Sasa Stanisic - Before the Feast

The People knew plundering and enforc’d Contributions all too well, whether by Swedes or Imperial Men made but little Difference. Rumors of the Cruelty of this Rabble, however, bore Witness to such barbarous Terror that many even fled with little more than the Clothes on their Backs. Those who stayed, perhaps eighty of them, Women, Children and the Aged, had been too weak to flee, or pray’d and hop’d that all might yet be well.

Old Lutz, which same had fought many a Battle in the Past, rail’d against those who resign’d themselves to their Fate rather than find a Hiding Place. The History of Man, said he, was the History of those who had hid well. So said the old Soldier, and furthermore he bade all who lov’d their Lives to follow him. Almost all did as he said. Lutz took them to the Passage hid Underground, dug out in Olden Days by two Thieves to get into the Cellar and rob Provisions. They could stay here, said he, without the Knowledge of Any, until the Danger be past.

The People had brought down Possessions and Nourishment, Chickens and even a Calf. The Dogs had barked, and were left behind. The Villagers sat in a long Row beneath the Earth, and the Earth was cold, and when a Fowl began to cluck Barth the Blacksmith wrung its neck, and none said a Word.

Old Lutz stayed up above, not for his own Sake. One young Woman had not wished to hide, but had placed herself with a loaded Crossbow on the Walls as if to drive off the Enemy. Lutz did not know her. She had arrived only a few Days since, being wounded in the Field and separated from her Regiment. She had been succour’d and tended here, and now she wish’d to show herself Grateful.

Down at the Foot of the Wall, old Lutz drank and squinted up at the young Woman. She was trembling, holding the Crossbow in the Crook of her Arm like as if it were a Babe. When the old Man said that most here had a good Hiding Place, she dismiss’d that without many Words, and kept silent Watch for the invisible Foe under Cover of Night. The Wind was already blowing with the smoky Smell of Death on it, and there was Fire and Screaming in the Darkness. The Mob was approaching over the Fields.

Lutz had found out her name: Anna.

WHO WRITES THE OLD STORIES? WHO ERECTS A memorial to fear? Who traces the furrows for sowing seed with a rake?

Who tells us what we ought to know?

Who tells us what we know?

Who tells us what? We.

Who tells on us?

Who tells?

Who?

A fire comes and it’s all gone, all of it.

Who writes the story of the fire?

Let’s say a young woman is standing on a town wall, and she is armed. No, let’s not say “standing.” Let’s say she “steps from foot to foot on the spot in the cold.” That tells us about the weather too, and if someone is stepping from foot to foot on the spot, we get a sense of time passing. Let’s say, instead of “armed,” that she has “a crossbow in the crook of her arm.” That’s better. And ahead of her is the enemy in the uniform of the night. Uniform of the night!

Heroes need names. Let’s call her Anna.

Down at the foot of the wall, old Lutz says, “Anna, one thing troubles me in this hour. I have never spoken loving words and meant them.”

What? Yes, what’s that supposed to mean? No idea, it’s written like that. However, it does us good to hear the old man’s rough voice. He is drinking beer, perhaps leaning on a rusty halberd. But the girl says nothing. Such a crazy thing to say, and no reply? No, the enemy is advancing. “A movement,” calls Anna, loading the crossbow with her bolts. “They’re coming!”

Old Lutz warns Anna not to shoot. “Put the bow away, girl, come down from there.” At that distance and in the dark, she won’t hit anyone anyway. Even if she does, she can’t win this fight. There are dozens and dozens of them coming, and she is alone. “That’s enough heroism. Join the others, girl, disappear. You can yet be loving in your life, go, Anna, disappear!”

Who writes the old stories? Who decides who will be hit by the bolts? Bolts? Surely they all had muskets at that time. Anna has a crossbow, full stop. She takes aim, she shoots. The first bolt hits the leader of the rabble in the left eye, goes through his brain and kills him then and there. With the next bolt she hits the second man, who is carrying a banner with no crest on it, only dried blood, in the right eye and kills him too then and there. As quickly as those two fell, the attackers draw back.

David versus Goliath. Hmm, no. We don’t like that. Why not? Why is Lutz hiding the people? It would be more exciting if they were really in danger. And this is all going too smoothly. Suppose someone else comes along? For instance, someone from the village who thinks Anna is a traitor. Thinks she is one of the rabble who has smuggled herself in to find out whether an attack is worthwhile, whether the village can defend itself, and so on. Let’s say the Mayor. Yes, him. He tells Anna to put her crossbow away and come down. Right, but if she is really a traitor then the Mayor needs a weapon, or she will shoot him. Okay. He has a. . a wheel-lock pistol. What’s that? GEO Epoch magazine about the Thirty Years’ War describes it as the best handgun of its time. We’re always learning something new. Okay. Anna comes down. We need another twist in the story now. Right. It’s a fact that Lutz trusts her. He stands between her and the Mayor, who aims his pistol at Lutz. Right, we already know about that.

Who writes the old stories?

Who takes that job on?

FROM OUR VANTAGE POINT AS WE HOVER ABOVE the scene, it looks as if Herr Schramm is working magic. Both his hands are outstretched, one to Frau Schwermuth, he’s almost touching her, the other to Anna, and they are both of them aiming their pistols at him.

My word, thinks Herr Schramm. But he has already seen that it’s not a real pistol in Frau Schwermuth’s hand. A sort of pistol, yes, but he doesn’t mind water, he’s all wet anyway. However, Herr Schramm also thinks that if this were on Crime Scene you could bet on a minor character with strong feelings shooting him in the shoulder now, or shooting Frau Schwermuth in the forehead or the knee.

Anna is clutching his pistol in both hands.

Frau Schwermuth sobs.

What looks to us like magic is the fact that Herr Schramm slowly lowers his arm in front of Frau Schwermuth, and in a synchronized movement Frau Schwermuth lowers her gun with the yellow dolphin on the barrel.

Then Herr Schramm says Anna’s name and the name of his favorite place. “It’s all right, Anna,” says Herr Schramm, “in winter I’ll take you to see the Güldenstein.” And he lowers his other arm, while in a synchronized movement Anna lowers hers.

Frau Schwermuth bursts into tears.

Herr Schramm clears his throat. He finds tears in connection with the Prussian spiked helmet really embarrassing.

“Johann.” Frau Schwermuth looks at him pleadingly. “I think Johann. . in the Archivarium. . we must. .”

Herr Schramm offers her his arm. She gratefully links hers with it. Anna is trembling all over. Herr Schramm thinks of ruffling up her hair, but she must be too old for that, and also she is wearing a cap.

On such a night as this, the Güldenstein shines a little more brightly.

SOMEONE. SOMEONE WRITES THE STORIES. Someone has always written them.

AN EXCERPT FROM THE ACCOUNT OF THE TRAVELING barber-surgeon and dentist, Johanness Michael Harthsilber, of a girl who fell sick of a ravenous hunger. This occurred in the year 1807, in the little town of Fürstenfelde in the Brandenburg Mark, and was written down by Herr Harthsilber.

The girl was twelve years old, and small of stature. She hardly ever played with children of her own age, being weak and sickly in other respects as well, but regularly attended church with her father, a blacksmith. Her mother had died at the girl’s birth.