The men in the Krone paid courteous attention to what little Julius had to say about his experiences at the front. He had become gaunt, and his eyes, once dullish, now glowed as if he had a fever. He was on leave and was due to return to his regiment, stationed on the Marne, in a few days. Hinzpeter was listed as missing; everyone assumed he was dead.
“The Marne?” old Schramm asked excitedly. “But isn’t that where we made mincemeat of those Frogs? At Villiers?”
“That was the last war,” Julius said, and mumbled something about reconnaissance balloons, reinforcements from the east, and an upcoming offensive, but it wasn’t much more than they already knew from the Bamberger Tageblatt. Eventually he shrugged indifferently, as though there really wasn’t that much to tell about the war, and then kept to himself.
“I’m proud of my son,” Durlacher said, putting his arm over his shoulders, “and of his Iron Cross. Men, a toast to Julius!”
“To Julius!” they all said before drinking.
Ekkehart stood up and ticked a fork against his beer stein. With a tug he straightened his vest, with its eighteen gleaming buttons. The tabletop reached no further than halfway up his thighs.
“Gentlemen. Fellows. Mr. Durlacher,” he began pompously.
“Come on, Ekkehart, out with it,” Durlacher prodded. “What’ve you got to say?”
“What I have to say is a story. It is a tale of mettle and manliness. It’s about the feat of a young rafter, far from the front.”
“Mettle and manliness, that’s what the fatherland needs, now more than ever,” Durlacher said. “Do continue. Or should I say, begin.”
Ekkehart placed his hands behind his back, as if there they might do the least harm, and frowned. Apparently he had learned the first sentences of his speech by heart: “Since time immemorial, the Main has been the domain of us rafters. Even in the days of the late, great Emperor Barbarossa, it was so. Our family tree is composed of trees.”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Heinrich Halder.
“Everyone is familiar with the heroic deeds of our imperial army,” Ekkehart continued, “but today I wish to commemorize a deed of heroism that took place far behind the front, but which likewise deserves a place in the annals . . . the annals . . .”
“Of Wallreuth?” Durlacher offered.
“Annals of Wallreuth, yes indeed, Mr. Durlacher, thank you kindly.”
Just past Hallstadt they had encountered the inevitable steamboat, slogging its way upriver with five barges in tow. Due to the variable winds and the bends of the Main, the towboat blanketed the green hills on either side of the river with tufts of smoke, like a ruler of the underworld dragging his drab cloak over the faces of mortals he has subjugated.
In front of Durlacher’s rafts was a small boat, rowed by a fourteen-year-old boy and flying a warning flag.
Red Peter, the captain of the steamboat, was thus warned and had time and space enough to move over, but he did not do so. He plowed with a derisive whistle signal straight up the middle of the river, although the rafts—a hectare of timber, stretched out over hundreds of meters—could not possibly yield. The little rowboat got caught up in the bow wave and capsized, flag and all. The steamboat rammed the first raft and rent it like a matchbook. Old Schramm fell overboard.
Konrad’s raft was next in line.
Why is he telling them this? wondered Konrad. Everyone knows the story, except Julius. He did not feel like a hero. He had managed to steer his raft diagonally to the current just in time. He watched the bridge of the steam tug pass, a riveted bastion, and saw the jeering mugs of Red Peter and his crew. As the towboat passed, its bow wave pushing him further aside, he saw the cable that pulled the first barge dip underwater and then draw itself taut. Bischberg, on the far shore, was obscured by the gray clouds of smoke. He grasped his peavey in both hands, ran toward the passing steamboat, and jumped.
It’s my birthday, he thought, high in the air, at the top end of his pike.
He landed squarely on the rear deck of the towboat, saw the tar in the crevices, and looked up at the astonished faces peering through the rear window of the riveted fort.
“And so, fellows, gentlemen, Mr. Durlacher, Lieutenant Durlacher—so did a man from Wallreuth single-handedly enter the enemy fleet.”
Konrad stared into his beer stein. Why did he have to bring this up while Julius, who had gone through far more than anyone here, kept to himself? It was cheap, this kind of praise. He even recalled a certain disappointment at the moment he realized he was capable of the sort of heroism he had only known from the Jules Verne books. Being a hero wasn’t anything special after all.
“He dragged Red Peter out of his wheelhouse and flung him over the railing. But also . . . what’s more and additionally . . .”
“The towing lines,” Heinrich Halder prompted.
“Right you are. With the audacity of a Von Spee or a Störtebeker, he brought the towboat to a halt and threw loose the towing lines!”
The men drummed on the table and cheered.
The next rafts passed to the side, and at the sight of the giants Halder and Ekkehart entering their vessel, the rest of the crew leapt overboard. The victory was complete. The rowboat with the signal flag was recovered, and Schramm and the shivering boy were scooped out of the water.
The fleet continued its journey under glorious summer clouds. They triumphantly passed the barges that Konrad had unleashed to the river.
“And where is the enemy’s flag?” yelled old Schramm, who had already had too much to drink, and pulled a pennant of the Wulff Steamboat Company from his pocket. “Here is the enemy’s flag!” he cried, and blew his nose in it.
Men got up to clap Ekkehart on the shoulders, and he sat back down, much satisfied, and emptied his beer stein in a single swig.
The whole table broke into song, the same one they had sung that day on their rafts so loudly that it echoed between the hills to their left and their right: “Lieb Vaterland, magst ruhig sein! Fest steht die Wacht, die Wacht am Main!”
Only Julius and Konrad did not join in.
Later, Konrad got up to look for Julius, who had been absent for some time. His uniform cap and Sam Browne belt were still hanging on the coatrack, so he couldn’t have gone home. He first checked the latrine in the dark courtyard behind the Krone, but it was empty. The inn’s shutters were closed, but the laughter of the men at the stammtisch still echoed its way outside. It was a hazy night, so not many stars were out. He thought for a minute, then walked for about fifty meters down the narrow path that ran between the beanstalks and cornstalks on its way to the riverbank. He saw the red glow of a cigarette. Konrad had noticed earlier that Julius, who never smoked before, now lit up one after the other.
“Konrad,” Julius said flatly, as if to simply state a fact.
“Yes.”
“Cigarette?”
They smoked in silence.
“That was uncalled for,” Konrad said. “Ekkehart’s story about my so-called heroism.”
“Never mind,” Julius said apathetically.
The bitter cigarette was not round but flat. “Turkish?”
Julius nodded. A few minutes later he said, “The world will never be the same, you know, after this war.”
“You mean the steam towboats?” Konrad asked after some reflection.
“Those too,” Julius replied, and flicked his cigarette butt into the darkness. “I’m heading home. I have to leave tomorrow morning at five, to be at the station on time.”
“Good night. Look after yourself.”
“Sure thing,” Julius said, and vanished into the darkness.
Konrad stayed there for a long time, as if waiting for the void Julius left behind to fill up on its own, like the murmur of the Rodach returned after the fickle wind had temporarily stolen it, like the stars overhead revealed themselves after a cloud had passed. But this did not happen. It felt as if he’d lost a friend, even though he and Julius had never been close in the first place.
/> Konrad stared at the river. Something moved near the reeds, an eel perhaps. The wind had died down completely. A few stars were reflected in the water, which was as dark as black glass.
The Rodach, the Main, and the Rhine: the one flowed into the other and ended in the same sea. But other streams that never met also emptied into the same sea.
The raft was enormous. They had spent days assembling it, and with the foremen’s instructions, it continued to grow as more and more segments were added, until the Höchst harbor basin was one huge expanse of timber, and the foremost tip already jutted into the river, like a gigantic birthling struggling out of its mother’s womb. Straightening his back to wipe the sweat from his forehead, Konrad saw a forest of chimneys and cranes. Hour after hour, day after day, he did as instructed, and what he had done his entire life: lash tree trunks into a raft. But this time he had lost sight of his part in all this because whatever he did was at once conglomerated into a far larger whole, a monstrous wooden snake that gradually squeezed between the jetties and out into the river.
They would need dozens, if not hundreds, of men to steer this huge raft. Its destination was Holland, that much was clear, and all the trunks bore the Durlacher timber mark.
Provisions were brought on board: beer, cured meat, beans, fruit, potatoes, and preserves, as though they were headed, rather than for Rotterdam, for some faraway continent. There was even an oven so they could bake fresh bread underway. And on the morning of their departure, a train arrived with a shipment of wood panels, some already fitted with windows and doors, so a cabin could be constructed in the middle of the raft.
Julius arrived in his father’s grand, gleaming Horch.
He got out and marched briskly to the quay to inspect the work being carried out under his authority. He wore a sporty brown-gray blended suit with plus fours and a flat English cap.
Konrad stood up straight, a hand on his back. To his surprise, Julius caught sight of him immediately among the dozens of men at work on the docks, raising an arm to wave at him.
“Konrad!” His voice had never been very powerful, so Konrad did not catch what was said, but Julius’s gestures made it clear that he wished to speak to him. He excused himself from the others and crossed the expanse of wood. Julius had already extended his hand while Konrad’s foot was still on the top iron rung.
“Hello there!” he exclaimed. “The time’s come! Life can finally begin!”
Konrad was caught off guard and was somewhat wary. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Julius in two full years.
“My father has made me his proxy, so I’m free to do business as I see fit. And as you can see, I don’t go in for half measures. This is the first Durlacher raft to sail all the way to Holland. I’ve a deal with a harbor baron in Rotterdam.”
“Good to see you again,” Konrad answered.
“And surely you’ve heard that I’m to marry?”
“No,” Konrad said. “Congratulations.”
“The daughter of Melzer, of Melzer & Unruh from Schweinfurt. Ball bearings. A good match.”
“What’s her name?”
“Well, her sister’s called Gloria, now that’s a pretty name . . . her name is Hermine.”
“Congratulations,” Konrad said again.
Julius’s eyes darted back and forth between the spar rafts in the harbor, Konrad’s face, and the Horch. He couldn’t stand still or keep quiet for even a moment. He talked nonstop, about the future of logging and international treaties; about his wedding, which would be consecrated by the archbishop of Bamberg; about the journey by car along the Main. Konrad stood there awkwardly, cap in hand. He wondered what he had done to deserve all this chumminess. Julius was still his old, unfathomable self.
“You’re coming too, of course, Konrad . . . we’re going to sail down the Rhine together! Damn them, they’ll bang their barrow into my Horch yet . . . Hey, you there! Idiots!” And with that, he hurried off, leaving Konrad standing alone.
The Rhine. Konrad’s head spun as he descended the steep iron ladder, only letting go of the rungs with one hand or foot at a time, and still holding on awkwardly to his cap, which he only realized when he’d reached the bottom. The Rhine. At last. It was going to happen.
He put on his cap, wiped the rust from his palms, and stepped onto the endless expanse of timber. Even in the brief time he’d been speaking to Julius, the raft had grown even larger. Incredible, that this wooden peninsula could go on a journey. By evening it was finished. It lay ready on the bank of the Main, four hundred meters long and more than forty meters wide.
The front end of the raft disappeared from view as the Main curved off to the north. Konrad saw the towers of the Mainz Cathedral and knew they had now reached the Rhine.
Despite the fine summer weather, Julius had retired to his private cabin to catch a few hours of sleep.
The Rhine was immensely wide; a gray-green expanse of water stretched out before him, and a long series of buoys marked off the sailing channel. Far to the west he could see blue hilltops, perhaps that was France. And there was ship traffic like he’d never seen before, going both up- and downstream. This really was the wide world. He saw steam towboats pulling barges loaded with ore, a snow-white passenger ship, two identical ferries that passed each other midstream. Down close to the shore was a bulky dredging operation. The hillsides were blanketed with vineyards from which ribbons of smoke rose and where all manner of machinery glistened in the sunlight. On the far side, a railway ran parallel to the river, and slightly below it, a highway followed the bank; a locomotive pulled a well-nigh endless string of freight cars behind it, and on the road, automobiles from opposing directions passed one another effortlessly. And he noticed a sound he had never heard before: the Rhine valley buzzed with the drone of nonstop activity. A life he never even knew existed seemed to be playing out here. While the sky was no different than above the Main, here, it mattered less—the white summer clouds were at most on a state visit; they did not dominate the landscape.
The Rhine was majestic, and Konrad noted with satisfaction that the others heeded their raft. The colossus that now nosed its way onto the Rhine forced the rest of the water traffic to yield to it.
“Something else, isn’t it,” Julius said, and laid a hand on Konrad’s shoulder. “Unremarkable, mind you—but hardly an everyday sight for me either.”
“This is it, Julius,” Konrad said, his voice muted. “The Rhine.”
“Yes, of course,” Julius laughed. “The Rhine.”
That evening they moored at Ingelheim. Braziers had been placed at intervals so that the men could find their sleeping posts. The raft was like a town with its own streetlights. It was so large that the glint of the river seemed like a distant sea.
Konrad went off on his own, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and walked to the foremost edge of the raft, so as to sleep as close as possible to the Rhine.
He sat down and put his hand into the cool current. He was a rafter who did the same work as thousands before him. It was nothing special, but still he knew he would never be happier than at this moment.
The lights of Ingelheim and those on the hillsides reflected in the dark water. The trunks under him were lined up smartly, like soldiers in formation recruited into foreign duty.
As a child he believed that Holland was actually built atop an underground Franconian forest. He imagined it grew upside down, like the trees reflected in the Wallreuth village pond, and supported the Dutch houses on its roots.
He felt in his jacket pocket for his tobacco pouch and matches. Whether and how much he slept was his own business. He was on the Rhine, and he was free. He didn’t need a Russian revolution or a world war for that.
“Konrad?”
Julius bent over him. “You asleep already? Come to my cabin, I’ve got something to show you.”
What was that all about? thought Konrad as he made his way back to his bunk in the middle of the night. All Julius did was talk and uncork one bottle after
the other, pouring wine in a cut-crystal glass. Konrad was just glad he hadn’t toppled or dropped it. Of course, Julius had showed off the electric lamp that ran on batteries, and his camp bed was covered with the pelt of a bear that he claimed to have shot while hunting with his father-in-law. But what did Julius want from him? Now that they were adults, they had nothing in common anymore. Julius was the boss and he was an employee, that was all. And besides, Konrad preferred beer to wine. In the course of the evening, he even felt put out, stuck there against his will; he had wanted to spend his first night on the Rhine on the edge of the raft, next to the river, not in those comfy quarters that had been built for Julius.
Julius had switched off the electric lamp as soon as Konrad left. He stepped cautiously over the sleeping figures wrapped up in their blankets. In the east, the first outline of clouds was beginning to show, a lone star still shone, like the head of a nail hammered shiny.
Suddenly someone grabbed his ankle.
“Did ya make him happy?” said an unctuous voice. “If you’re in the mood for more . . . come and lie down.”
Konrad did not know this man. He wasn’t a rafter; he must’ve been one of the day laborers they’d hired back at Höchst.
But Konrad did not know himself either, for he did something he never thought he’d be capable of. He planted his hobnailed shoe on the man’s face.
“Let go,” Konrad hissed.
“Oh, like it rough, do you?” he heard from under his shoe. “So do I.”
Konrad pressed his shoe even harder onto the face. The man released him, rolled onto his side, and grabbed his head in pain. Konrad wound up to give him a kick.
Here and there, men sat up in their bedrolls; in the dim light of the brazier, he saw on them the same kind of mug as on those Bolshevik ruffians who had stirred up trouble in Wallreuth after the war. Pleb faces, marked by hard labor and alcohol. They looked at him with a kind of drowsy disdain. There was something about him that aroused antagonism in this sort. Maybe that’s what old Durlacher meant when he once told Konrad he had manners above his station. Right now he felt, in spite of everything, far more kinship with Julius than with these thugs.
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