Sasa Stanisic - Before the Feast

Be heroic in your endeavors. Know what you want from life, and don’t wait for it to happen but set out deliberately to get it. Don’t pursue happiness, pursue success (take your time).

Be heroic in what you think but not thoughtless in what you say. The time is always right for thoughts, but there is a wrong time for words. Know that time and respect it, and then your thinking will not have been in vain.

Be heroic in what you do. If it will injure others but will be to your advantage, don’t do it (unless the others injure you). If it will be to the advantage of others but not to you, then the deed must be a very good one (and the others must be worthy of it). If it will be to the advantage of others and you too, then do it, but know that you will never be able to satisfy everyone.

Be heroic in your judgment. Trust in the word of God, the judgment of a knight, the ruling of a judge. But listen also to the sinner’s repentance, the penitent’s excuse, the complaint of the guilty, the defense of the accused. And then decide (they will lie to you).

Be heroic with questions. Be heroic and say when you do not know the answer, and be heroic enough to ask for it. But ask your questions in such a way that you are not trying to please someone but only want the answer. Never answer for the sake of speaking but for the sake of the answer itself.

Be heroic in keeping order. Know morals and manners so that you can change them (know your rights as well as your duty).

Be heroic in society. Offer help and take it (know to whom and from whom). Care for the weak in their time of need, challenge the strong to act for those in need. If there are quarrels, do not think who is to blame, think how to settle and solve them. But do not land yourself in need if it means helping others out of it (make sure you know another solution).

Be heroic with your memory by admitting honestly what has been done.

Be heroic and know that heroes cannot always be heroes; there are many other things to do.

ON THE 29TH DAY OF SEPTEMBER IN THE YEAR 1722, I received a message from that unhappy mother who lost her little daughter so cruelly in an oven, the same child having bravely warned the village before of thieving vagabonds. I did not know why the woman should send for me in her hour of need, but I did not hesitate. Perhaps I might be able to offer a little comfort in the great sadness that her terrible loss had brought upon her and the village.

Many a house in Fürstenfelde has stood empty since the war. Those who fled the place come home only gradually, and many, may God have mercy on them, will never return. I am afraid for the village, I fear that devastation threatens it, and it will be deserted like others in the country round about.

My grief grew greater when I came to the woman’s little house, and found more misfortune. The building seems to have suffered from a fire recently, and was patched up in makeshift manner against the weather. The fire has thrust its blades deep into the wood, leaving black wounds.

I found the mother in a wild fallow field full of weeds, under an oak tree. She was tall, thin and all in mourning, motionless as a figure in a woodcut. She spoke without any greeting, without looking at me, her voice hoarse with sorrow. It was not I to whom she spoke, hers was a message about the conduct of life intended for a child. That child would never receive her message, it was her dead daughter to whom she called. To the mother, her daughter was not dead, and so she spoke as if she herself were going on a journey and leaving her child at home.

Her words went through my throat like a ploughshare. They cast my thoughts into turmoil, except for reflecting on the cruel fate that can befall certain human beings. I left the place without a word, taking what the mother had said with me. I am sure she wanted me as a witness to carry the story of her child out into the world, and may God help me, I will do so.

ALL THIS IS RATHER TOO MUCH FOR US. FRAU Schwermuth raises her gun, as a sign to the others to come with her. The light of her flashlight wanders angrily between Anna and Herr Schramm. Anna has her arms in the air above her head like someone in a film. She is blinking.

“Anna, get down off that wall.”

Anna does as she is told.

“Right, now both of you come over here to me. You too, Lutz.”

Lutz? What Lutz?

“Come on, Johanna, are you crazy?” Herr Schramm isn’t taking orders any more. He doesn’t move. He sits enthroned, tall and warm, above the grotesque outline of a woman in a helmet threatening him. Or does he just sense the chance of a happy ending for him at someone else’s hands?

Frau Schwermuth shines her flashlight in his face. “I won’t repeat that again.”

Herr Schramm sighs. Hard to say whether it is a sigh of resignation or a sigh of annoyance. Anna’s expression is more easily interpreted. Let’s call it determined. Determination tenses her muscles, takes Herr Schramm’s pistol out of the kangaroo pouch in front of Anna’s raincoat and points it at Frau Schwermuth.

Determination: “Drop that gun.”

Well, well. Herr Schramm is beginning to feel as if he is the only one not crazy tonight. “I ask you!” he whispers. He takes a step aside, placing himself in the line of fire between Anna and Frau Schwermuth. The Wild West in Fürstenfelde. On such a night as this.

“I knew it, traitor!” Frau Schwermuth shows no sign of being about to give up. She has caught the tinker and made sure the bells are safe, now it’s her turn. “Anna, lower your crossbow!”

As if taking your own life wasn’t hard enough, Herr Schramm now has to save two others. “Right,” he says. “Right.” And: “Johanna, please. What’s going on? This makes no sense.”

“Lutz, my dear Lutz, won’t you see it or can’t you see it?” Frau Schwermuth is breathing heavily. “The girl will give us away! She’ll murder us all, all of us!”

Herr Schramm has no statistics ready at the moment to deal with something like this. “Johanna,” he says calmly, “my name is Schramm. Wilfried Schramm. And this is Anna. Granddaughter of Geher the toymaker. She’s not going to hurt anyone. Isn’t that so, Anna?”

Anna nods, which isn’t very satisfactory in the dark, so Herr Schramm repeats his question in a louder voice and gets a loud “Yes” back.

“No, she can’t help it!” Frau Schwermuth’s voice breaks. “She has to give our hiding place away. Fürstenfelde will be looted, no one will survive! But if we lock her up we’ll survive! Help me, Lutz, or you’ll be the first to die. It is written! Every child knows that!”

Herr Schramm as a child had Struwwelpeter read to him, that’s all he remembers. He has no idea what Frau Schwermuth means, but he does fear that her shaking voice and wild remarks bode no good.

Behind him, Anna clears her throat. “She,” she says, swallowing, “won’t — I mean I won’t give anyone away.” She is trembling all over, tries to calm down, tries to remember what her grandfather. . “I can shoot, though. Twice. In the eye, twice. Two crossbow bolts. I won’t give anyone away, I’m. . saving people. That’s how it is. Lutz—” She doesn’t finish her sentence.

Herr Schramm knows that even someone with nothing to lose can lose time. He runs at Frau Schwermuth.

She is aiming at Lutz. Her big body sways in time to a song that only she can hear. Her pupils wander from side to side.

IT WAS IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1636 THAT NEWS of the marauding Soldiery outside Fürstenfelde set the Village in an Uproar, for this was not the Troop of any Army, but that accurs’t roaming Gang of discharg’d Mercenaries without Means, once enemies of One Another, now going through the Country with Fire and the Sword, leaving Death where they found Life, and nothing but Ashes where Houses once stood.