The Journey

by H. G. Adler

  Thus peace is let go and is gone, though not entirely; its reflection is and remains discernible for anyone who remains aware, amid the fear and horror of each single moment, when all dignity and secrecy are threatened, that an indestructible kernel persists beneath all the terror of this theater of horrors, a center, one which should never be idealized, since its existence is known only to the searching heart. The unmistakable persistence of this center as the last stop on this journey is at the same time your first and deepest memory, yet that is exactly what we are compelled to remember, the center being so distant that it can be described as neither far nor near. Indeed, that is why it becomes obvious that in the flux of our lives memory always remains, and that, much like a memory, we—and thus an entire world—lack a stable, unchanging place in which to live. Thus we remain in flight, there is no rest for us but the interior that we remember; we are travelers on a journey that not a single one of us chose or planned. This we cannot change, the journey has begun, and now it follows its own path; as it progresses, it does not ask for our approval, it does not care if we love it or hate it, yet it stands in our way as soon as we ourselves resist the way.

  Perhaps some still expect to hear where we are headed, or that at least some sense of it will be given. Be patient!—for the aim here to try to depict this rather than describe it is the best response. Those who have their doubts can be assured that the destination will not be forgotten, since worries about the prospect of our final destination drive us all; that’s why we will always make sure to keep the destination in mind, even if reports from the rubbish heap often seem to believe us.

  One thing must be made clear, if we assert that we have suffered, suffered a great deal; by that we cannot and do not wish to set ourselves off from the world, which in itself experiences nothing but suffering, yet in our indefatigable readiness to embrace this suffering, we do not allow ourselves to sink further into the horror through which we cannot help but walk. No, we are not lost, even when we assert our loss, in fact the many losses that we—alone for the most part and with our humble powers—cannot make up for. But we have set ourselves on the stage. There, as elsewhere, we wish to appear alone, although we are not forsaken. We are never forsaken.

  And so we wish to walk on or not walk at all—for whether or not we walk on or make any progress is certainly not up to us nor anyone else. And so allow us to exist; whether it be in the perpetual motion that brings peace, whether it be in memory that ventures toward peace, either ahead of it or behind, whether it be in flight, one speaks of the fleeting nature of appearances, so let us exist in appearances and remain constantly in motion. Indeed, since our eyes are open, and suffering is not all we experience, but also life, allow us to grant this ever-changing existence so full of memory its only proper name—the journey.

  The Tale

  NO ONE ASKED YOU, IT WAS DECIDED ALREADY. YOU WERE ROUNDED UP and not one kind word was spoken. Many of you tried to make sense out of what was going on, so you yourselves had to inquire. Yet no one was there who could answer you. “Is this how it’s going to be? For a little while … a day … years and years …? We want to get on with our lives.” But all was quiet, only fear spoke, and that you could not hear. Old people could not accept what was going on. Their complaining was unnerving, such that around those left untouched by such suffering a cold and hideous wall was erected, the wall of pitilessness. Yet the tight-lipped grins remain unforgettable; they survived all weariness and first appeared in the ruined apartments. The apartments were in fact not destroyed, they still existed in regular buildings with roofs that were intact. In the stairwells the ingrained smells, which lend each house its inextinguishable character so long as the building stands, were still trapped.

  The everyday existence of inanimate objects can seem quite alluring, but it obeys laws that have little to do with our journey, as long as we don’t pick up such things and recognize ourselves within them. True, one speaks of notorious brick walls, but that is only an image for an incomprehensible event, compared to which the visible, the tangible, possesses far more distinctive characteristics. Everything can be left behind, but nothing is cut off from life as long as it remains conscious of itself. That is why buildings stand there indifferent when we abandon them. Then someone shouted, “Go away!” No one actually shouted these words, no one shouted at all, and yet it was declared implicitly, even if no one heard it. But for whoever did not hear it, it meant trouble, because he would crouch in his house as if it were his one and only possession that no one could take from him.

  There was a room and other rooms as well. Their solitude was violated, for the doors stood open, though the windows were gently closed and darkened by the black cloth hanging in them. This was called the blackout. The blackout was everywhere, the nocturnal streets of Stupart lay in solid darkness. Yet inside the house there was light. Not in the stairwell outside, no, for there it was also dark. The bulbs were painted an ugly blue color and covered with shades made of black paper which let no light through and only cast down a feeble circle of light. It was difficult for the boots to trudge heavily up the stairs in the dark, but this did not hold back the tireless messengers, for their hurried steps spread a fear before which the lights withdrew. They usually came in late evening or during the night, carrying a message that cast its own terrible light. “Thou shalt not dwell among us!” That was the printed message they delivered. The people already expected the worst, and therefore the apartments were destroyed even before a plane’s powerful projectile took pity on them. The planes came much later, cracking open the hollow shells like harvest nuts, but not to avenge the abduction of those exiled from the houses whom they hardly knew of, and who meant little to them when they zeroed in on a segment of the city they wished to obliterate. Each night the raging machines rumbled through the thunderous sky and dropped their murderous cargo on the transitory existence below, which first became aware of them when it burst apart. There were no more apartments that lasted long enough to become ruins, there were only empty brood houses, ransacked shells, or illegitimate goods worthless even to looters. But this happened much later and was never seen by the afflicted, who long before had been told, “Thou shalt not dwell among us!”

  Consider well what right you have to enjoy a resting place where you can simply be only because you have the right to be. Ask yourself this when you are in flight and bereft of all your possessions, on your own among the shells of buildings that have become sinister. Once they came after you, be it your enemies or your friends, you can’t tell the difference, and they took everything from you. If they only somewhat misled you, they told you to gather up the remainder, because you would need so many things and would be crying out for many of your possessions. All possessions became ridiculous, but nonetheless they remain completely indispensable. The knapsack lies there, neatly packed and readied with care. You cannot leave it behind and now know how important it is to have your own things. You stand up and put your coat on and then let yourself sink back down onto the chair. You decide what belongs to yourself alone. But is that allowed?

  “Have you thought it over, my dear Frau Lustig? Tomorrow it’s your turn. Off into the wild blue yonder. I heard it’s so. I know for sure.”

  Blissful is the nonbeliever who hides the future’s misfortune beneath the protective covering of the present moment, for now everything is obscured by darkness. No one seeks protection when hope and silence alone mark the passing of time and make it believable. But in fact everything is unbelievable, anything that interrupts the horror. Unhappy belief! How unbelievable the bravery, how improbable is belief and all expectation, but in the apartment the remnants of each are gathered. There they find old Dr. Lustig’s medal for bravery, the letter from the regiment commander. It’s unbelievable, but only the unbelievable can protect us.

  “It won’t be that bad. One should … one could … He’s done so much good! He deserves recognition … credit.…”

  Words appear amid the horror, like old
friends, for the language no longer belongs to us; it slips out, sounding odd, from anyone who attempts to talk. But then the words spill out and seem familiar. Sweet words, words that have floated away, my words, your words, they tear down walls and erect them as well, they weave themselves tightly together, impervious and sound. Yes, the walls are there, and they are known, everything is known, such that one could almost take pleasure in wiping out what feels like a threat. Then the blackout would no longer be feared.

  “If you want to make yourself useful, if you …”

  That’s the way it always sounds. Still one must clear away the rubbish, for it so easily gets in the way. The rubbish bin in the apartment is too small and is overflowing before one knows it. In the courtyard the rubbish containers stand by, wrapped in their stillness, and the frame on which carpets are beaten stands there, the circular hooks for the wash line are still embedded in plaster. “That’s forbidden!” What’s forbidden? Nothing, it’s just a wild rumor that disrupts the quiet peacefulness of rubbish with war. Yet all rumors are wild and are regularly done in by the truth. Indeed the truth is often inquired about, the all too earnest asking about it, as well as those who quietly laugh. Even those who display their ignorance with pride cannot ignore this question forever, for it comes to occupy you no matter what.

  The intruders stand boldly and arrogantly in the apartment and cast their eyes without worry on a scene they don’t appear to understand. Milk is mixed with raspberry juice, the result a new drink. A lot has been done, but nothing has happened, nor does anyone notice. Only sleep is impossible to think of. It was senseless to have made your bed, but it comes from thoughtful consideration, for the hour is come, a glance at the watch you laid down reminding you. In the early hours you pick it up, checking it regularly until the next morning. Then it will be picked up once again.

  “Tell me, can’t something be done? There’s something I have to take care of tomorrow. Besides, I’m completely convinced that it’s all a huge mistake.”

  There is no doubting the mistake, but it lies elsewhere and belongs neither to those who came after us nor to ourselves. It is also not in the house and not on the street. Most likely it is somewhere far off without memory, in the dirges raised against the heavenly bodies. No, it is nowhere to be found.

  Don’t sit on the sofa, you could squash the cushion. We just finished putting everything in order! Using a soft brush in order to be careful with the fragile fabric, Ida and Caroline have cleaned and smoothed everything. They humbly bent to their task so that everything could look in order, even if they were not certain if they would have any visitors. In a few days Leopold will celebrate his seventy-fifth birthday. Zerlina has used some money and flirted a bit in order to get a couple of cigars for her father. Some relatives and friends are supposed to show up, really they are, for not all have left. They are to quietly ring the bell and gather together for a couple of hours in this room. A cake will be baked, cake and coffee with milk and lots of sugar, especially given the way Leopold likes to shovel it into his cup. Almost everything has been taken care of, even an egg for the cake. Caroline has it all organized inside her head, stubborn woman that she is. Unforeseen misfortune? Not at all, it’s just chicanery. The unknown doesn’t exist. One only has to stay the course. Leopold pays attention to the law and to nothing else in the world around him. Against injustice one has only to make an appeal. One has only to apply oneself relentlessly, even when it does no good.

  “Please, don’t make such a fuss, Frau Lustig! Even if you have to leave the house, something that I can’t keep from happening, that doesn’t actually mean that you’ll have to travel farther on from there. Many have left and yet have not had to travel farther. They simply changed locales. There you can set up house just fine.”

  You hear everything. Nothing escapes your heightened awareness, which is on edge and attentive. Nothing is unclear, because everything is thought through so completely by the authorities that no difficulties arise. Whoever thumbs through the long lists will find all the guidelines. You only have to make up your mind and you are free, if only you submit to coercion. Destiny is now a book written by men. They have their needs just like you and I, and they have worries just like ours. Yet they also have completely different worries, because they are not pleased with their job when they have to strike one of us, something for which their superiors have an excuse, as the case may be, an explanation ready at hand.

  Paul’s hand stroked the strings of Zerlina’s lute before it had to be taken to the depository for musical instruments. That was a few days earlier. He took the lute down from the wall and removed the decorative ribbons, which Zerlina then folded together and packed in a box along with other mementos. Paul then ripped out five of the six strings, tearing open its soul, and with a knife slashed its body. Zerlina shrieked as if witnessing a murder, because the lute was not a piece of junk meant for the rubbish. But now it was; no one would hear its notes again with joy. Finally Paul yanked out a peg and tossed it into the fire. A blatant assault. The night’s dark work had begun. Zerlina could not bring herself to strike the lute; softly she reached out for it as Paul tucked it under his arm and carried it off.

  The face of the house lady peeked in each evening, a fat round face consumed by barely contained greed. Soon she would no longer have to control her desires. On that day she was there as well, shocked by the strange men. Frau Lischka was not to be trusted, yet with gifts she could be appeased and then she was a trusted soul and there was no danger. Zerlina was startled whenever the house lady stood in her way, but Caroline and Ida were at peace with her familiar ways. Full of chubby contentment, Frau Lischka’s greeting spread through the stairwell. “My husband drinks too much. The doctor should warn him about what can happen.” She then made the gesture with which she greeted her husband. Yet Caroline said not a word to Leopold, for he was lost in thought and didn’t understand what was beginning to happen around him and what had already condemned him and many others who had no idea of the judgment they would suffer.

  Everything human involves judgment, which is why it comes as no surprise to say that without judgment consciousness would not be possible. Man is a creature that judges. That’s why judgment must be experienced by him and endured until he receives his own final judgment and accepts it. Then the will disappears or is broken. A quarter of an hour passes, then another, as the hour strikes and the great journey begins that marks the conclusion of another great journey, the onset of perpetual motion, this journey being like all others. Everything becomes uncertain; each new decision that’s handed down is executed directly by the powers that be who carry it out without seeing the consequences, because even though what occurs later is set in motion on their own familiar turf, how it’s been decided and why remains unknown and has to do with the suppositions of the authorities. They themselves have no power; they only shout out the orders they are supposed to and thus bear witness to their faith in the system.

  Now they turn their attention to Dr. Leopold Lustig’s household, which is to be vacated, though nothing more is sure. Even the officials carrying out their orders have no clear idea of the consequences of their commands as they scatter fates to the wind. A piece of paper brought along is taken out and handed over, the words themselves no longer important. Everything is destroyed, the bottle of raspberry juice falls over accompanied by a shriek as the carpet turns red. A weary hand reaches toward the bottle that rolls away after it falls and slowly lifts it and places it back on the table.

  “It can’t be all that bad, for it’s not so far away, and at least we know where we’re going.”

  But no one can sleep, the night is shattered. The blackout is useless when those in hiding keep their lights on and keep eternal sleep at bay. Yet sleep is not eternal, that is a fallacy, because if it were eternal it would not tolerate any interruption, and the validity of all official orders would be undermined. But for the living who follow the order for the journey to begin, there is no sleep, because everything
must be relinquished. The keys cannot remain in the doors and are collected, the IDs that vouch for the names on them are separated from the nameless phantoms, because the permission for them to remain together must be denied, the result being the separation of belongings from their owners in Stupart, the reality of which is committed to paper in long lists. That’s what is ordered, and the main office won’t worry a bit about what’s left when those forbidden to stay leave the gutted houses. No one hesitates when the command is given, since it says in writing, “You are forbidden.…”

  We are all forbidden because we are not what we wished to become, and we are not what we wished to become because we’ve been turned into something unwanted. Thus we are nothing more than extra baggage destined to become the tools of obedience, expectant travelers whose weariness is enough to put all of humanity asleep. Still, it’s astounding that the messengers are not tired. Only we are overtired. But sleep does not exist for those of us to whom time presents, so to say, an inscrutable and fast-approaching future.

  Individual needs can be taken care of efficiently and without haste. Now that we’re here, at least they can’t take that from us. If we are to fulfill our duties we need sufficient time, as you can obviously see. You are not bad people, and you know that we’re not so bad either. In fact it’s all a mistake, yet the mistakes are already present and we have to suffer the consequences. Consciousness can practice, and is even capable of getting used to the fact that all experience is betrayed, as well as the need to conjure a tight-lipped smile amid an otherwise emotionless expression. But impatience! Impatience is what does us in.…

  “Hurry up! Don’t stop moving! We have to be there by midnight at the latest!”

  That is impossible, for that’s not much longer than an hour away. Everything still has to be prepared. Even Frau Lischka doesn’t see the need for such hurry. It’s still night, and the doctor is so old, and Frau Ida Schwarz has rheumatism. You should just see her hands. There’s no way they will leave at night, for that’s impossible. But the officials say that they can easily take off with the doctor and Frau Schwarz at a moment’s notice. The streetcars are still running and the others can leave, indeed as soon as possible, the bracing winter air will freshen everyone. So get going, get going!