The Journey

by H. G. Adler

  “One thousand gathered. Twenty-four of them lying down.”

  “Well done!”

  One of the mighty heroes reached for the list and counted the number of those waiting once again. He hardly paid attention to the standing, which he quickly passed by, choosing instead to spend more time among the stretchers.

  Across the courtyard a cry rattled out: “Medical report!”

  Cross-Eyes yelled: “Medical report!”

  One of his assistants charged into the Technology Museum.

  The hero barked: “Filthy pigs!”

  Cross-Eyes cried: “They’ll be right back in line!”

  Then the hero barked: “Why aren’t they ready?”

  Cross-Eyes cried: “Whoever’s fault it is will pay!”

  Then the hero barked even louder: “Shut your trap, you pig! It’s all your fault!”

  Cross-Eyes bowed and cried: “Yes, sir!”

  Yet the assistant had returned with the list of the sick, wanting to hand it over to Cross-Eyes.

  But then the hero yelled at him loudly: “Bring it here, or I’ll smack you in the mouth! Nussbaum, you come as well!”

  The assistant and Cross-Eyes hurried toward the mighty hero, who began to review what they had written.

  “What a miserable typewriter ribbon! Look at this, Nussbaum! Next time I’ll break your knees if the report is not typed more clearly!”

  “Sorry, we put in for a new one. But no one sent us a new ribbon.”

  “Disgraceful! There’ll be trouble for that.”

  Cross-Eyes read the names of the ill to the hero, who then ordered that no one should be allowed to lie down who did not have a fever of 102 degrees. Nonetheless, it was obvious that almost all of those on the stretchers were very sick. Only two old men over eighty and a woman who had given birth to a stillborn the previous night were allowed to stay. Otherwise, all of the weak and sick stood in rank and file, as well as the old woman whose attack of madness had so disturbed Leopold. As the hero finished checking the list, he nodded that he was satisfied. The authority’s honor had been preserved, and only through an act of grace had the forbidden been transformed into the allowed.

  “Load it up!”

  It began to snow. Heavy flakes fell from above. They didn’t worry themselves about those gathered below. They blanketed the copper green roof of the Technology Museum. If you stuck out your tongue between your lips you could perhaps catch a flake, but it was dangerous to do that since it was forbidden. Zerlina was happy when a flake stuck to her eyelash and hung there. How easily she could have gotten rid of it with a finger or with a shake of her head or with a blink of her eyelids. But Zerlina stood still, making sure not to move. The flake melted and ran cautiously away.

  As long as the heroes are there, it’s forbidden to move, which Zerlina knew, even if it was not underscored that often. Life is forbidden, something that never quite hits home, because it has not ceased to go on. Even in the courtyard of the Technology Museum no order has been given. They simply have forgotten to enforce what is forbidden, and thus life is frozen and has turned to snow. The same flakes could fall on the heroes or be carried by the wind and drift down outside of the museum courtyard and onto one of the surrounding houses or onto a street. There are no exceptions as to who is part of the moment. There are differences only in how fate is meted out, but not in fate itself, everything now being frozen. One no longer had to forbid movement, for there was none. What you saw with your own eyes could hardly be believed. It was null and void and could only be believed if you closed your eyes. Then the snow melted.

  Such was the fabled height of spring in the mountains. The spring runoff could be heard rushing down the slopes. Below, flowers bloomed in all their colors. Here above, winter lived on, arriving toward evening with full force. Then the mountains were closed off by the vixen Frau Lischka, no one allowed to enter them, not even the intruders, no matter how much they knocked and pleaded at the gate. “Sorry, but there’s no one home in winter.…” Frau Lischka turns away from the entrance to the mountains, but does not worry at all about the troublemakers. She keeps watch over the stairwell and makes sure that the blackout is not violated. All the walls were iced over, and only with the help of ropes could one climb up the stairwell. The tenants sat behind the doors of their apartments and tended the fires in their ovens. Everything was bedecked and looked as if you could lie down in the snow, the flakes having fallen in plentiful heaps. Now one needed only to sleep, for tomorrow winter would be over. The sun will wake you and you can run through the fields.

  Exclamations flew back and forth. Anguished cries. No, it was not snow, it was hail. Nonetheless, everything was covered with snow. Snowdrops could be heard. Tin roofs rattled. The crashing sound of pure rubbish. Everything has been brought along, nothing left behind. Frau Lischka no longer needs a doormat. Back home, the patients are safe and dry, only the poor doctor wastes away on a muck heap. What he needs is a shot to revive him, a shot of sun so that he won’t freeze. For there is no longer any heat. It is not necessary in the museum. The old machines don’t need any oil. The locomotive does not move, but when it breathes, steam rises from its smokestack. Perhaps it will take off. The forbidden ones are hanging upon it. If only they can make sure not to slip on the ice and under its wheels!

  A pile of wood should be set on fire in the courtyard. Whenever you drew near you could then warm your hands and feet. Ida would have loved that. Zerlina didn’t need it, nor Paul. They were well fitted out and ready for the mountains. The seats were reserved, so no one needed to stand in the corridors. There was no cost for the ticket, for no one was expected to pay. In fact, it was not possible to pay since no one was allowed to have any money, and travel was also forbidden. Now the only question was what the sick would do in the mountains. It would not be possible to carry the stretchers up the sled paths because those who carried them would slip and fall, along with the stretchers. The old people would grow cold. They would die, especially if Leopold was not allowed to care for them. But they were already dead. They just needed to be placed in coffins. But you don’t take along coffins on a journey. It’s much too costly and the freight is not worth the trouble. Someone cried out when someone else knocked his stretcher. “Please, I just had an operation. I can’t take it! I can’t take it!” So much snow causes unnecessary cruelty. Much simpler would be to push the stretchers, since they have runners. There are also sleds. The cool air is good for the wounded, for it lets them think of other things.

  The sick had the advantage, but they failed to use it since everything was now absurd. Leopold was right, the organization was terrible. The mourners did best to take care of each burial themselves. Even at the cemetery, discipline had to be maintained. Cross-Eyes is much too full of himself; nobody is interested in his sermons, which inspire no one. It would be better to get rid of the leathery fellow, but you cannot have it that easy. If there is only free will, then there would be no suffering, and that would be unfortunate. A little suffering never hurt anyone, as long as one does not feel it in the extreme. What’s all the fuss about? No one is ready for winter, though it is easy to see that they will all become so tired that they will sleep standing up. Those who nod off keep in step when prodded on and never know the difference. They are perfectly servile, the heroes are pleased. Each wanders from home to home and no longer needs a doormat. The doormats of yesterday are the men of today.

  Paul has to give Zerlina a shove in order to keep her moving. “It’s dangerous to move so slow. Be careful!”

  “I’m going.”

  “It’s dangerous to talk. Be careful!”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  If you keep your head lowered you see the path better. Ahead of you are feet that also dance without music. The ground is muddy, versus in town where the snow is always swept away and salt is strewn around, while here everything is turned into complete muck. The street sweepers are a useless bunch. If they were sent into the mountains, they would soon b
e stripped of the illusion that everything must be swept away. For nothing can be. The mud stains never disappear and spread everywhere in town and cause difficulty only for those who carelessly slog through them. Anyone who does not keep his vulnerability wrapped up inside only reveals that he has been pampered too much. People make the mistake of living too closely together. Therefore it’s good to be expelled. When you are homeless, there is no resting place. There is only snow and eternal winter. You should come along so that you can experience eternal winter, way off where there is no way out, where no one is even by your side. There you have only your bread bag with you, but supplies are low and as spare as the good-byes you were given when you were banished and others turned away from you with tears in their eyes and snow. And there you stand, empty, trembling, and faint, even though the region has been free of wild animals for centuries. There are no more wolves or bears. Only small animals that flee from you as soon as they catch your scent. Your pockets are empty, and you are hungry. The snowfields through which you wander aimlessly stretch out endlessly in front of you, there being no map to show you the way.

  You should give in to the circumstances and play the fool. It’s good that you can be laughed at. The old and the weak will leave you in the lurch and run off. You all are nothing more than wild animals. Do you remember that you were once human beings? The gaze of Cross-Eyes meets you at the corner. You’re lucky that, because of the frosty cold, he can no longer swing the whip that has frozen into an icicle. He’s just glad he can lean on it. He can no longer make any reports and must leave behind Frau Lischka’s drunken husband. One day soon she will yank the whip from his withered hand and say that she alone is permitted to sweep away such loneliness. Then you all would be rid of the pest and could confidently dedicate yourself to the belief that if you encounter someone or knock on the door of a mountain hut, behind it will be someone friendly. But you won’t be able to say who you are, otherwise they will chase you down the slope and their laughter will crush you. Given the circumstances, they will say they cannot burden themselves with worrying about the needs of a bunch of people on a pleasure trip. If they should ask you your name and origins, tell them you have forgotten everything. If they do not believe you, then explain that your name has been erased, for you no longer really exist. But since you really are standing there in front of them, they won’t think that you are a ghost, but rather a refugee no longer forced to remain in the stuffy air of the museum. If they should extend a bit of something to eat, which you take, that will say much more than anything you can say.

  But then you must flee. Don’t stop, for they will be on your trail and will make sure there is no place where your name can be spoken. Don’t flee from the night! Think of yourselves as born from darkness, that what now hangs over you is the need for a light within the darkness, something that earlier was your role to maintain. Fear is piteous, but it spurs no forgiveness, for it spreads terror. The miserable are stepped upon, for that is how others seek to impose justice. That is why you must be strong and find a little spot where you can take shelter from the storm and at night escape the elements. Only, you must believe that it is not so bad. Freedom has been handed to you. The laws of previous societies no longer apply to you. You have been asked to build a home out of rubble with your own strength. How you choose to erect it is how it will come to be.

  You’re being given a sign to move, don’t you see it? You have to admit that cross-eyed Herr Nussbaum is certainly on the ball. Everything goes off without a hitch. The assistants sigh deeply, but it’s a sigh of relief, for they have done well. Not a single complaint is heard. The heroes stroll and strut the length of the station platform. You sit down, one on top of another, four to a bench, eight to a compartment, like regular, upstanding citizens. But this is no ski hut, there is no snow. No, they are empty train cars. They are narrow, much more narrow than the huts you should have built, but which have already been finished, thus saving you the work. Everything has been taken care of, for they did not want to strain your silky little hands. Who could possibly complain about such sound accommodations? How could you have even completed the job when you have never learned to work with your hands?

  You can’t be trusted with anything, everything must be arranged for you, because you are a lazy bunch that not even lifting a shovel can change. Like little children, everything has to be done for you, though you arrive at the dinner table without uttering the slightest thank-you. Nothing can be expected from you but your stinking smell. Everything you youngsters need has been taken care of for you, we’ve made sure of that. We have sacrificed ourselves for you. If we were a little tougher with you, then you would get all worked up and melt right in the middle of snowy winter. You want snowdrops? We haven’t brought you flowers. It’s too late. The train will depart before we can get some. We’ll send them to you. Yes, everything your heart desires will be sent to you. But you should be off already! Have you forgotten something? That doesn’t matter. Just drop us a line, we’ll take care of everything. You can count on us. Can’t you see it in our faces? Just look in our eyes and you’ll see that we can be trusted! Something could happen to you? Who told you that? It’s just a bunch of stupid chatter! Not a single hair will be disturbed. Such transgressions are not allowed. Now you are traveling to safety, your new home, just like you always wanted. Is the good-bye hard for you? That’s hard for us to believe! No, we can’t believe it! The forbidden at last lies behind you for good, and now eternal freedom is waving you on. There you can do what you want. We wish we had the chance to share your lot, but unfortunately that has been denied us. With us lies the responsibility to worry about your well-being, and then to worry about your brothers who are also awaiting the journey.

  The engine up ahead gives a pleasant snort, happy that it has been pulled out of the museum. Now it’s back in service. Do you hear the jolly whistle? That’s not Cross-Eyes. That’s the train, or wait, that’s the stationmaster who blows his whistle and is in charge of everything. Here he is much more important than the mighty heroes, to whom he doesn’t even pay attention. When one of the heroes comes up to him, he gives a careless salute. He believes that the last signal is about to be given. The travelers have been made comfortable. The engineers look ready. In a moment you’ll be on your happy way. Officials, nurses, and orderlies will ensure your fate and attend to your every need.

  But we don’t expect any satisfaction from you, knowing you will just pull ugly faces. It hurts us that you’re so nasty, like naughty children, because we’re the ones who carry all the responsibility, for we have to pay for your guilt with our innocence. Since we have taken everything away from you, we are your guardians. Your souls are in our hearts, in our laps, in our mouths. We lead you by your little hand so that you can survive the struggle.

  Now you are out of the snow flurries outside, wrapped up in your soft blankets, having found peace and joy. We lock the doors of the wagons and place the seal of our blessing upon them. Now you can’t get away. Pleasant journey, little sheep, but don’t sing too loud and don’t shout from the train, because the guards will shoot without warning at a moment’s notice. A little caution couldn’t hurt. We’ve secured the route, soon you will reach your destination. Nothing will happen to whoever is obedient. Only the bad ones will be shot. The good will be praised and will get some sugary snow. They are given some before they even purse their lips to ask for it. All in all everything is in place, a safe journey is guaranteed.

  The stationmaster lifts his baton. The heroes turn away. Herr Nussbaum turns around and stares with his crossed eyes off and away. Away, away … a safe journey and security … guaranteed … though they will shoot, they’ll shoot … the house and the steps … the beautiful snow, the snowdrops … whoever doesn’t believe, whoever doesn’t believe … doesn’t believe … believe.…

  The connection we feel to our surroundings is built on belief. Yet Caroline woke up unable to believe where she was, though it also must have been difficult for her to get
her bearings, for in the cavernous casemate she could hardly see anything under the single lightbulb that was burning. No brightness came from it, but rather a turbid flickering. She had never seen an electric light quite like it; it reminded her of an oil lamp. Caroline could believe none of it. There was snoring and groaning all around her, the rustling of many little things. It was worms, that was it; they had fought their way through all the impediments, for only worms could thrive in this damp cave. This meant that one couldn’t keep any flour because the worms would ruin it and there would be no more bread. And yet it couldn’t be worms she was hearing, for she clearly heard someone whisper. It came from somewhere, one minute here, the next in the corner over there that the eyes couldn’t make out. So there were people here, genuine people, it occurred to Caroline as she rubbed her eyes in order to see better. Yet that didn’t help, the darkness didn’t lift and her eyes only burned. This was caused by the gooey flour that had formed in her eyes during sleep. But was there an eye doctor here who could rid her of this awful inflammation?

  Caroline sat up in order to see better. She wasn’t able to see much more, but she could grasp where she was, and that yesterday they had been locked up here, she and her husband, her sister, the children, and at least a hundred others. They all must have arrived here and rolled around in the flour. No, it wasn’t flour made of grain, it was bran, but also not made of grain, rather moldy sawdust that produced an acrid smell, the flaky splinters pressing at you no matter which way you turned. If you stood up and shook yourself off, your neighbors would yell at you to watch out as the bran flew all around and everyone complained. Leopold said it was like being in the army, but outside in the field, not in a barracks, though now it would seem that everyone here was enlisted; you could only make do with whatever quarters you found, making sure that you had a roof over your head and were not stuck in some foxhole full of water. “Look, Caroline, they prepared a straw bed for us so that we would be more comfortable. They even made sure to take care of the lights.” It was good that Leopold was satisfied. At home things were never right. Caroline sat and placed her hands on the knapsack in order to better remember. But inside her mind the past was no clearer. She could sense that she had forgotten a great deal, all of which a ringing skull did not help in the least. Was it time for Carnival? Was it New Year’s? Had she had too much to drink, let herself get carried away? Or had she been ill and simply been dreaming? Probably she was dreaming, even if it was with open eyes, for only in a dream could such a murky twilight descend and remain so endless.