The organ grinder paused to sit down and eat the bread and bacon he had brought with him in his bag. While he and Franz were sharing their meal, Father Pigherzog stopped to watch them on his way back to church. Franz raised his head and gave an enquiring bark. My good man, Father Pigherzog said, bending over them, aren’t you uncomfortable sprawled on the ground? If you have nowhere else to go, at the old folks’ canteen we can offer you a meal at a table, it won’t cost you a penny, my son. The organ grinder stopped munching and looked up at the priest in a puzzled way. Father Pigherzog stood there beaming, his hand clasped across his chest. When he had swallowed his mouthful of bacon, the organ grinder wiped the corners of his mouth with his sleeve and replied: Sir, I applaud your idea of a canteen and I hope it is a help for the old folks. With this, he took another bite. Sighing, Father Pigherzog continued on his way.
In the afternoon, Hans went back to the inn to change and find some warm clothing in order to accompany the organ grinder back to the cave. When he opened the door to his room he was not surprised to find a mauve letter at his feet—before going to lunch he had sent one of Novalis’s poems to the Gottlieb residence, and Sophie did not like others to have the last word. He slowly unfolded the note. He saw there was another poem and smiled.
Dearest friend,
(“Dearest”! Hans’s heart leapt.)
Dearest friend, I reply to your Novalis poem with one of my favourite poems by Madame Mereau, I don’t know whether you know her. I chose it because it speaks to us women readers, to all those who dream of another life in this life,
(“Another life”? Hans paused. So is the life she has, the one she will soon have, the one that awaits her after this summer, not the life she longs for? In that case perhaps she? Perhaps it isn’t? Enough, read on!)
of another life in this life, another world in this selfsame world, those who are gaining strength thanks to words such as these. I see this poem as a hymn to the small revolution in every book, to the power of every woman reader. And although you are a man, in this way I consider you an equal.
(“An equal”, no less! Hans thought, filled with joy. And then doubt cast a shadow over him—an equal “in this way”, she says, but why not the other way? And what might that be? And why can’t we be equals in that way too? I mean, could there be anything more or was “this” all there was? And between the two what does “dearest friend” mean? Am I more a “friend” than a “dear”? Oh, I can’t read …)
And although you are a man, in this way I consider you an equal. For this reason I have copied out a few verses below, the ones I find most beautiful, in the hope that today or tomorrow you will respond with another poem.
(Aha! She’s inviting me to reply—that’s new. That is, she is allowing me the last word. Is that not a gift? A kind of surrender? Or am I reading too much into things as usual?)
Affectionately yours,
Sophie
(Mmm. “Affectionately”. That doesn’t sound very … No, it doesn’t. Yet she has written her name in full. She is offering herself, isn’t she? As though she were saying: I am yours completely. I am Sophie, I am. Oh stop this nonsense! I’m going to take a bath. No, it’s getting late. The old man will be waiting for me. It suddenly feels hot in here, doesn’t it? Now, let’s look at this poem. I’ll reply tomorrow. Curses! Shall I look for something now? Better tomorrow.)
yours,
Sophie
All these women at peace, not wasting time on war,
Deeply aware of their intimate worth,
Between them creating wave-like shapes,
Summoned by the sign of the times,
Have come to unfurl from a fantasy realm
In spoken and written word, their unstoppable life;
Better no one try to detain their surging strength
Or they will find their way is blocked,
Because all these women are announcing their awakening,
The glad beginnings of their inner force.
Beyond the path to the bridge, the light was thinning. The muted rays of the sun spread tiny tremors across the grass. Stretching away from the city, muffling its sounds, the fields were neither green nor golden. The windmill sails turned, scattering the afternoon. Carriages arrived on the main road. Birds flocked, organising the sky. Hans, the organ grinder and Franz had gone through High Gate and were approaching the River Nulte, which flowed brightly between the poplars showing their first new leaves. The mud on the path had hardened—the cartwheels turned more easily, Hans’s boots threw up little clouds of dust that Franz sniffed over delightedly. Mixed with the heady scent of pollen and the heat of the paths, the countryside still gave off a smell of earth and manure, of fertiliser spread during the last ploughing. Beyond the hedges, labourers working late were hoeing weeds. Hans felt strange when he heard himself say: The countryside looks lovely. Didn’t I tell you so? smiled the old man. And you haven’t seen anything yet, just wait until summer. You’ll see how Wandernburg grows on you.
When they arrived at the cave, Hans begged the old man to let him try playing the barrel organ for a moment. The old man was about to say no, but Hans’s childlike tone won him over and all he could say was: Be careful, please, be careful. Hans focused on visualising the organ grinder’s hand movement and tried to reproduce it with his own arm. During the first piece, the handle moved at an acceptable pace. The organ grinder clapped his hands, Hans gave a roar of laughter and Franz barked madly. But when, emboldened, Hans tried to pull on the handle to change the tune, there was a slight crack from the rolls inside the box. The old man leapt forwards, snatching Hans’s hand away from the crank, and clutched the instrument to him like someone protecting his young. Hans, my friend, he said falteringly, I’m sorry, really, but no.
I’m going to tell you a secret, said the old man. When the barrel organ is playing and the lid is down, I like to pretend it isn’t the keys making the sounds, but the people the songs describe. I pretend they are the ones singing, laughing, weeping, dancing up and down between the strings. And that way I play better. Because I tell you Hans, when I close the lid there’s life in there. Almost a heart. And when everything goes quiet again, I hear the sounds of the barrel organ so clearly that for a moment I think I’m still playing. The music is here, in my head, and I don’t have to do a thing. You see, in the end, what matters is listening, not playing. If you listen you will always hear music. We all have music inside us, even those who walk through the square without even noticing me. The sound of instruments serves that purpose, it brings that music back. Sometimes, when I arrive in the square and begin turning the handle, I feel as if I had just woken up in the very place I was dreaming about. Thank goodness for Franz, he helps me realise if I’m playing asleep or awake, for as soon as the barrel organ starts churning I swear Franz pricks up his ears and lifts up his head. He’s very partial to music, above all the minuets, he loves the minuets, he’s a rather classical dog.
They had gone outside to watch the sunset. Wrapped in woollen blankets, they had sat like a pair of sentries at the cave entrance. Through the poplar trees, in the gaps between the trunks, the light formed into red knots. The organ grinder fell silent for a long moment, but suddenly he went on talking as if there had been no pause: And what are sounds? he said. They are, they are like flowers within flowers, something inside something. And what is inside a sound? I mean, where does the sound of the sound come from? I’ve no idea. Michele Bacigalupo—you remember Michele?—he used to say that with each sound we make we are giving back to the air everything it gives us. What does that mean? I’m not really sure either. I think music is always there, do you see, music plays itself and instruments try to attract it, to coax it down to earth. How strange, Hans said, I have a similar idea about poetry, only horizontally. (Horizontally? the old man said, looking puzzled.) I think poetry is like the wind you enjoy listening to, which comes and goes and belongs to no one, whispering to anyone who passes by. But I don’t think the sound of words comes from th
e sky. I imagine it more like a stagecoach traveling to different places. That’s why I believe in traveling, do you see? (Franz, said the organ grinder, stop that, stop biting his boots!) Yes, stop that, Franz. Deep down, people who travel are musicians or poets because they are looking for sounds. I understand, said the organ grinder, but I don’t see the need to travel in order to find sounds, can’t you also be very still, attentive, like Franz when he senses someone coming, and wait for sounds to arrive? My dear organ grinder, Hans said, placing an arm around his shoulder, we’re back to the same idea—should we leave or stay, be still or keep moving? Well, the organ grinder grinned, at least you agree we haven’t budged from that point. You win! said Hans.
They had fallen silent, shoulder-to-shoulder, absorbing the closing phrase of evening. Through the breaks in the pine trees beyond they could see the windmills. Hans heard the old man mumbling. Wait, wait, I don’t think so, said the organ grinder, I don’t think so (you don’t think what? asked Hans), sorry, I don’t think it’s true (what’s not true? Hans persisted), about being stuck at one point. I said the idea is always the same and that’s true. But we also like to reflect on it, turn it over in our minds, like those windmills. So maybe we aren’t so stuck after all. I was looking at the windmills, and suddenly I thought, are they moving or not? And I didn’t know. What do you think?
In the midst of the crowd in the streets around the market square, Frau Pietzine was watching the Christs, Virgins, Mary Magdalenes go by, and with each new step of sorrows and tears she realised she felt better, a sense of comfort pulsed through her, this shared piety absolved her for something she perhaps had not done. With each beat—boom!—of the drums, with each beat—boom!—she clasped her rosary beads and—boom!—half-closed her eyes. Every Maundy Thursday—boom!—Frau Pietzine would venture out with heavy heart to see—boom!—the processions and recall—boom!—with sadness, all the other Thursdays—boom!—when her husband—boom!—would escort her to the stand opposite the town hall. It was no doubt loneliness—boom!—that had changed the meaning—boom!—of that crowd for ever—before it had been a kind of landscape, a distant backdrop—boom!—which she could ignore provided her faith and prayers were sincere, but for the last few years—boom!—Frau Pietzine would hurl herself into the crowd—boom!—letting it engulf her, and discover in its murmur—boom!—a frantic companionship. When she remembered—boom! —the touch of her deceased husband’s bony fingers—boom!—Frau Pietzine instinctively sought the frail hand of her youngest son in order—boom!—to clasp it in hers, offering the protection she could now only give—boom!—but never again receive. God give you health and strength, my beloved son—boom!—Frau Pietzine muttered, and no one could have denied—boom!—that hers was the most sincere prayer of all those uttered—boom!—that whole week in Wandernburg.
On the far side of the square, on the corner of Archway and King’s Parade, the Levins were also watching the processions at a distance from the main crowd. Mortified by her husband’s indifference, Frau Levin did her best to counteract the impression they might be giving to those beside them, by standing bolt upright in an uncomfortably rigid posture that suggested rapt attention. Worst of all, she thought, was not her husband’s radical ideas. It was the smirk on his face that betrayed his differences and, in the end, his contempt. A contempt which, due to his pride, condemned them to the most humiliating margins of Wandernburg society. Why would her husband not yield even an inch, if only for the sake of appearances? If his beliefs were as solid as he maintained, why this insistence on having nothing to do with popular religious conventions? Were they not mere conventions, poppycock, expediencies as he kept saying? Why, then, did he continue to repudiate them? Herr Levin, in the meantime, wearing the same fixed smile, was thinking the exact opposite—of the humiliation of having to accompany his wife year in, year out, as a gesture of goodwill, to see this grotesque display of opportunistic penitence and sham religious devotion. Herr Levin was equally if not more dismayed by the dreadful, jarring bands—each time he heard the trumpets’ piercing, metallic blast—tara-tara!—his nose wrinkled instinctively. What is the point, he said to himself, of pretending we are what we are not? Tara! And what was the point of converting to something else—tara-tara!—if at all events they, the others, would never accept them as one of their own? Tara! If we came here to suffer exile, to grow and return—tara-tara!—what meaning was there in trying to escape fate? Tara! This was precisely the thing that most angered Herr Levin about his wife’s behaviour—tara-tara! How could she be so naive as to imagine they would accept her if she obeyed their rules? Tara! And if she were to obey anyone, wasn’t it more reasonable that she should do as he said? Tara-tara! Besides, reflected Herr Levin, the idea of God—tara!—is not reached through theatre. If all these people devoted the Easter week to studying theology—tara-tara!—astronomy or even arithmetic, they would be closer to faith than they were now—tara!—or did these bigots really believe all would be revealed to them one fine day, just because? Tara-tara! I hope, Frau Levin thought at that very moment, we shall be going to church today at any rate—tara! I hope, her husband thought simultaneously, that on top of everything else she’s not planning to attend Mass. Tara-tara!
Not far from the Levins, Hans stood craning his neck, exasperated and curious. Even though he detested crowds, he had been forced to join in because every street in the city centre, including the street where the inn was, had been besieged since early that morning. He had been woken up by blaring bugles, and, after trying to ignore the din or bury himself in a book, had gone downstairs to have a look. How peaceful it must be in the cave now, he reflected, smiling to himself. As he weaved his way between elbows, wide-brimmed hats and parasols, he had the impression of witnessing a dual spectacle—the faithful taking part in the procession and the neighbours who had come out to watch them. No matter how much that gregarious display seemed to him like a mixture of the Inquisition and pagan spring worship, he had to admit he found it fascinating. After watching the most celebrated floats go by, Hans was in no doubt—the most ornate of all, the one that had stood out as it rolled down Border Street, had been the carriage belonging to His Excellency Mayor Ratztrinker, with its exquisite lines, folding hood and towering driver’s seat upholstered in velvet.
Hans turned round and found himself face to face with Father Pigherzog, with whom he had exchanged no more than a few words outside the church in those early days when he had been following the Gottliebs. Ah, how he yearned to see Sophie. Happily, her salon was the following day. Father Pigherzog spoke to him first. Well, smiled the priest, what do you think of Wandernburg’s famous Easter processions? Are they not extraordinary? You took the words out of my mouth, Father, Hans replied. Is it not astonishing? the priest went on, I would go so far as to say that such popular zeal, such a fervent display of spirituality is unique in all Germany. If I may be permitted to give my opinion as a novice, Hans said, I’m not sure spirituality is what brings this crowd onto the street. I feared as much, Father Pigherzog sighed, you are a materialist. You are mistaken, Father, Hans said, I believe in all kinds of unseen powers. Unseen and of this earth. Well, the priest shrugged, I only hope you are at peace with your impoverished notions. All I ask is that one day you consider how alone we would be without the Heavens to protect us. Indeed, Father, replied Hans, alone at last!
At last we are alone, Father, Frau Pietzine whispered through the grille in the confessional. I am so in need of your advice! What is ailing you, my child? came Father Pigherzog’s voice. It’s, she said, well, all the rest you know, but this is about time, Father, do you understand? More than anything it is about time. (Try to be a little more specific, my child, whispered Father Pigherzog’s voice.) It’s nothing definite, moments, times when I fear everything is in vain. (Nothing is in vain, my child.) This morning, for instance, my youngest son gave me his hand and I squeezed it hard and it felt so small and defenceless, Father! And then I was afraid, afraid of my son’s frailty, and of my o
wn, do you understand, Father? Because I realised that neither I nor anyone can protect him from the trials of this life, from the suffering that awaits him. (The Lord can do so, my child.) Of course, He can do so, but how can I explain, there are things not even God, but only a mother should do for her children. (I see no contradiction in this, you are a mother and a child and He is the Father whose children procreate in his name.) Oh Father, you explain everything so well! Do you see why I need your advice? If only you had known me when my faith was strong, in the bloom of youth! When I was unassailed by doubt, all innocence and devotion to God. But then I met my deceased husband, may the Lord keep him in His glory, oh woe is me! (He is resting in eternal peace now and can hear us.) May the angels take notice of you, Father, and we were betrothed immediately, and I gave him four children, thanks be to the Lord, Father, and without a moment’s pleasure. (God bless you, my child.)
The children filed through the entrance to St Nicholas’s Church in two columns, one of boys and one of girls. They walked down the side aisles and past the transept until they reached the apse, where Father Pigherzog, at the high altar, was waiting to bless their Easter offerings. The smallest children’s gaucheness, their mixture of nervous silence and stifled giggles, brought a sunny contrast to the gloomy interior. One by one, holding small bouquets of boxwood, they approached the altar laden with sweets, egg-shaped candies, coloured ribbons, garlands and miniature toys. Their bright faces clouded with fear as Father Pigherzog loomed over them. This was not the case for Lisa Zeit, who held out her brass ring with an absent expression, and who only appeared flustered when she thought the priest had stared at her chapped fingers before blessing the ring. Lisa had not thought seriously about God since she was nine years old, but as she curtsied and stepped back, she could not help wondering why God had given her such smooth skin only to let her hands be ruined. On the opposite side of the apse, in the boys’ column, Thomas Zeit awaited his turn with a miniature lead soldier in an oval box. Just as he reached the altar, Thomas pressed his legs together and began wriggling—he had suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to let out one of his small explosions. Don’t you dare, he ordered himself, staring hard at his offering—the diminutive soldier inside an Easter egg, musket shouldered, in uniform and campaign boots, cap tilted to one side in an attitude of weary anticipation, as though he wished he could fire or surrender once and for all.
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