The Last Bell

by Johannes Urzidil

  He sought out the museum director and gave him a full account of what had transpired, sparing none of the details except his conversations with the Duchess. “I would like to be punished, please. I have a right to be punished according to the Criminal Code. Even if I returned the painting unharmed, I’m still a thief, deserving of punishment and atonement.”

  The director was not at all interested in any renewed publicity for this utterly embarrassing affair. Something seemed fishy about these dubious confessions, and all he wanted was to get rid of this fellow. “Come, now,” he said, “you’ve got some funny notions in your head. Anyway, you’ve misinterpreted the law. I studied law, among other things. Active repentance makes you exempt from punishment in this case.”

  “But poor Novotný!”

  “He was right to lose his job. His task was to look after the gallery, and he didn’t. And, anyway, we were going to rehire him. He refused. There was really nothing more we could do.”

  “But what about his daughter? And his wife?”

  “His daughter is better off this way. She was incurably ill. And even for his wife, who was only alive thanks to nitroglycerin, it basically put her out of her misery.”

  “How can you be so heartless?”

  The director, who felt this unpleasant conversation had been going on far too long now, stood up, offended. “Let me tell you something,” he said. “If you want, go tell the police. But they probably won’t believe a word of your story and will end up having you put in a loony bin. We, for our part, are not going to press charges. The case is closed as far as we’re concerned. And if there’s no plaintiff, there can’t be a trial.” And with a diabolic glitter in his eye he added: “Would you like to see the Duchess of Albanera by any chance?”

  Schaschek fled from the museum. His attempts to mobilize the authorities against him failed entirely. He gave notice at the bank. For health reasons. “But Herr Schaschek, we’d be happy to give you paid sick leave, for as long as you want.” No, he would rather go. “But Herr Schaschek, at some point you’ll regain your health.” “Not me.” “But Herr Schaschek, we need you. What will we do without you? You can’t just up and leave.” “Why not?” asked Schaschek, “after all, I’m a…” He wanted to say “free man” but bit his tongue.

  “He really must be in a bad state,” said the manager.

  Well, it was bad and it wasn’t bad. Bad because there was no one he could talk to about the outlandishness, the insolvability and unbearableness of his fate. While talking about things might not exactly save you, it’s at least an opportunity to surrender yourself and continue hovering above the abyss, on the fine line between condemnation and absolution. It wasn’t bad, on the other hand, because his helplessness and desperation contained the saving grace of penance. Because sometimes he said to himself, “There are misdeeds that can be rectified. But then there are the kind that can’t be, ever; the one who has committed them, or even just happened to find himself guilty, can only deal with them implicitly, in the silence of his heart, by virtue of never-ending penance—that is, if he still even cares to be human.” And Novotný? Two people go through life and time, one a guilty innocent, the other an innocent guilty man; two people, two hundred people, two thousand and so forth into the millions and billions—guilty-innocent and innocent-guilty, because they are human.

  SIEGELMANN’S JOURNEYS

  IN HIS FEW BRUTALLY HONEST moments, Siegelmann was willing to admit he was a loser. He hadn’t gone far in his profession—one he hadn’t even chosen but that had simply overcome him. He had now spent the greater part of his life as the employee of a travel agency without ever having traveled himself, except, that is, to the small country town of Birkenau, barely two hours by train from the capital, and this only during the off-season.

  True, he spent day after day, week after week, year after year planning wonderful trips for the fortunate clients of his travel agency—to Sicily or Ragusa, to Norwegian fjords, to the Bernese Oberland, or even overseas, to the West and to the East. True, he knew all the world’s coasts and mountains, all the art treasures and health resorts from hundreds of books and pictures, and could have served as a reliable guide and cicerone, on the spot, in Orvieto or even Bombay. In reality, however, and in person, he had only ever known Birkenau and its humble woodlands, excepting of course the city he was born in.

  Siegelmann had found employment at the travel agency after completing grammar school, and abandoned himself to his work ever since. The son of a railroad official, he’d been used to hearing about trips and travels ever since his childhood, even though his father, too, had never been on an extended journey. Not even the fact that his father could have obtained free or reduced-fare tickets for himself and his family ever induced him to travel farther than from the capital, where he performed his duties, to his hometown of Birkenau, where the son—long after the death of his father—was in the habit of traveling too. Siegelmann junior, in his function as a travel agent, was thus continuing the lifestyle and behaviors of his father, albeit at a different level. Even if at work he was organizing the most adventurous travel expeditions—some of which turned out to be the dramatic escapes of high-placed defrauders or the well-prepared kidnappings of daughters from the best families—even if the guidebooks, timetables and flight schedules, the travel posters and illustrated brochures insistently beckoned and enticed him to discover the big wide world, he nonetheless turned time and again to the nearby meadows and hillsides of Birkenau. In the rare moments, though, when he reflected on his own behavior he suddenly grew timid, was filled with despair and glumly regarded himself as a loser. To be sure, he made a living, had his varied responsibilities, and his Birkenau. It’s not that he was plagued by an unsatisfied urge to travel that circumstances beyond his control prevented him from fulfilling. Something else was missing. And that which is missing without being definable is always man’s greater purpose.

  One day a woman in her middle years, a little younger than himself but no longer aggressively young, let her eyes rest on Siegelmann just as she was about to order a book of tickets—for her boss, she said. It was Siegelmann’s habit when putting together such a book of tickets to point out the merits and peculiarities of individual locations, even railroad junctions or transfer stations that thanked their very existence to the transport professionals who had called them into being and that for all intents and purposes could claim no real existence of their own. He was well informed about hotels and restaurants of every kind throughout the world, how far it was to the nearest forest or beach, about the luna parks or nightclubs, and how much to tip. He cited the notable persons who had lived, were born or were buried at a certain place or in its environs, and he never failed to praise the good things they had done, no matter how famous these individuals were. Because even if people act like they know it all, it’s nevertheless a good idea not to take this knowledge for granted.

  “Your boss, madam, really shouldn’t pass by Zaunröden without paying a visit to the birthplace of composer Mengewein.”

  She had never heard of Zaunröden or Mengewein before, and so they began a conversation—brief enough not to hold up Siegelmann’s work and distract him from his duties, but long enough to allow him to seem like a polymath. In doing so the eyes of his listener acquired a sparkle that Siegelmann couldn’t erase from his memory.

  The summer went by, and one evening—it was still light out—it came to pass that Siegelmann encountered these eyes again on his way home from the travel agency.

  “Well, did your boss stay on in Zaunröden?”

  She didn’t know, but she certainly remembered Siegelmann’s suggestion.

  Since they were now loosely acquainted, he walked her to her front door and on this occasion learned that her name was Magda.

  “You’ve probably traveled a lot,” she said the next time they met one Sunday, as the two of them were strolling through the old arboretum. They walked all the way to the river, where they took a ferry to the other side and
drank coffee at a Baroque palace that had been converted into a restaurant for day-trippers.

  “Traveled a lot?” asked Siegelmann. He didn’t dare say “no,” although this most likely would have elevated him in her eyes rather than diminishing his status. After all, it would not be unusual that someone had a lot to say about the world after traveling it from one end to the other; but describing it in detail without ever having been beyond Birkenau is quite an achievement. It was not in Siegelmann’s nature, however, to utter the “no” so essential and decisive in such a moment. Instead he began to talk at length about the wonders of Hawaii: its gleaming-white beaches, the slurred and wistful sounds of ukuleles and guitars, the cheerful hospitality whose praises even Chamisso had sung, the pineapples and poi, whose preparation he described in detail. So alluring was this blessed island world that many a man who had merely come for a brief vacation forgot his home, his family, his work, surrendering to this magical paradise and never going back.

  “You must have had a strong will,” said Magda. And again Siegelmann lacked the courage to admit that his storytelling was merely second-hand knowledge enlivened by his own imagination. He was silent and soaked up her admiration, not so much for himself but for the grandiose picture of Hawaii he painted.

  “A strong will, that’s true, I guess you need that,” he then said. “Just think of the casino of Monte Carlo. How hard it is to tear yourself away! But I’ve got the knack of it now. You should only allow yourself a small sum, twenty or thirty francs. That’s what you should gamble with. If you win, good for you. If you lose, well, it was the price of admission for having fun and gaining some experience. If you really want to play for stakes, I mean risk a sizable chunk of your assets, it can only turn out badly. The many victims of passion, lying around limp and muddled in the cool side halls of the casino, should be warning enough. Those who have wisely bought a return ticket and carry it in their pocket might stagger back to life contritely. Others reach for the revolver, after stealing one last glance from the flowery terrace at the bleuté immense de la Méditerranée. Because nature, Magda, plays into the hands of the casino directors. Above the gambling palace the mountains thrust heavenwards, and below they press against the sea. But in the middle, Death receives its guests between the palms and agaves. The Red and the Black, Magda, blood and death. The casino, Magda, a moral institution like the theater. Fear and compassion. And catharsis for some.”

  “And you yourself, Richard? Did you win or lose?”

  “Neither one nor the other,” said Siegelmann reflectively, while the two of them sat down at a table with a checkered tablecloth in the garden of the restaurant-palace.

  The vividness of his travel pictures grew from one meeting to the next, and he told each story as if he had been there in person. And this is—so he reassured himself when his conscience began to prick him—the most legitimate and impressive way to tell a story. Every poet tells his stories that way, indeed he has no choice but to tell them as if he’d been a key witness to the events he’s recounting. Rehashing the experiences of others is dull. You have to have been there yourself. That makes you credible. “I read that certain column drums in Girgenti still bear the burn marks of Punic fire.” Who’s going to listen if you tell it like that? But if—praise and glory to the indefinite pronoun!—you say: “You can see rust-brown marks on the columns and it makes you wonder just what they are. ‘Incendio Cartaginiense,’ says the guard.” That’s the way to do it. Or maybe like this: “Up above the temple of Girgenti sits a lonely taverna where seldom a foreigner sets foot. In the midst of a tangled garden, it dreams away in the swaying, playful shadows of silvery olive trees. Down below, the gold-brown columns of sanctuaries hover over a sea of deepest lapis lazuli. The whole thing is set in the ring of the heavens, which glows relentlessly and platinum-white. Peasants with dark Nubian eyes and a dash of Saracen sensuality in their protruding lips dismount from their donkeys and enter the garden to take a sip of the mild wine that permeates the body rapidly and deeply, runs through it with exotic spice and kindles the fire of their speech—guard fire, dance fire, altar fire, memories of the fire that Hannibal set in this temple. Was it Hannibal? The temple ruins down below stand like works of nature in this landscape that has something metallic and magnificently bleak about it. It was probably Himilco. But nowadays it doesn’t matter. You sit here as a guest. The proprietor offers what he has, as if it were a gift. You would like to pour a libation, for the god you don’t know but want to appease. Like a figure on a vase, the proprietor’s wife stands in the doorway. ‘Goodnight, miss! Good luck to you!’ you say when leaving. ‘Good luck to you,’ she answers, ‘I have three children.’”

  That would be an eyewitness report, thought Siegelmann. Nosy questions in between would be blithely ignored so the whole thing doesn’t become a monstrous lie. For it’s easy to give testimony to the great and universal, the more spectacular vestiges of imperishable history. In a certain sense, you’re always part of it. It’s just with the small and symptomatic details that you have to watch out. That’s where you can slip up. But here, too, Siegelmann was much more shrewd than others. His work at the travel agency, his avid reading of the latest traveler’s manuals, the Baedekers and Guides Bleus, and the travel diaries of poets and journalists kept him abreast of all the details. He wasn’t easy to trip up. He wasn’t spreading untruths. He could justifiably claim that his ideas and concepts of, say, Lourdes or Perugia were far more sound and realistic than those of the individuals for whom he organized train or plane tickets to go to those places. He was even skilled at depicting the inconveniences and embarrassments that various journeys entailed: the mosquitoes and the stenches, the rousing morning cries of donkeys and roosters, the water that stops coming out of the tap only to shoot forth suddenly, boiling hot, and the bothersome contrivances and endless running around when you lose your passport in a foreign country. But everything, even the annoying things, ultimately reveals something. “Waiting for a haircut in New York gives you the chance to do people-watching. A regular customer moseys in with the clumsy step of an orangutan, a fat cigar in his drooping mouth. He doesn’t notice anyone. Wordlessly he lowers himself into the swivel chair, extends a hand to the manicure girl while the other holds a newspaper he appears to be reading, he stretches out his long legs to the stool of the shoeshine boy, leans his head back for the haircut—and thus keeps three employees busy at once. The newspaper, which he’s now holding over his head almost horizontally, gets unruly and tries to fold in on itself. But he reminds it of its duty with a blasé turn of the hand. And the paper obeys this ill-humored man who’s tormented by the Furies of his success.” Added details like that can make a report on the Rockefeller Center seem like authentic experience.

  Where did Siegelmann get his stories? An exact imagination. Never in her life had Magda heard so much about the world, never had she met someone who could relate their experiences in such a captivating way and who even seemed to be familiar with the most exotic languages. He had been just about everywhere. He tempered the fantastic with the ordinary. And since she soon noticed that he rarely responded to her questions and didn’t seem to want to be interrupted, she gladly let him talk and confined herself to listening. He didn’t tell his stories with words alone but with a gaze directed off into the distance. At the same time he was very modest. He kept himself in the background. But, lost and lonely as she was, each and every one of his words fanned the flames of her desire to experience the marvelous theater of nature and the arena of human deeds.

  Magda was the daughter of a widow who ran a nondescript notions store tucked away on a side street of the city. It didn’t carry the basics and essentials but threads, yarns, silks and wools, needles, buttons, hooks and eyes, and dozens of other little necessities indispensable for sewing and tailoring but which in view of the overall piece of clothing humbly stepped off-stage and vanished. And this widow was, strictly speaking, not an actual widow either, but had been abandoned by her husband be
fore Magda was even born; he died shortly thereafter without ever returning to the no longer youthful mother of his child. In other words she was the widow of a man who according to the law was still her husband but in truth and reality was no longer such, because—as is so often the case—the law doesn’t always harmonize with truth or reality.

  Growing up in an exact world of small things, in which every pin counted, each thread was measured, and each snap was assigned its own container according to size and color, Magda was raised by her mother in the spirit of order and gentle self-limitation, with “Don’t forget to say: Küss die Hand—Goodbye and thank you” and “Don’t talk without being asked.” The fact that her father had denied her mother, and hence denied Magda herself before she was even born, was something she would only discover much later, long after her mother’s death, and this by chance, which—as usual—had been lying in wait for many years, ready to ambush the unsuspecting woman in the form of a yellowed letter from her grandmother to her mother. The letter, like most letters from grandmothers, not to mention mothers-in-law, would have best been avoided altogether. But it happened to slip out of a prayer book one day, triumphantly revealing the whole superfluous truth and causing nothing but disappointment and grief.

  Up until that point in time Magda had believed her mother’s stories, who claimed that the girl’s father had assumed a leading position in the oil fields of Ploieşti but—before his wife and child could join him—fell victim to an explosion. Now, thanks to her grandmother’s letter, it turned out that Ploieşti had merely been a figment of her mother’s imagination, the fruit of necessity, of the wish to delude herself and the young child about a very different and loathsome reality, the upshot of which was that this man, devoid of any sense of responsibility, had gotten involved with an all too qualifiable woman and died in a shooting incident at an establishment that likewise left no room for doubt. The affair had caused quite a commotion at the time but had taken place in another city, actually abroad, and so fortunately Magda’s mother did not become the talk of the town. She had invented Ploieşti for the child’s and her own sake, and with time she even came to believe it. In this way she succeeded in making the father appear in Magda’s eyes as a martyr of dutifulness and familial love.