by H. G. Adler
Yet, full of fear, we court the strange and seize hold of it in order to own something for the first time, because it is difficult to believe in yourself when you are not master of something that stands for yourself, thus confirming that you exist through what is yours, though in the end it’s still only a part of yourself. This touches upon the fact that you yourself are so little, it being difficult to even know if you exist at all when you in fact possess nothing. All power, all fame, and all greatness love to be displayed through symbols of power or at the very least wealth. The history of mankind is a history of power and wealth, its fairy tales and proverbs have been shaped by it as well. The face of the Earth, as long as man has prevailed upon it and transformed it, is nothing more than a scarred field created and abandoned by such madness.
Leitenberg is a wound, a superficial ulcer that owes its creation and existence to the greed of men. Each one says: “This is mine! A house, a yard, a dog! This I call mine! Mine! Mine! These I grant my will and a name, which I think is a good thing. I chose them myself. A house, a yard, a dog! I need my possessions!” And so Leitenberg was founded and grew. This and every other town struggled for dubious rights through grim means and used coldhearted power to dupe those who didn’t know anything, didn’t want to know anything, and who were continually done in by human intentions. And so it came to pass, the deadly battle raging back and forth, an undeclared and thus maddening war.
In the name of justice, injustice is installed, defying the condemnations that want to destroy the visible signs of greed. Yet the monuments have long since superceded human power with their own power, and so they remain as someone passes by who is being taken away and has been dispossessed and sent into exile to survive there as long as he can until the day of his final dissolution, when he is nothing more than a dead animal, the horrible image of which he remains for only a few hours more, and which he had become even before the truth was completely revealed to him.
Those who live on create special memorials to the dead, whom they call the departed, wishing still to possess them or to appear to possess them, though they also turn them into rubbish or refuse, which is easier to abandon when necessary. And so gardens are set up, fenced in and tended with care, where in locked crates the former owners pass on through the observation of certain customs and morals. In the gardens narrow holes are dug and filled, around which gather the living with heavy hearts, shedding tears as they stick the crates into the ground, tossing their murdered flowers after them and shoveling them over with earth until the holes close up. But the ceremony doesn’t satisfy their pride, and so they create a mound above each hole that is planted with flowers and decorated in order to satisfy their belief that the former owner will not disappear from the memories of the new owners.
The mounds in this garden are lavishly decorated, and each is named. That’s something special, as workers drag in special blocks of granite that require great effort as well as expense. With chains the blocks are lifted and placed above those who can do nothing against the fact that the stones are set directly above their skulls. But there’s comfort in this strange custom, for now the dissolute once again possess something that, at least in the imaginations of the living, cannot be taken away. The dead are condemned to silence, but the stones must have pity on them and, amid all the ornamentation, proclaim the wonder of their names for all to see.
Whoever has a name enjoys his simple existence and has not left the society of whatever world in which the slightest hint of a name still brings him joy. “All ye rejoice, for we have a name!” Holy choirs sound beneath the ringing of bells that swing to and fro and that do not shatter. For that would mean existence is endangered, there being nothing to denote it with gusto. The dead are not erased, rather their names are instead proclaimed far and wide. Their legacy outlasts their contempt, their misery, and all sadness. For existence has erected a monument to itself that towers above them.
Existence is all that remains, an almost incomprehensible collection of the detritus left over. The one who lives, who cannot live there, feels like a helpless stranger. He is someone who is led past and then through. He still has eyes and can see, he’s not dead, even if he can do no more than express what he observes, thus becoming a ghost imprisoned and dressed as a living figure. The dead man made of stone is not absent for long and needs no outward shell, since he has one and is one. The ghost newly transformed is added to many other ghosts of his own kind, all of which appear in similar manifestations, possessions being one of them, even though there may be few left, or few that are allowed or granted by higher powers, versus the power of the wrongful owners who have ensured their own control over existence and make no distinction as to whether what they have seized are things that belong to the dead and are what remains of them, or indeed if they belong to the living who want to own them for themselves and make their claim to them. However, the living cannot do so, since after the creation of the laws that caused them to cease to exist, they are not what they really are, having instead become goods that have been taken, which, since they are not things and therefore do not exist, can no longer be proprietors that one can either count or recognize as people, but rather are ghosts clad in different forms whom the unbelievers retaliate against whenever they make themselves visible, harming them in ways that any of us can suffer but that one should never be forced to bear.
The chain of people driven on through Leitenberg consists of ghosts because only a few inhabitants of the town have the ability to see them, their own eyes having practiced looking deeply into the eyes of people whose essence they recognize but who are not essential at all. And so the inhabitants run around, mostly women and children who busily move and jump about without thinking. Their eyes are either closed because they possess the countenances of dreamers, or their gaze wanders, looking straight, though not entirely through what is not completely alive. Nonetheless they look at a specter that to them is not real, though they don’t lash out at objects they are not accustomed to seeing, their gazes drifting off endlessly. Gazes that see clearly become few and far between, because once they become empty of thought they are fleeting and no longer exist. They represent something that cannot easily be controlled, even though the otherwise helpless are provided with free security, presumably only through the merciful desire to maintain, amid totally collapsed or never achieved order, some kind of legal structure, though not through the will of the secured or the power of the guards, each member of Leitenberg participating in it, as well as all of those outside the town, no matter where, as far as the world reaches.
It doesn’t matter whether it is so or not so. It either looks different to you all or you don’t see it at all. In any case it will pass and you will pass on. Or you’ll simply stand there unable to move and everything will pass by you. But it’s not as if you have not experienced any of this; none of you is so shut down that you feel nothing pressing at you from outside or within. None of you is free of this fate. Indeed, none of you can stop it, which is why it’s called fate, yourselves voyagers journeying toward a specter that appears everywhere. Should anyone bother to try to find out what happened, it will already have passed. And so everything passes. Even though things continue, they also fall apart, and thus nothing survives.
This or that is picked up along the way and lifted up to be assessed for its worth and placed together symbolically with similar things that have been collected, different relationships drawn between them, the unexpected possessing its own inward reality and attesting to the fact that something else indeed still exists. Distinctions become obvious as soon as the symbolic power of objects ignites as effigy and meaning is gradually restored to them in the movement of the flames. Entire worlds can indeed be destroyed, which the thinking person appreciates—thought is nothing more than memory, which is why thought is also a kind of memorial, and so its content is always outstripped, its desire being always to exist in the present, among whose thick webs it presses on into the endlessly pressing gaze of the possib
le, which is the future—and yet nothing remains of thought, because whatever is thought has already passed, time having already passed, namely into the helpless past, the realm of all that remains of what has flowed into reality as manifest desires that have now come into being, though through their becoming they have forfeited their essence and their truth.
Only because thought takes pity on the tiny bits that remain is there something on which everything rests and that can be relied upon. There are some who easily say it is so, and with some measure of hope. For then people would have sufficient reason and excuse to accept everything as is, to construct it before themselves, to build it themselves. How long it lasts depends on the strength of the builders. Usually it lasts for a long time; the fear that results in protracted endeavor sees to that. An endeavor is a concern that tries to protect itself and that doesn’t want to let itself turn into a satisfied effort, whereby the continuation of real relations is realized amid total flux.
The sinister is buried or, without anyone noticing, is thrown out with the rubbish that the town hauls away once a week and dumps onto open ground near the Scharnhorst barracks in Leitenberg. There all despair is tossed away and forgotten, for so much intense disgust is associated with the useless that the community has decided as one to block it out of their immediate view, and in exchange for pay for this equally important and despised task, they let the unfortunate people cart it all away, away, away so that it is out of sight, out of mind. Only the rats love what’s normally thrown out, as well as those rarities that they are not shy about. Thus near the camp, the rubbish lies there and rots, unobserved by most, despised by those who must look at it or who see it by chance. The plants themselves thrive, growing fat and lush with spreading leaves and tiny buds, shamelessly indifferent to the rubbish that nourishes them.
Today it is much quieter in Leitenberg than when the hauling away of rubbish was a sacred ritual and taken care of with loud fanfare. Back then a man moved from building to building with a handbell, stepped into the foyer and rang loudly, the sound echoing joyfully up through each floor. What it said was: “Listen, people, and be happy, for right behind me the garbagemen are coming to haul away your rubbish!” Many impatiently waited for the herald, while whoever had forgotten today was the day had the chance to be saved by the envoy’s bell. Then all the housewives and maids would run out of the apartments with buckets and boxes and gather before it building’s front door. Vigorous chatter erupted as they kept a lookout for the expected wagon. And indeed it was only a little while before it lumbered along slowly yet steadily, the cart swaying as it passed over the cobblestones. Two powerful horses were hitched to the wagon, the driver never having to yell “Halt!” since they knew their task so well that they stopped at precisely the right spot in front of each building. The sign to move on was given with only a casual click of the tongue.
Soon the wagon reached your own building, all of the women running out to it with their full containers that two men gathered in with open arms. Their practiced hands emptied the containers in one sweep, pounding hard twice on the bottom to make sure nothing stuck inside. Then the men casually handed back the crates and buckets, which were taken in by the expectant hands reaching out to them. Clouds of dust rose from the wagon, as well as ashes and tiny grains of dirt, now and then a bright piece of paper dancing impishly on the wind. Whoever stood next to the wagon could breathe in the stench of rotting scraps and cabbage leaves, but it was never a single smell, for it contained both burning smells and sharp smells alike. Meanwhile the horses moved on, and quickly the women and girls headed back into the building with their empty containers. The doors of the apartments closed, buckets and crates were placed firmly back in their spots, ready to receive the garbage of the coming days.
No longer is the whole process carried out in such good spirits, nor is the glee involved in getting rid of the rubbish either enjoyed or looked forward to or perhaps even fathomed. Now in the courtyard some large metal cans stand, into which at any hour you can dump what you no longer want to keep, and once a week, without prior notice, a huge wagon appears with two men in overalls with rubber gloves that look like fins. The men walk into the courtyard, confident and indifferently cool, lifting one can after another, emptying each coldly and in a professional manner so that no dust rises, not a word is said, the empty cans rolling back into the courtyard as if it all meant nothing. Once the wagon is full it travels as fast as it can out behind the Scharnhorst barracks, its contents dumped with a simple tilt of the wagon’s body. Sighing and gasping, the rubbish sinks into the field, then the wagon rushes back to the city in order to clean out more streets and suck up more victims into its monstrous stomach.
All of this is entirely different in Ruhenthal, the town of visible ghosts, who also have a ton of rubbish. But since everything there is in shambles, it’s difficult to distinguish normal rubbish from abnormal. That’s why it only becomes noticeable once it has filled every corner and the courtyards are overflowing with it. Then at last it’s gathered up by tired souls and, amid complaints, is thrown into open barrels that stand on an out-of-service funeral wagon. These wagons have neither motors nor animals, but instead are slowly dragged away by ghosts who shuffle along in baggy clothes. It all happens with hardly any noise but for a low hum, some squeaks, and a muffled growling, as the wagons rumble roughly along. Their suspensions—which were not made for such heavy loads, but instead for a corpse’s wary journey into the unknown—have long since broken down. The cobblestones are also broken and sharp, or composed of thick fat shiny stones so rounded and uneven that the high wheels of the hearse wobble back and forth as they bump along down the street.
Here Leopold, the old doctor, keeps busy and looks completely satisfied. He doesn’t have to strain himself too much, for the funeral wagon is accompanied by a crowd of men and women who, though none of them are young, still have enough strength to carry out their task casually but with discipline. Leopold also doesn’t have to load the rubbish, the group having dispatched two young women to take care of that. As the oldest, Leopold is given special consideration he’s completely unaware of. He believes the task is easy, certainly much easier than taking care of grumpy patients. One gets to travel around the neighborhood, seeing this, hearing that, and taking joy in the extra slice of bread one gets for the day’s work. Sometimes he instructs his fellow workers and tells them about various illnesses they could get from what they’re handling, or better yet how to guard against them. More and more he sinks into himself, standing and walking along next to the wagon, which sometimes stops while he keeps walking on absentmindedly, unaware of what’s happening around him. Then someone yells, “Hey, Doctor!” Leopold snaps out of it and mutters something about why didn’t anyone say something earlier, then all right, all right, as he slogs back in good spirits and with a grateful smile.
Leopold has time to think things over. He is here because he has to be. It’s because of the war. It’s the same as being in the army, and he’s the surgeon major. He’s not really here, for he’s only passing through. It’s an extended summer vacation, but the accommodations could be better. There’s no butter and the coffee is terrible. The service is slow and irregular. Things need to be better organized, but Leopold is not asked to do so. He’s too old, although that’s not true at all. It’s just not right. Caroline can’t stand to watch. The women don’t understand any of it. Leopold came here because he was ordered to, but the day is coming when such an order will no longer mean anything, the war will be over, someone will pass out bars of milk chocolate and restoratives to build strength, Leopold writing the prescriptions for the best preparations before he heads back to Stupart, from which he was dragged away like a condemned criminal meant for Devil’s Island. Leopold won’t spend a single hour more than he has to in Ruhenthal. The suitcase will be quickly packed, Zerlina helping him, since she does it best.
Frau Lischka will be shocked and astounded when Dr. Lustig returns with his family, but Bunny will be h
appy to see them and will get a huge sausage as a reward. Politely the house lady will come along and open the door wide. At first she’ll be dumbfounded, but then she’ll remember her duties and will remind the doctor to wipe his shoes because of all the mud still clinging to them. Yes, that’s right, everything in Ruhenthal is filthy, the shoes so rotted that they can no longer be worn. Yet that will all soon change, Frau Lischka, we’ll now buy new shoes. Yet what’s unfortunately still true will remain no more than a moment, a war memory. Just wipe it away and don’t ask any questions so that one can just forget! Everything bad is gone, and only the beautiful past remains. Doctors are always needed. Many in Stupart will be happy when there’s someone like Leopold around again, someone who has learned and experienced a great deal, and who always gives his best effort. Leopold is happy to tend his patients with steadfast care. He has saved many, and there’s no giving up on anyone in good conscience until they are dead. Many cases are quite serious, but none are hopeless. One must try to heal the sick and never give up hope as long as they are breathing. Miracles indeed don’t happen, but nature has limitless resources, you only need to find them and tap them. Then something can be done.
The sick call on Leopold, mothers arrive full of worry and frantically say, “Doctor, my child has a fever. Please, come quickly!” And he says, “Make sure to keep him in bed! I’ll be right there! It won’t be long. I just have to finish with my appointments. Or is it that pressing?”—“No, hopefully it’s not that pressing, but please make it soon, dear Doctor, please hurry!”—“I’ll be there soon!” Or at least as soon as all of the patients in the waiting room have had their chance to complain about their pains and be examined and taken care of, as Leopold washes his hands once again, cleanliness not only being the better half of healthiness but also the better half of medicine. The washstand is old and its style outmoded, but it always served its purpose well. The basin is held by two brackets and can be tipped with a simple push of the hand, though care must be taken, for the bucket behind the wooden stand fills up quickly with dirty water and can overflow. Then Dr. Lustig complains that things are not being looked after properly, and then Caroline gets angry at Leopold for not paying better attention to the water, saying that he should keep an eye on it and let Emmy know when it’s full so that she can carry out the pail before it runs over. Leopold is simply annoyed, for how many times has he not said that someone should come into the examination room from time to time, or at least once an hour, and make sure everything was in order, because he had patients to take care of and had too many other things on his mind to bother about such small matters. The doctor grows just as angry whenever Emmy forgets to fill the tank above the basin, as such annoyance brings the practice to a halt when Leopold turns the faucet and only a few drops run out followed by nothing. But if the water tank is filled as it should be, such that Leopold can wash up, then he quickly dries his hands, sticks all his necessities into his medical bag, and scurries into the foyer, where, summer or winter, he dons the same light gray coat and large black floppy hat.