Tales of the German Imagination from the Brothers Grimm to Ingeborg Bachmann (Penguin Classics)

by Unknown

  Well, as I told you, though it may for some people not be an earth-shattering event to remember themselves, it was for me as if my life had been turned upside down. I also discovered a room that thirty-odd years ago had been my nursery; later it was used to store linen and the like, but the room had essentially been left the way it was when I sat there at my pinewood table beneath the kerosene lamp whose chain was decorated with three dolphins. There I sat once again for many hours a day, and read like a child whose legs are too short to touch the floor. For you see, we are accustomed to an unbounded head, reaching out into the empty ether, because we have solid ground beneath our feet. But childhood means to be as yet ungrounded at both ends, to have soft flannel hands still, instead of adult pincers, to sit before a book as though perched on a little leaf soaring over the bottomless abysses through the room. And at that table, I tell you, I really couldn’t reach the floor.

  I also set myself a bed in this room and slept there. And then the blackbird came again. Once after midnight I was awakened by a wonderful, beautiful singing. I didn’t wake up right away but listened first for a long time in my sleep. It was the song of the nightingale; she wasn’t perched in the garden bushes, but sat instead on the rooftop of a neighbour’s house. Then I slept on a while with my eyes open. And I thought to myself: there are no nightingales here, it’s a blackbird.

  But don’t think this is the same story I already told you today! No – because just as I was thinking: there are no nightingales here, it’s a blackbird – at that very moment, I woke up. It was four in the morning, daylight streamed into my eyes, sleep sank away as quickly as the last trace of a wave is soaked up by the dry sand of the beach. And there, veiled in daylight as in a soft woollen scarf, a blackbird sat in the open window! It sat there just as sure as I sit here now.

  I am your blackbird – it said – don’t you remember me?

  I really didn’t remember right away, but I felt happy all over while the bird spoke to me.

  I sat on this window-sill once before, don’t you remember? – it continued, and then I answered: yes, one day you sat there just where you now sit, and I quickly closed the window, shutting it in.

  I am your mother – it said.

  This part, I admit, I may very well have dreamt. But the bird itself I didn’t dream up; she sat there, flew into my room, and I quickly shut the window. I went up to the attic and looked for a large wooden bird-cage that I seemed to remember, for the blackbird had visited me once before – in my childhood, like I just told you. She sat on my window-sill and then flew into my room, and I needed a cage. But she soon grew tame, and I didn’t keep her locked up any more, she lived free in my room and flew in and out. And one day she didn’t come back again, and now she had returned. I had no desire to worry about whether it was the same blackbird; I found the cage and a new box of books to boot, and all I can tell you is that I had never before been such a good person as I was from that day on, the day I had my blackbird back again – but how can I explain to you what I mean by being a good person?

  Did she often speak again? Aone asked craftily.

  No – said Atwo – she didn’t speak. But I had to find bird food for her and worms. You can imagine that it was rather difficult for me: I mean, the fact that she ate worms, and I was supposed to think of her as my mother – but it’s possible to get used to anything, I tell you, it’s just a matter of time – and don’t most everyday matters likewise take getting used to! Since then I’ve never let her leave me, and that’s about all I have to tell; this is the third story, and I don’t know how it’s going to end.

  But aren’t you implying – Aone cautiously enquired – that all this is supposed to have a common thread?

  For God’s sake, no – Atwo countered – this is just the way it happened; and if I knew the point of it all, then I wouldn’t need to have told it in the first place. But it’s like hearing a whisper and a rustling outside, without being able to distinguish between the two!

  The Lunatic

  1913

  Georg Heym

  The attendant gave him his things, the cashier handed him his money, the gatekeeper unlocked the great iron door before him. He stood in the front yard, unlatched the garden gate and was out.

  So. And now the world would have its turn.

  He walked along the trolley-bus tracks, past the low houses on the outskirts of the town. He came to a field and threw himself down among the lush poppies and the spruce at its edge. He burrowed his way in, as if into a thick green carpet. Only his face peeked out like a pale moon rising. And then, for starters, he sat up.

  Free at last. It was about time they’d let him out though, or else he would have killed them all, every last one of them. That fat doctor, he would have grabbed him by his red goatee and drawn him through the sausage grinder. Disgusting creature that he was. The way he always laughed whenever he came by the butcher’s.

  Christ, he was a miserable bastard.

  And the houseman, that humpbacked swine, he would have smashed his head in for him. And the orderlies in their white striped smocks – they looked like a gang of convicts, those sons of bitches – they robbed the men blind and raped the women in the toilets. It was enough to make you go insane.

  And he hadn’t the faintest idea how he’d stood it all that time. Three years or four. How long had he actually been back there in that white hole, that big loony bin, cooped up with the crazies? Every morning on his way to the butcher’s he passed them in the main yard, lying there, baring their teeth – some of them half naked. Then the orderlies would come and drag off the worst offenders. Dunk ’em in hot baths. More than one had been boiled alive like that, on purpose too, and he knew it. One time the orderlies wanted to bring a dead one to the butcher’s to have sausages made out of him. That’s what they’d give them to eat then. He told the doctor on duty, but that scum just tried to talk him out of it. So he was in on it too. Filthy dog. If only he could get his hands on him now. He’d shove him down in the grass and rip his throat out – that dirty swine, that dog, that bastard.

  And what had they put him away for anyway? To torment him, that’s all. What had he done really? Beat up his wife a couple times. That was his perfect right; he was married to her, wasn’t he? At the police station they should’ve kicked his wife out, would’ve served her right too. But no, instead they had to drag him in for questioning, make a big deal over nothing. And then one morning they wouldn’t let him out. Packed him in a police van, dropped him off out here. The idea of it! The nerve!

  And who did he have to thank for all this? His wife, that’s who. Well it was high time to square up old accounts. And she had a lot coming.

  He hoisted his bundle of things over his shoulder and then was on the move again. But he didn’t quite know which way to go. A chimney was smoking beyond the fields. He recognized it; it wasn’t far from where he lived.

  He left the road and turned into the field, right into the thicket. He kept walking straight ahead to his destination. What a pleasure to stamp on ripe stalks whose heads cracked and burst open underfoot.

  He shut his eyes and flashed an exultant smile.

  It was as if he were walking across a wide plaza. Many, many people lay there, all with their heads to the ground. Just as in the painting that hung in the director’s office – the one in which many thousands of people in white coats and hoods lay before a big stone which they worshipped. The painting was called Kaaba. ‘Kaaba, Kaaba,’ he kept repeating with every step. He uttered it like a mighty call to arms, and each time he stamped with a left and a right, trampling the many white heads. And then the skulls cracked; they gave off a sound as when you crack open a nut with a hammer.

  Some sounded so delicate – those were the thin ones, the children’s skulls. They made a sound like silver – light, airy, like a little cloud. And others snarled when you stepped on them, just like forest beasts. And their red tongues came fluttering out of their mouths like the insides of rubber balls. Oh, it was
a heavenly sight.

  Some were so soft that you sank right into them. They stuck to your feet. And so he pranced about with two skulls stuck to his feet, like eggshells he’d just stepped out of and hadn’t yet shaken off.

  But what he liked best was when he spotted the head of an old man – bald and smooth like a marble ball. He’d test it very carefully at first, rocking it a few times back and forth: one, two, three. And then he stamped down, splotch, so the brains splattered nicely, like a little golden fountain. But he soon grew tired of this and then suddenly he remembered the crackpot who thought he had glass legs and couldn’t walk. All day he sat at his sewing-machine but the orderlies always had to carry him there first. He wouldn’t take a step on his own. If they stood him up on his legs, he just wouldn’t move, although his legs were perfectly healthy – anyone could see that. He wouldn’t even go to the toilet on his own. No. How could a guy be that crazy? What a laugh.

  Why, just the other day, the pastor came to visit and the lunatic talked about that nut: ‘Take a look, Reverend, sir, that man there, that tailor, he’s so crazy. Such a ninny!’ And the pastor laughed so hard the walls shook.

  He stepped out of the gleaning; straw stuck to him all over his hair and suit. He had lost his bundle of clothing somewhere along the way. He still clutched a few stalks in his hand and waved them about like a golden flag. He marched straight ahead, muttering: ‘Left, right, left, right.’ And the burrs on his trousers flew off in all directions.

  ‘Company halt!’ he commanded. He struck his flag into the sand at the edge of the path and dived into the ditch. Suddenly he grew frightened of the sun that beat on his temples. He was sure she wanted to attack him, so he dug his face deep into the grass and then fell asleep.

  Children’s voices woke him up. A little boy and a little girl stood there beside him. As soon as they saw that the man was awake they ran away.

  These two little children drove him into a terrible rage – his face turned red as a lobster.

  He was up and after them in a flash. And when the children heard him drawing near, they started shrieking and ran faster. The little boy dragged his sister after him. She stumbled, fell down and started crying.

  And crying was one thing he couldn’t stand.

  He caught up with the children and tore the little girl up out of the sand. She saw the wild face over her and screamed even louder. The boy screamed too and tried to run away. Then the lunatic grabbed him with his other hand and he knocked the children’s heads together. ‘One-two-three … one-two-three,’ he counted, and at three the two little skulls crashed like a real thunderstorm. Then came the blood – so ravishing it made him feel like a god. He had to sing. A hymn came to mind. And he sang:

  A mighty fortress is our Lord,

  A steady sword and shield.

  He helps us through travail and woe,

  So that we may not yield.

  The old-foul foe

  Inflicts his blows

  With cunning and evil

  He lures the believer,

  Beware the sly deceiver.

  Loudly he marked each beat with the clash of the two little heads like a musician with his cymbals.

  When the hymn had come to an end, he let the two smashed skulls drop out of his hands. He started dancing round the bodies in a kind of ecstasy, swinging his arms all the while like a great bird and the blood on them flew off like a fiery rain.

  Then all of a sudden his mood changed. An irrepressible compassion for the two poor children welled up in his throat – almost choking him. He lifted their lifeless bodies out of the dust of the path and carried them into the field. With a handful of weed he wiped the blood, brains and filth off his face and sat himself down between the two little corpses. Then he took their little hands in his and stroked them gently with his bloody fingers.

  He started crying; great big tears ran slowly down his cheeks.

  The thought came to him then that perhaps he could bring the children back to life. He knelt over their faces and blew air into the holes in their skulls. But the children did not stir. He thought that maybe he hadn’t tried hard enough and he tried again. But once again nothing happened. ‘So be it,’ he said, ‘dead is dead.’

  After a while, countless swarms of flies, mosquitoes and other insects drawn by the smell of blood came from the field. They hovered like a dense cloud over the wounds. A few times he tried to drive them away but when he himself had been bitten, the effort lost its appeal. He got up and walked away while the thick black swarm of insects pounced on the bloody holes in the skulls.

  Where to now?

  Then he remembered his appointed task. He still had to get even with his wife. And with the foretaste of revenge, his face lit up like a purple sun.

  He turned off onto a country road that led to the outskirts of the city.

  He looked around.

  The road was deserted. It wound its way into the distance. Up on a hilltop behind him sat a man with a barrel organ. Now a woman pulling a little wheelbarrow behind her came up over the hill.

  He waited till she was abreast of him, let her pass, and followed.

  He thought he knew her. Wasn’t that the grocer’s old lady who lived at the corner? He wanted to speak to her but he was ashamed. To her I’m just the lunatic from Number 17 down the street. If she recognized me, she’d just laugh. And God damn it, nobody laughs at me! I’d sooner smash her head in.

  He felt the rage about to flare up in him again. He feared that dark fit of madness. Damn, it’ll grab hold of me any minute now, he thought. He grew dizzy; he held on to a tree and shut his eyes.

  Then suddenly he saw it again, the animal inside. Crouching down there below his gut like a huge hyena. What a set of fangs! And the beast wanted out! Yes, yes, I’ve got to let you out.

  Now he was the beast itself, crawling on all fours along the road. Faster, faster, or else she’ll get away. And can she ever run, but not as fast as a hyena.

  He gave off a loud bark like a jackal. The woman turned to look. She saw a man come running after her on his hands and feet, his wild hair white with dust flying into his face. She let go of her wheelbarrow and, screaming at the top of her lungs, ran down the road.

  Then the beast took off. It tore after her. Its long mane flew, its claws slashed the air and its tongue hung out from between its jaws.

  Now it heard the woman’s breathing. She panted, shrieked and bounded as fast as she could. Just one, two more lengths. And the beast is at her throat.

  The woman is writhing around in the sand; the beast tosses her about. Here it is: the throat where the best blood is. Always drink at the throat. Sinking its fangs into her gullet, it sucks the lifeblood out of her. God damn, is that ever good!

  The beast drops the woman, leaves her lying there and jumps up. Somebody else is coming. What a fool. Doesn’t he know there are hyenas lurking about. Such an idiot, too bad for him.

  The old man approached. And as he came up close, he saw the woman through his thick lenses – saw her lying there in the sand with her skirts in disarray and her knees that she’d drawn up to her stomach in her death struggle. And around her head was a big pool of blood.

  Stupefied, he stared down at the woman. Then the tall grass parted and out stepped a man, all ragged and dishevelled. His mouth was dripping with blood.

  ‘That must be the murderer,’ the old man thought.

  He was so frightened he didn’t really know what to do. Should he run or stand there?

  Finally he decided to try friendliness. You could tell straight away that the man had something wrong upstairs.

  ‘Hello,’ said the lunatic.

  ‘Hello,’ the old man answered. ‘What a terrible tragedy.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it certainly is a terrible tragedy. You’re absolutely right about that,’ the lunatic said. His voice trembled.

  ‘Well I’ve got to be going now. You’ll excuse me.’

  And the old man took a first few cautious steps. Once he’
d got a little further away and noticed that the murderer wasn’t running after him, he walked faster. And finally he started running like a little boy.

  ‘There’s a funny sight, to see an old man running. What a crazy world.’ And the lunatic laughed so hard the blood ran down the folds of his face. He looked like a frightened devil.

  But why shouldn’t he run, after all? The old man’s absolutely right to run. He’d do the same. Any minute now the hyenas could come back out of the field.

  ‘God, am I filthy!’ he looked himself over. ‘Where’d all that blood come from?’

  And he tore off the woman’s apron and wiped off the blood as well as he could.

  His memory failed him. He no longer had any idea, in fact, where he was. He set out again cross-country, taking footpaths through the fields in the burning midday sun. He felt like a giant flower wandering through the fields. A sunflower or something like that. He couldn’t tell for sure.