by H. G. Adler
“The question that you’ve posed is far outside my concerns. We have three hundred and twenty-seven beds and twenty-seven spots in the emergency room. At the moment we are completely full, and there’s a long list of cases that are waiting for us to tend to them. It doesn’t matter to me where the cases are from. We only consider the urgency and the place on the list. No one is allowed to remain in the hospital longer than six weeks except for pressing reasons. For the most part, patients either get healthy in that amount of time or they die. For longer-term illnesses, it usually involves in-home care, the patient either rallying or dying, thereby making it unnecessary to keep him here. The only exceptions we make are for the war wounded. There is normally no special medical reason to support this, but it has to do with remaining humane, for we have to find some way to reward our heroes. National law not only demands this but also the gratitude of the people. However, it would be hard to say what influence the hospital could possibly have on the past and future history of Leitenberg, for in principle, these days all hospitals in the country are alike. Since they are no longer privately run, the differences between them have practically disappeared. Because of that, any further developments in the hospital’s running have much more to do with advancements in medicine than the future of the community of Leitenberg. Remember, of course, that we don’t belong to the town. We are national. The name ‘Leitenberg Hospital’ is a holdover and causes confusion. There’s a history behind it. It would please me to see the eight-hundredth anniversary help spread this useful bit of information among the population.”
“Many thanks. Would you mind if I asked a patient what he thought of the anniversary?”
“Unfortunately that’s not possible. There’s no possibility of that happening. Interviews have been banned in the hospital according to a clear policy made by the director, who happens to be me.”
The local reporter broods. He feels just fine sitting atop his column, but he also appreciates that it’s a last refuge. Below on the pavement everything is already unsafe, because this pavement will not hold up and no longer has any history ever since it has been overrun with locusts. The stones say nothing, they being nothing more than dumb witnesses, since no memory attaches to them. Nobody here can even have such a memory. The old parchments in the town archives are of no use as long as nobody reads them nor can read them, for whoever is still alive is overwhelmed, while the only ones free are dead. What does it matter that the street sweeper Johann Pietsch swirls around the column with his broom raised high when for him the slippery pavement is nothing more than a surface on which to pile up rubbish, one as good as any other, though at the moment Johann wants nothing more to do with it since he’s just doing his job. He himself has no idea that Mass was once served in front of this column. Each year, on the name day of the saint who guards against the plague, people gathered here and held a Mass under an open sky. Masses are no longer celebrated. At least not here. There are no people here who would want to hear them, no consecrated priest who can pronounce the creed, no gloria in excelsis deo. What is there left to praise? The heavens no longer exist ever since the sky has been occupied. And where there is no heaven, there is no earth beneath it.
Leitenberg has disappeared, but there is no special edition announcing it. The last edition of The Leitenberg Daily cannot be delivered. The locusts have made it impossible. There are no subscribers, no one to take out an ad. Birth announcements and obituaries are no longer published. Even the young lady at the front desk who devoted her career to handling these has turned to stone. Everything has marched off to the dumps in long processions, though the locusts are not accompanied by church dignitaries. Mindless legs attached to noses hobble along. Miserably they shuffle along, left right, left—stop. The corporal cries out in a rage, because the procession doesn’t move right along but instead scrapes and creaks along, left-right-right-lo-cust. Outside on the teeming heap are wriggling insects, spiders, and worms. Mutsch the cat looks at the mess and raises a threefold ruckus against the Beautification Association. The locusts think it’s an anthem marking the sudden appearance of Mayor Viereckl, and so out of respect they remove their hats. They are wildly happy and continue to buzz.
Amid its chilly, golden solitude the plague column remains. It stands tall above the compost. It is made of petrified wood, an ancient tree with mighty knots and bloody boils amid sunlight, a monument to itself that is imperishable. Balthazar Schwind smiles as he looks on at the endless ghost train that stands before him. The ghosts bow and lewdly wobble their rabbit ears, though perhaps it isn’t lewd, but rather out of the fear and horror that the ghosts feel when the chorus of locusts chirp their dissonant fugue. The reporter looks down at the sunken spirits of the rabbits and doesn’t know whether their mute reverence is directed at him or the saint that he towers above. Most likely it is him, because together the ghosts lift their noses upward toward him, rather than staring at the locusts, nor would monuments to saints mean anything to ghosts. They want the life that they no longer have. They want to be photographed in order to create verifiable evidence that they are there. If it were true then the incorruptible film would provide proof, because that which does not exist cannot be photographed. Schwind would be happy to oblige them, but the rusted apparatus prevents it. Vainly the reporter tries to turn the crank in order to forward the film, but the black box only crunches its worn-out gears and cries out for mercy.
“I can’t take a shot of you. It’s forbidden. It’s the last roll. There’s no more film. One quarter, half, I’m afraid it’s all gone. My dear rabbits, or ghosts, the good old camera is broken.”
“Please, take a shot! Only that which is forbidden can save us! We ourselves are forbidden. What will become of us if you don’t acknowledge that we exist?”
“I allow that you’re here, but I’m not allowed to allow that you’re here!”
“But there’s no one here to stop you, to prevent you allowing that which is not allowed. Dear reporter, high up on your column, be brave and don’t shy away from the impossible!”
“Your appeal almost moves me to tears. Yet what you claim is not true. The unallowed has been forbidden. I have received the strictest instructions for editing. Perhaps you don’t understand why because you no longer know what’s going on, but you must believe me! I could be suspended from the fatherland’s press corps, be censored, or receive some other penalty.”
“There is nobody to ensure that such deadly orders are complied with. We won’t betray you, for you are one of us. Don’t deny us any longer! Pull out that black thing with the long handle! We insist! Take a shot, right now!”
“I can’t turn the film, I already told you. If I pressed the shutter you would appear as a double exposure and that would be poor evidence for your unknown existence.”
“Mere excuses, Herr Schwind! We exist wherever one can take a shot of us! It may be a double exposure, but take a shot! We only need to be seen, and that you can do if you are a good reporter.”
“You’re wrong, for I want to! But I can’t do whatever I wish. You should know in your hearts that I have always wanted to report on you. But unfortunately nothing ever came of it, at least since the start of this war. The moment I wanted to do something it was over, and then I could only perceive the pain of the past. But not as having passed, for the pain was there. It’s still there, and is incessant. I also wanted to do a special edition on the eight-hundredth anniversary. But the hell surrounding us wouldn’t allow it. The fading away of Leitenberg got the best of me.”
“But we’re still here! You could do a wonderful issue about us! Take our pictures! After the war the Americans will pay a load of money for them. If the problem is that there are no people around, we can fill the gap. So let’s just start a new life, and we’ll bring you along with us. We are building a new future for ourselves in Ruhenthal. Come along with us to the other side of the river. There are deep woods there that prevent one being seen, making it perhaps even safer from aerial attack. We’ll
name you the editor in chief of a new newspaper, which we’ll call The Ruhenthal Prospect.”
“Thank you for this honor, but I’m afraid I can’t accept it. The ban is still in effect and will remain so as long as I’m around. I’m alive and real here upon this column where you see me, that is, if you can see me.”
“Quick, take a shot! Develop it and come along with us! Ruhenthal awaits you! Ruhenthal will welcome you warmly and take care of all your future needs! You’ll have your own special accommodations, a proper bed for yourself alone, a loaf of bread each day, and a double portion of soup for lunch.”
Schwind wavers amid his indecision and wonders if he shouldn’t give in to the ghosts. He thinks of old ballads about the water carrier who wanted to entice his victims to cross the river. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to go along, since after the destruction of Leitenberg there will be no more hometown to live in. It is completely possible that he could also preserve himself amid the bewitched realm of the prisoners if he only chose the other shore. And yet, though Balthazar wants to take a shot and presses his thumbs against the camera case, his strength fails. The reporter realizes this is no game and is startled. He wants to lift his legs from the stony head of Saint Rochus, but he can’t. Schwind has lost the feeling in his legs and therefore calls down to the ghosts hesitantly:
“I’m afraid I can’t do it unless one of you climbs up here and takes the shot for me before helping me down from my lonely perch so that I can join you all amid the muck! But make it fast!”
But no, Balthazar Schwind cannot be helped, because the expectant and extended rabbit ears can no longer hear his voice since he can no longer speak, his voice having dried up. Thus he has to hold fast and follow orders, whether or not he recognizes those orders or not. He is now a part of the column itself, an idle and monstrous piece of fruit that is welded to the trunk. He is caught up in the inevitable and titanic fate of the born reporter who must fulfill his responsibilities whether he wants to or not. To always be there when something happens, that’s what the reporter’s code states, and Schwind now feels the guilt of his failure. He thinks of his ancestor Prometheus. He was indeed the one who gave humankind the gift of the newspaper, something for which he suffered for eternity. And now all it amounted to was to be welded to a plague column, to wait there and not join up with the ghost train, as in silent agony their offer had to be declined.
The reporter looked on with empty eyes as the train began to again move off into the unknown with no sign of sympathy for the one welded to the column. Only Johann Pietsch still stood at the base of the column, appearing undisturbed by all of the events and remembering his duties as he worked on without worry, battling against the immense piles of rubbish with his broom. It was a touching reminder that in this world there was still a clear sense of purpose and responsibility. But after a few strong efforts the sweeper realized that it was impossible to take care of all the dung and dirt. Johann looked up at the column as if Balthazar could provide some kind of illumination, but the reporter was suddenly no longer up there. Most likely he was free again after having thought about disobeying the rules, and now he could once more take his photographs and make his notes in order to write up a snazzy article about life in the town for his paper. To this end he had left his perch on the column, climbed onto his bicycle, and scooted back to the comfort of his office.
The times had once more become humane. Peacefully the big hand of the town clock followed its proscribed course. Refuse is still strewn about, but the locusts have taken off and there is no trace of the ghosts. Peacefully the sun shines on the gaudy sign of The Leitenberg Daily, whose publication is no longer in question. There people stand in front of newly displayed pages and nurse their thirst for war and their hunger for news about the latest events in the city. Above, on the first floor, in the safety of Schwind’s brightly lit office, the otherwise impossible is first born, the story having just been finished, which now tenderly rocks in the security of the newspaper’s offices before, a little while later, the people gratefully learn what’s happened. Schwind looks at his secretary, slaps his forehead in amazement, and realizes that though everything in the story had happened, it existed no longer, it was over, and therefore could be printed. If he hasn’t expended every last beat of his heart while pounding on the typewriter, then perhaps he’ll last another quarter hour, even a half. The newspaper is time’s bandage and shows how things can heal. Read it and you’ll be healthy again! The voice you hear is your own, it’s a success. Time is also back on its feet, the high point of happiness having been scaled, because the newspaper is back, appearing punctually and available everywhere. No longer can events just flutter away, they are gathered and remain, turned into paper and taken care of for your benefit. Numerous copies end up in the rubbish, but certainly not all of them. Some survive and will still be around to tell your grandchildren the truth.
Thus the newspaper’s words prevail over you. The ripened pages are carried out in flexible bundles, the word of the day is finally offered up, still smelling of ink. Carriers run through the city with satchels and thick bundles, paperboys call out loudly with chirping voices on every corner: “Here it is! We don’t have to tell you what’s happened, because it’s folded up four times and printed, it’s now dry, it’s been saved!” The pages are handed over to people walking by in exchange for small coins as addicted eyes sink into the latest events of the day, though none exist any longer. And so it endlessly goes, souls drinking in a perpetual yesterday, which they are granted as if it were their own. Each recognizes it for himself for just a few moments, feeling blessed by the powers of the editor to reveal the innermost secret of existence, but the words can hold on to it for only a short while, in fact for just a few moments, because even when it lasts for a quarter of an hour, a half, or even a whole hour, after a single day everything is simply over with, an unappeasable desire pressing at the poor townsfolk as The Leitenberg Daily unleashes once again the fury of transitory life.
Except for a few copies, each day’s edition is done away with when, after an array of fates, the copies meet their end when tossed into the rubbish. The butcher Alexander Poduschka regularly collects old newspapers to wrap his wares in, for he doesn’t want to give his customers the officially allowed allotments of meat, sausage, and fat in their naked, natural state. Poduschka blesses each day’s printed pages, his faithful customers bringing them to him quite happily since they know he can’t get any other paper. And so the victories of our heroes, the disgraceful acts and lies of our enemies, as well as the hardly noticeable article on the special new tax measures are carefully wrapped around thin slices of sausage. Then the headlines become damp and greasy, the clear print blending together in dreamlike fashion. With some effort one can still make out the words, yet nobody likes the melting together of current events, as each yearns instead for the bland food within, crumpling up the useless paper without a thought and sticking it in the furnace in order to light a fire. Such is the fate of the headlines among the people. Soon nobody remembers anything of them. Once more all effort is for nought. What exists is consumed, everything is consumed. No crumb is wasted, because the need for each is immense, and there are many unlucky people who would be overjoyed to have strewn before them the crumbs left behind by naughty children who don’t want to eat them. Mother, the teacher at school, everyone had said that one had to be grateful that all of the needy had been so well taken care of during this war. There were no longer rich and poor, only justice existed for a just people. What was taken from the ghosts was given to the people. Everything was the same for everyone. In huge letters, what Mayor Viereckl had told the schoolchildren on the eight-hundredth anniversary appeared on the front of the offices of The Leitenberg Daily:
YOUR NEIGHBOR’S SUFFERING IS YOUR OWN JOY
The ghost train has arrived at the Scharnhorst barracks. Leitenberg is behind them. Paul only remembers being led through the streets and the marketplace. The prisoners can once again speak openly, fo
r talking is allowed here as long as it isn’t too loud. And so questions and answers shuttle quietly back and forth.
“Did you see at the marketplace that they …?”
“No, I didn’t notice it, but when …”
“They live as if it were peacetime. They don’t have to go without anything but …”
“It’s easy to feel jealous, yet their day will come, and maybe sooner than …”
None of it is true. The prisoners have seen nothing. They have indeed seen a great deal, but what they glimpsed has told them nothing. Everything has become impervious, making strained conjectures useless. The headlines in the vending machines of The Leitenberg Daily offered no clues. Despite sharp eyes trying to read the dense columns, nothing was gleaned from them. The war has not ended, imprisonment has not ended, the slaughter goes on. Only belief ventures to penetrate the impenetrable through wishes that soon turn into wild rumors that appeal much more to the dazed than do plausible hopes.
Paul turns around. The town is obliterated. Now it was lost to the depths, a gray cloud of smoke floating above it. Near the barracks it is quiet, because here there are only a few houses with large yards that no longer appear to have any connection with Leitenberg. The streets are unpaved and meander off into neglected cart paths. The sidewalks are marked by long curbstones, but they are also unpaved. Grass and wild weeds spring up among the sand and do not sense the gravity of the nearby town in which freedom no longer exists. There might also be people living here who keep their curtains closed, leave a broom leaning against a wall, or forget a little wagon in the yard. Should it be that there really are people hidden behind these walls, they nonetheless know nothing of the town’s oppression as long as they can remain holed up in their quiet neighborhood. Here they have retreated and remain protected from the danger of streets trampled by people who for good or for evil are heaped together. Public announcements are also made here, but they mean nothing, their clumsy earnestness greeted by a supple tomfoolery, causing the edicts to hardly ever expect that anyone will pay attention to them.