious conventions? Were they not mere conventions, poppycock, expediencies as he kept saying? Why, then, did he continue to repudiate them? Herr Levin, in the meantime, wearing the same fixed smile, was thinking the exact opposite — of the humiliation of having to accompany his wife year in, year out, as a gesture of goodwill, to see this grotesque display of opportunistic penitence and sham religious devotion. Herr Levin was equally if not more dismayed by the dreadful, jarring bands — each time he heard the trumpets’ piercing, metallic blast — tara-tara! — his nose wrinkled instinctively. What is the point, he said to himself, of pretending we are what we are not? Tara! And what was the point of converting to something else — tara-tara! — if at all events they, the others, would never accept them as one of their own? Tara! If we came here to suffer exile, to grow and return — tara-tara! — what meaning was there in trying to escape fate? Tara! This was precisely the thing that most angered Herr Levin about his wife’s behaviour — tara-tara! How could she be so naive as to imagine they would accept her if she obeyed their rules? Tara! And if she were to obey anyone, wasn’t it more reasonable that she should do as he said? Tara-tara! Besides, reflected Herr Levin, the idea of God — tara! — is not reached through theatre. If all these people devoted the Easter week to studying theology — tara-tara! — astronomy or even arithmetic, they would be closer to faith than they were now — tara! — or did these bigots really believe all would be revealed to them one fine day, just because? Tara-tara! I hope, Frau Levin thought at that very moment, we shall be going to church today at any rate — tara! I hope, her husband thought simultaneously, that on top of everything else she’s not planning to attend Mass. Tara-tara!

Not far from the Levins, Hans stood craning his neck, exasperated and curious. Even though he detested crowds, he had been forced to join in because every street in the city centre, including the street where the inn was, had been besieged since early that morning. He had been woken up by blaring bugles, and, after trying to ignore the din or bury himself in a book, had gone downstairs to have a look. How peaceful it must be in the cave now, he reflected, smiling to himself. As he weaved his way between elbows, wide-brimmed hats and parasols, he had the impression of witnessing a dual spectacle — the faithful taking part in the procession and the neighbours who had come out to watch them. No matter how much that gregarious display seemed to him like a mixture of the Inquisition and pagan spring worship, he had to admit he found it fascinating. After watching the most celebrated floats go by, Hans was in no doubt — the most ornate of all, the one that had stood out as it rolled down Border Street, had been the carriage belonging to His Excellency Mayor Ratztrinker, with its exquisite lines, folding hood and towering driver’s seat upholstered in velvet.

Hans turned round and found himself face to face with Father Pigherzog, with whom he had exchanged no more than a few words outside the church in those early days when he had been following the Gottliebs. Ah, how he yearned to see Sophie. Happily, her salon was the following day. Father Pigherzog spoke to him first. Well, smiled the priest, what do you think of Wandernburg’s famous Easter processions? Are they not extraordinary? You took the words out of my mouth, Father, Hans replied. Is it not astonishing? the priest went on, I would go so far as to say that such popular zeal, such a fervent display of spirituality is unique in all Germany. If I may be permitted to give my opinion as a novice, Hans said, I’m not sure spirituality is what brings this crowd onto the street. I feared as much, Father Pigherzog sighed, you are a materialist. You are mistaken, Father, Hans said, I believe in all kinds of unseen powers. Unseen and of this earth. Well, the priest shrugged, I only hope you are at peace with your impoverished notions. All I ask is that one day you consider how alone we would be without the Heavens to protect us. Indeed, Father, replied Hans, alone at last!

At last we are alone, Father, Frau Pietzine whispered through the grille in the confessional. I am so in need of your advice! What is ailing you, my child? came Father Pigherzog’s voice. It’s, she said, well, all the rest you know, but this is about time, Father, do you understand? More than anything it is about time. (Try to be a little more specific, my child, whispered Father Pigherzog’s voice.) It’s nothing definite, moments, times when I fear everything is in vain. (Nothing is in vain, my child.) This morning, for instance, my youngest son gave me his hand and I squeezed it hard and it felt so small and defenceless, Father! And then I was afraid, afraid of my son’s frailty, and of my own, do you understand, Father? Because I realised that neither I nor anyone can protect him from the trials of this life, from the suffering that awaits him. (The Lord can do so, my child.) Of course, He can do so, but how can I explain, there are things not even God, but only a mother should do for her children. (I see no contradiction in this, you are a mother and a child and He is the Father whose children procreate in his name.) Oh Father, you explain everything so well! Do you see why I need your advice? If only you had known me when my faith was strong, in the bloom of youth! When I was unassailed by doubt, all innocence and devotion to God. But then I met my deceased husband, may the Lord keep him in His glory, oh woe is me! (He is resting in eternal peace now and can hear us.) May the angels take notice of you, Father, and we were betrothed immediately, and I gave him four children, thanks be to the Lord, Father, and without a moment’s pleasure. (God bless you, my child.)