by H. G. Adler
The same thing happened to the consignment shops as had happened to The Golden Grape. They were taken over and told they were no longer needed. You are out of business, because officials from the Ministry of Commerce will now handle your business, as well as take control of the stockrooms of all dissolved firms. Only a few secondhand dealers were still able to apply their expertise. Even though they were just servants and underlings, they still stood a rung higher on the social ladder since they were now civil servants. This allowed them to wear the glorious emblem reserved for those who are paid servants of the state.
A large part of the work was not the concern of the former rag dealers. The people’s pride wouldn’t stand for that. Instead, the responsibility for gathering and saving was reserved for those who were better suited and brought more spirit to the work than the cool, calculated nature of salespeople. New people were tapped who slowly, from hour to hour and year to year, attained their full potential in service to the state, climbing from the fallen on the lowest rungs of the ladder to the holy desk of the front office at the top. The Ministry of Commerce approached the Ministry of Education to help spread the feeling of general well-being, and so schoolchildren with their clever heads and tender, diligent, restless hands were enlisted to gather monthly from the houses of Leitenberg all the useless items thrown away. Whenever the children found nothing or almost nothing in a courtyard, they knocked on the door and reminded those inside, “We’re from the War Brigade for Recycling. Don’t you have any bones?” Then the people would bring the children some gnawed bone or another, the young hands snapping it up like young dogs and running away without so much as a thank-you or good-bye.
The consequence of this relentless recycling is that less and less is tossed into the dump. What is brought there is a somewhat uniform kind of rubbish that doesn’t look nasty at all. For the most part it consists of ashes mixed with scrapings, potato skins, and cabbage leaves, as well as broken pottery, pieces of wood, and nearly unrecognizable refuse. Yet whoever dared to poke around a new blossoming heap of rubbish could find rusting iron pots and kettles with holes in them or underneath a rotting shoe worn right through, a faded hat, a coat with no arms, and numerous other treasures that the wild beasts who wandered the hunting fields of what had been publicly abandoned would gladly gather up, provided that the booty was not so ruined that nobody knows how to restore its dignity or save it from further decay in order to alleviate the poverty of the ghosts of Ruhenthal. Now and then a hand lifts something up to eye and nose, and whenever it is something that could be easily hidden—a small can, a nail, a little piece of leather—it disappears into a pocket. Yet if it is something larger, you can’t take it, because the soldiers would notice immediately and shout.
“Are you completely nuts? Throw that crap away right now!”
Then the precious rag is tossed back, its fate sealed forever by wherever the wind will take it.
“Fools like you who steal from rubbish heaps ought to be taken care of for good!”
The words are barked out, but they do no harm. Only actions still matter, no longer words, for they make nothing happen. The power of the word has disappeared or is hidden away, language having lost all meaning. Indeed, what is said is not that different than in earlier times, but it no longer carries any weight. Gravity rests in actions that can be completed right away. Fate waits for nothing. Hardly is something ordered, a wave being all that it takes, and it’s done immediately. Life without sacrifice is no longer possible, while at the same time caution is thrown to the wind. It can no longer even be picked out of the wasteland of rubbish. It exists only in each single step taken by the chain of ghosts. Left right, left right. The symmetry of the steps is not something arranged, but rather only the result of fixed habit.
The soldiers have no problem with this, but in fact look on pleased, because it corresponds to their own sense of habit. They have good boots and walk left, right. They thrust their legs forward, and it feels good to do so, the arms following, a four-footed creature that has been so well drilled that it can stand up and stomp the earth on just its hind feet, though it cannot conceal its origins, having maintained the swing of its front legs. The ghosts, however, are not as capable as the striding animals, but nonetheless they keep trying and sway left, right. Their ragged, torn footwear creates no pounding, but rather a quieter, more uncertain sound, a scraping, left, right, perhaps a stiff-legged dance that moves along the streets in wretched fashion. Some of the ghosts don’t want to settle into “left, right,” but instead want to slide across the earth, rocking back and forth as they scrape along, slinking, shoving themselves forward, wanting to roll, some even wanting to hop along silently, though the other ghosts spoil this game because they want to seem real to the Leitenbergers, so that at least some of them can say, “I saw it myself. It’s really true. We witnessed it ourselves.”
And so the ghosts continue trying without success. What they attempt to do cannot be accomplished, namely to get the Leitenbergers to think of them as real. If the ghosts were to think of themselves as real, that wouldn’t amount to anything, because the townsfolk would still not consider them real. Even if this difficulty were overcome, it still wouldn’t mean anything, because the Leitenbergers would still not believe their own eyes. Such people would only mutually agree that there must be something wrong with their eyes. This would only remove any last doubt that in Leitenberg one cannot see what one does not believe.
Because of their number, the existence of the ghosts was not plausible. Left and right, those are not ghosts. Left and right are only sides. Left and right, those are the streets of Leitenberg. Everything is left or right. Everything is based on left and right. Nothing is left and nothing is right if it in fact does not exist, and therefore there are no ghosts on the right or the left, they can only exist in general, and because ghosts have been abolished they no longer exist, no, not anywhere. The ghosts are not clever enough to realize this, because they really want to seem human as they shuffle along left, right. And so they carve their path forward, pressing upon the surface of the stony pavement, even if it’s with the soft flesh of the knees, left, right, onward, onward, though unlucky are those who cannot keep up because they have blisters on their soles and their shoes hurt, some of them having to hobble along and thus disturb the remaining ghosts, right, left.
The small streets climb uphill. The rows of four across almost fill the street, a sidewalk on the left, a sidewalk on the right, each seeming so close and yet so far away. No ghost can step upon them, because the long curbstones have banished anything impure, anything that would harm the health of the souls of the pious owners. How confidently the few people stand on the two-colored mosaic of the sidewalk and have no idea how small the distance is that separates them from the swaying ghosts, themselves simple people who do not like to stray too far from their lairs in order not to lose touch with their familiar smells. Only reluctantly do these loafers step forth out of their shelters when it concerns their jobs or their needs, and then they quickly turn back. They all push open their doors easily with one hand, take a whiff of their own houses and sniff each curious stain.
Already the street is absent one man. It’s Ambrose, who clambers up the stairs that lead to the upper floor and his apartment, where he slouches in a chair next to a large table. Ambrose has been expected and everything that he needs after his brief outing is set for him. The wife stands ready, her face flushed, a clump of hair having fallen from the knot as she places the tureen of soup on the table. No requests are necessary, it only takes a glance and whoosh! the bowl is filled with vegetable soup brimming full right to the rim. Ambrose bends his back and stoops over the table with his nose pointed straight down. Left lies the spoon, which is picked up and transferred to the right hand. Then it splashes into the bowl and disappears into the steaming broth, though that’s not enough in itself, as the spoon swishes back and forth through the broth in order to fish out a slice of potato and a carrot cube. Then the spoon is lif
ted up a bit and the nose sinks down quickly, while from down below an extra bonus appears, a chunk of meat that swims up from below and touches the lower lip. Then the spoon is lifted and disappears in a flash into the mouth that snaps shut around it. A faint gurgle can be heard as some drops fall from the corners of the mouth and back into the bowl. Ambrose lifts his nose, testing the soup with his gums and then swallowing. Then he sets the spoon down once again.
“Once again it’s gone cool, Katie, and no salt, not enough salt.”
“I put enough in. Otherwise it would be too salty, and you’d complain some more.”
“It’s not enough. It should be hotter. That’s all I ask. Only some more salt.”
Katie reaches for the saltshaker with her left hand. The spoon sinks lazily back into the soup and is let go of as Ambrose’s right hand grabs the saltshaker, turns it upside down, and shakes it once twice, once twice, once twice. Grains of salt fall from it in thin strains.
“The salt is damp, Katie! Some things never change!”
The saltshaker now in his left hand, his right hand grabs the lid and turns and turns, once twice, once twice, once twice, until it’s off. He reaches for the fork with the right hand and pokes down to the bottom of the hardened salt. Then the top is screwed back on again, worked by the right hand, the left hand. Salt is shaken into the soup, more soup is eaten. His hunger is enormous, yet he still fills his stomach, left then right. The bowl is emptied, then is followed by another, and then a third bowl is emptied. That will do it. Ambrose is full and at last feels himself a proper man, and that Katie is a good wife, and that all residents are good because they are holed up in their own houses or houses they rent, in which they take care of their bodies when the times are good. The bodies stretch out and are covered with warm blankets, soon getting hot and sweaty as they grow quiet and sleep as all good people do. That’s what they learned as children, but because they have been so good, they never have to change anything, but rather repeat the same thing day after day, night after night, left right, left right, afraid only of the law and wanting to uphold their sense of responsibility.
The residents gather together and agree on what is good and to the right, while that which is bad and to the left they want nothing to do with and toss away. They feed themselves properly and digest their food as they have always done. They listen to the doctor whenever there’s a problem with the seamless running of their metabolism until once again they are healthy. If the doctor cannot heal the body, then the doctor looks them in the eye sincerely, and then behind their backs laughs and shrugs his shoulders. Then comes the notary, followed by the undertaker, and everything is complete. Other proper souls move into the emptied rooms, generation after generation, right and left, as far as one can see.
Yet on this particular day nothing is known, everything is the same, not even a closet door is opened. Today is never fully known, something is always bound to be happening elsewhere. As long as it doesn’t intrude on matters then nothing changes. The journey doesn’t seem real, there is always just Leitenberg and the streets, this house, and here Katie and Ambrose nestle and lounge about and get up and gnaw away at bread and beets. Not much waste is produced, nothing but ashes. The days repeat themselves, once, twice, one after the other, whether or not the ghost train wanders by or not. It’s always the same, the noses sniff, nothing bothers them, nothing gets on their nerves, because ghosts are strange and must atone for the fact that they are still there even when they are not welcomed in this house. If there were no such ghosts then there would be peace in the land and the sons of Katie and Ambrose would also be at home and not marching left and right in the wide world.
Then Katie called out, “They’re coming!”
No, not the boys. Which is why Ambrose doesn’t even look up and has no interest in his soup. He is tired, much too tired; rest is the wages of work. Ambrose wants nothing to do with this horrible yapping. Digestion is all the salvation one gets.
“They’re not coming, Katie! Stop thinking that they are!”
Ambrose, however, doesn’t consider the banished, whose scraping feet can be heard on Bridge Street. He sees his boys before his eyes and knows that they will never again walk down the streets outside. My boys, my boys, yanked from their home, whisked away, though for a good cause, for the war, the country’s security, the peace of the citizenry, as well as applesauce, the tax on consumption, glory, and soup. So it’s for the good! The victory palm already stands in the vase beneath Grandpa’s picture. One can’t be quite as sure of the good Lord, but almost, for there must be one, though without a beard, and there will be peace in the land, here beneath His long nose, as they march left and right through the applesauce of the good Lord watching from above, amen. Amen! Then the journey will be over. Garlands will hang from the bridge. WELCOME TO THE GOLDEN GRAPE, SERVING COFFEE AND WINE. Katie, wouldn’t it be wonderful to march with them? No more ghosts. No more paper, just my dear boys. We wouldn’t throw anything away. Not even bones, we could grind them into a fine flour instead.
“My dear, you’re sleepy. Go to bed.”
“No, no! I’m not at all. Just a quick nap. And now I’m fine. I just barely dozed off. But it doesn’t matter. Not at all, Katie, I swear, most of all to you.”
Without war there can be no victory. That’s what Ambrose had been told. The Leitenberg Daily had written the same thing. The result being left, right. That’s the way it was. Written words are sacred, because you can hold them in your hand. You can throw them away, but they don’t disappear from the public library. That which is written down speaks the truth, which is the most sacred thing of all. On each little cube it says, “I am Vita-All. Just add me for extra spice and nutrition in your soup. Katie, toss me in; Ambrose, left right, will love it! Since he already likes having gruel and soup, it will also help his terrible teeth!”
Everything is a mess. The boys who will never walk the streets again, the ghosts of Ruhenthal who march on by, it’s all a mess, even Katie is a mess, and Ambrose is a mess, the potato soup with Vita-All is a mess, and then whoosh! the brimming spoonful disappears between the rotten teeth, swishing around the left jaw, the right jaw, then down the middle and into the stomach, into the pit, buried, everything covered up, thrown into the rubbish where it boils and bubbles. Tasty sauces bubble up in order that Ambrose can rise and shine once more. For he’s there again after his winter’s sleep, going up and down the steps. Then he takes to the streets. He sees soldiers passing by, carrying out the pleasurable business of guarding the ghosts in order that they do not run away. Though they’ve been forbidden to do so, that won’t do any good if one isn’t careful. The riffraff from Ruhenthal are only afraid of the cold bullet in the belly. They all have a little tummy that has grown thin and dirty, because they are pigs who don’t wash, their women nothing more than hollow straws full of thin soup. How it would spray about if one peppered the pack with shrapnel! Then the voices of the ghosts would scream loudly and croak on the spot, Bridge Street full of rotting corpses, the war on, the result a bloody mess and no applesauce, the remains needing to be thrown onto a wagon with pitchforks. Then off to the dump and away with them! Let’s have at it! Into the pit with hip-high boots! Roll up your sleeves! Dig those graves! Cover them over! But that’s too much work. There’s a better way. And so the gasoline is brought out and lit, a huge hygienic fire billowing. Then ashes are all that’s left, which can just be spread about.
Ambrose smiles with pleasure. He stretches and lightly dreams, but he doesn’t sleep, no, he doesn’t sleep. Katie has moved the easy chair next to the window and into the sun so that the man of the house can sprawl out with his legs spread wide. He is a little tired, yet he feels completely fine, for he’s feeling fine, and because of that he can digest his meal in peace. Potatoes and carrots swell the belly, yet Ambrose has to eat them if he’s to get his fill, since there’s no meat. Katie must do everything she can in order to have enough to feed Ambrose, because a hungry husband in the house is a problem a
nd will only lead to trouble for the wife. But Katie always managed to bring it off because she loved her Ambrose, and love was more inventive than necessity. Because of that Ambrose is nearly satisfied and only grumbles a bit. Things could be better, certainly, but after four years of war it’s bearable, you get used to it since you only live once. If one were to consider everything that happened under this foolish heaven, then it would be unbearable, which is why Ambrose doesn’t want such things to trouble his head.
Whatever happens will happen, meanwhile the soup is served. First the eyes take it in, then the belly senses it. Sleep, Ambrose, sleep on! Ambrose hears his mother’s voice. It sounds so warm and friendly that he cannot imagine how such a charming voice can call from the grave, but that must be because the Leitenberg Cemetery is so beautiful. There is not a more beautiful garden in the entire town, not even the one by the castle, and for All Souls’ the cemetery is filled with endless garlands and bouquets, the entire landscape smelling of damp earth and ruffled late autumn blossoms, of flickering oil and tallow candles, Masses sung in all the churches, credo in unum deum, credo, credo, done in the third conjugation. After four years of high school at least some Latin still remained, and there is still a God in heaven, everyone knows, though He doesn’t have a beard, the pope having said so himself. With a little Latin one understands a lot more in life than uneducated commoners, plebis plebis, that being the third declension, not to mention that one also has a credit line and a savings book for the First National Bank, the Leitenberg branch. A worry-free old age is ensured, credo in unam sanctam, for there is always enough to go around if only the currency doesn’t depreciate still further.