The Journey

by H. G. Adler

  The American guards examine the new arrival for a long time and are amazed that Paul could be who he is, though no suspicions are raised against him.

  “Where are you headed? The town is closed and is still in a war zone.”

  “But I’m here and want to come into town.”

  “Is this your home?”

  “No, it’s just the first town I’ve come to. I have to get inside.”

  “Transportation is not up and running. First, order has to be restored. It’s better if you don’t go in. There’s nothing here but hardship and misery.”

  “Then that’s where I belong. I’m begging you, let me in, if you have a human bone in your body. I’m only looking for a roof over my head.”

  “Don’t move! I’m warning you. Wait a bit, or better yet go on home! The war will be over soon.”

  “But I’m here, home is too far away! I will head for it once I’ve regained my strength.”

  “If this is not your home, I can’t let you in.”

  “Then I will make this my home.”

  “Even if you do have a home here, and I don’t care if you do or not, I’d still advise you to keep out of Unkenburg. It’s better for anyone to just head off for parts unknown, where things are better. It will also be better for you to put some distance between yourself and here.”

  “Please, stop torturing me! I’ve already walked eight kilometers today. This is where I was headed today. I don’t have a home anymore. I can’t go any farther and just want to stay here where I am now. As you can see, I can’t go back. I can’t set foot on that ark again. The horror of it all: the rubbish, the bodies, the burning, the ashes. I had to leave! I don’t want to stay long in Unkenburg, just a day, just a night, maybe a little longer, until I can go farther.”

  “Okay then, go on in if you must. I warned you.”

  Paul thanks him and quietly ventures in. How long since he had been in a city! Here is one at last; how easily it offers itself up and takes in any stranger. The first houses are still standing, their walls intact and appearing at peace. Nothing has happened here. Is it a dead city? Only a couple of strangers walk along and tread upon the street, openly astonished by this city as their steps forward an older fear and flight that cannot end and which still pursues them, although the fear has melted away. Doesn’t anybody live in this place like it’s their home? Hard to believe, the windows are so clean and there are flowerpots everywhere. It smells of imposed tidiness. Unkenburg is supposed to be beautiful, Paul knows, for he’d learned it in school. The city had a glorious history. The inhabitants are proud of it; the generations that followed had preserved it, the winds of war had blown through but now are gone. It was on display everywhere and a part of the city’s fabric. Hands pitch in and make sure that all of it is cared for and protected. This is not Leitenberg, no, it’s much nicer here, friendlier, the quality of life much higher.

  Paul walks on. He’s pleased to be in the city. He feels lucky to have come from the dusty road into a city that can protect him, even if it’s a foreign city. It’s only fitting for one who was moved from his own city, who lost it, and is not part of it any longer. He is pleased by this foreign town and will be a guest who will appreciate much more deeply the sanctity of private property as a result of the distance gained through his experience, rather than shaming himself through the conquering gesture of an outstretched hand. Each and every house is encircled by a lovely garden lit with the brilliance of spring. The sidewalks are tidy and well taken care of. Paul can walk along them, which does him good, the embrace of the city warm and feeling wonderful.

  He still sees but a few people on the streets who scurry along with shy and bashful steps. Their glances avoid Paul, as if they don’t want to grant such freedom to a stranger from whom they fear revenge. Paul turns somber. His terrible shoes are ashamed to walk on the pavement, his tired feet hurting more and more as they lead Paul’s anxious head deeper and deeper into the city’s net. The streetcars are silent, various cars are tossed about and reveal their innards. There are only heads and legs in Unkenburg, as well as, out of habit, some hands. What had Paul expected? He had been warned and it would have been smarter to avoid this city. Now it’s too late. The stranger must take in what history has prepared for him, he who couldn’t wait until he could leave the ark for good.

  “Where does one find the city’s commandant?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Someone said police headquarters. Which way is it?

  “Sorry! I’m a stranger here, just got to Unkenburg yesterday.”

  “Which way? There has to be one!”

  “Maybe. Ask someone else.”

  No one knows. Everyone is like Paul, they’ve just arrived. Unkenburg is just a stopping point, a way station. Again onward. No one stays. Yet questions, questions. Paul finds nobody who is from this city. Have they all been taken away? He must ask at each house, but he doesn’t feel comfortable doing so, he’s too shy. Perhaps it’s forbidden to do so. Perhaps the buildings won’t stand for his presence within them. Paul, however, is tired and wants advice. No one can give him anything but a piece of bread. He must be hungry, it’s obvious. Someone hands him some sugar, another some chocolate. Now everything is available. He just needs to keep walking slowly in order to get everything he needs. There’s no need to find the commandant. Here is a bottle of wine. Paul stuffs it into his bundle, thanks, he won’t drink it now, maybe later. He has to keep going, time is wasting.

  Paul walks on. The middle of the city must be somewhere. But as he presses on, the rubble begins to rise around him. There’s a building that’s been hit, the roof is caved in, the rafters protruding starkly, though the walls have not suffered much damage. There are people living in the basement. Over there another building has been hit, but the damage only looks slight. Two boys are stacking bricks. Just a bit of fresh mortar and they can be used again. People are on the move, the buildings will survive their wounds. Paul looks at other buildings that have been blinded. Or are their eyes just sick? The windows are covered over with wood and sheet metal; they will need good glasses. A little lookout remains open for the pupils. Is there someone looking out? Here is a building, only half of which still stands, the other half having toppled to the street, though it still has a roof above the exposed rooms. The table stands, and around it many household articles. A coat hook with a hat and flowery decorations, looking as if someone had carefully laid them there. A picture with a golden frame still hangs as expected on the wall. It’s the parents, the father tall and stately, the mother soft and happy in her veil, a wedding picture, as anyone can see. The people in front of the building have a lot to do. They are rescuing treasures, a bureau with underwear still in it that is pitched into a basket.

  Paul walks farther. Here the streets appear to not even exist anymore. But whoever, like Paul, is not afraid can keep going. Perimeter walls stand untouched, displaying their plaster covered with colored paint, little angels on each window’s gable smile their protective smiles, the gutter work running the length of the walls as the rushing sound within them hurries to the ground. Everything is as it always was, only the homes that should exist behind the walls have disappeared. They have been taken away; only here and there a smokeless chimney towers, crowned by the open wind guard. Below in the cellar holes are white arrows pointing to where one must dig in order to retrieve the former inhabitants who together have gone to their salvation. Is there no point in the rescue squads trying to free them? It appears they have come at the right time, because here someone has scrawled in chalk:

  WE’RE ALIVE!

  The dead buildings are the identification cards of the living, even if they cannot live there any longer. Some had been taken away from the buildings and were alive; others, who were alive, saw the buildings taken away from them. Is that revenge? What is revenge? Paul didn’t hear any voices. It happens, but vengeance doesn’t exist, nor does Paul sense any vengeance within himself. Then he looks around, everything is silen
t. The city is strange, and doubly strange is its collapse. Paul reads the newspaper that hangs upon a wall word for word. “We are alive! Look for us eight streets left, then around the corner to the right, number fourteen, in the house in the back by such and such.…” Joy answers doubt: they’re alive! Indeed taken away from here, souls carried off in thin hulls, yet stored away there, taken care of. Oh, what joy that you’re alive! But who will go looking for you? Who do you expect? “We’re alive, even though we’re elsewhere!” The ashes have not been tamped down, nor is the fire put out. They were just too weak to carry off all the rubbish, which overpowered them. They gave up and simply crept away from one heap to another in a different street. Why didn’t they leave the city and the area? Did Unkenburg put a spell on them and keep them from leaving? Isn’t there a law that says there is nothing to protect you if you aren’t here? You must want to live to be saved, even if it’s several streets off, left and right.

  Yet Paul keeps going, searching and searching, reading the newspapers posted on many walls. He cannot keep straight all the names that are posted. They are names handed down through families, legacies written on the destroyed houses instead of flowers brought to those untended graves, and by which the souls of these buildings from back then can still be remembered, the piled mounds of bricks serving as shelter for them. Paul is pleased that amid such misery these addresses have provided shelter to the names of others, even if they are not among those he is looking for. The name Küpenreiter is not among them. Fine, there are so many names; all one has to do is keep searching tirelessly through the newspaper and the truth will out. Yet not just the buildings are destroyed. The streets here are also badly wounded, the ground ripped apart, cellars yawn wide and gape open with their stench in the full light of day, rods bent, water mains exposed. Paul has to walk with caution, one step to the right, one to the left, then around the corner, then better to step back and then go around. Out of the rubble treasures left behind appear, even fragments seeming precious to whomever wants them. It doesn’t take much effort, just bend down and grab hold, or just use a stick to scrape away the rubble, for there’s much that’s there to take. Yet Paul moves on, he doesn’t have time to kill.

  Paul pushes on through a tangled wilderness, which is the old part of the city. Artfully carved stones, long since weather-beaten and newly blackened, confess themselves a part of time that has died, that is no longer, though it nonetheless still lies confused and sunning itself in the clear light of the present day, which still has mercy upon what once was. It is quite warm, here it’s still burning. The attack was defied, the lost fatherland still wanted to be victorious. Now real guilt suffers in secret as a result of inflicted guilt, but above such adversity stretches a sky empty of shards, full of clear air. Only little fires flicker, slowly fueling themselves. A man stands there. He warns others about something and points with his hands in senseless gestures. Not too close, best to go around, the wall that’s leaning forward is pretty shaky, the stones are loose and are about to fall. “Whoever doesn’t have anything to look for here should get out of here!” Paul is now a free man who doesn’t allow himself to be ordered around.—What do you want?—I’m looking for the commandant!—He’s not here in the rubble.—Where is the commandant?—He’s not here. Everything that was alive was taken away.—Where are the others?—They will be buried later after everything has been pulled down, the chimneys still standing have to be toppled. The outer streets are much safer, Paul is told. He takes no advice, but instead walks straight ahead through the field of rubble. As long as he’s going forward. Then a fallen horse. Has someone pulled it from the museum? The legs and rear are recognizable. Why doesn’t anyone bury the old nag? A horse?! First come people who are still alive, then dead animals.

  Paul drags himself farther. No matter how much he wants, he still can’t get himself to move fast enough. The burned-out city requires caution. Here is an outlying plaza with old elms. Even the limbs are knocked off, the tree crowns destroyed and barely able to sprout. The most fashionable shops were once located here, the riches of the world displayed row upon row. What is left has been taken off to the museum, if there’s anything. The businesses stand wide open, cleaned out and without any wares. The only vendors left are those who have been buried alive and who no longer have any customers. Only beautiful signs still hang there in the night, though no one comes. No one watches over the wares that are left. On a pane of glass one can still read:

  HAPPY WITH YOUR PURCHASE?

  PLEASE COME AGAIN

  There is city hall. Only the entrance stands in undamaged splendor. The building cannot be saved, it is swept away. The officials who worked here each day have fled. Nothing is administered, the city no longer has any city fathers. Perhaps they are not far off and are hiding where walls are still standing, inside of which they still govern. The higher-ups have time and are only waiting until everything is on the mend once more. Then they can show their heads once again and nothing will happen to them. And so it happens. Honor us once again! Orders ripple through Unkenburg. The orders say what will be closed. Be patient, we will certainly be back, it’s just today that we have to hide out around the corner.

  Paul reaches a deserted playground, then a dormant park that is a little messy and weedy, though spring has shyly reappeared within it. Some of the trees are damaged, but others are not and are sprouting. The first branches are budding. The grass is fresh, the flowers are opening up. Nobody sits on the park benches, for there is no one who wants to. Even Paul doesn’t allow himself to take a rest. In the middle of a flower bed there’s a memorial that still stands, the white marble having turned gray, what was once a general. His name is pressed in gold and will last for many years. The city is grateful; three times he saved it, hunting down the enemy until it lay stretched out in the dust and demoralized, the citizens never forgetting it, fame and honor following. The general raises his saber, proudly as ever; he has lost only his head, though it lies not far off in the flower bed and looks satisfied, because victory belongs to him. Only the nose is missing from the face, but that doesn’t matter. A sculptor will make a new one and set the head carefully back on the trunk. The living will fulfill their responsibility in placing the healed general once again on the decorated pedestal.

  After the general, Paul doesn’t look around at anything. He crosses the park, behind it towers the cathedral, a noble work of time-honored beauty, three hundred years spent on its construction. It still stands as its creator had planned, its massive weight lightened by its delicate features, a placid embodiment of the spirit of the firmament, its dimensions conveying certainty through their weight and welcoming the observer, who after having seen so much destruction can now take joy in the quiet safety of its mighty height, because it stood the test and did not collapse when all else did. This is a comfort. The residential buildings have fallen, city hall has fallen, the churning whirlpool has swept away Unkenburg, sparing this lovely building around which the city can rise once again. The enemy was honorable in sparing this treasure. Paul only looks for a short while at the wonder that for a moment grants him faith, and then he looks up. It pains his eyes. One tower still hangs above, the other is lopped off, the steep, bright slate roof now caved in, the delicate high windows smashed, the great rose window over the portal now blind. Not even the cathedral is sacred. Away from here!

  Paul hears music, singing and instruments, none of it can be too far away. So there must still be happy people here. They are lucky to have a long building that’s still intact and with a large courtyard. Paul hurries inside, they welcome him with slaps on the back and chuckling comments, arms encircling him as they walk into the house and into a cluttered room. The celebration pains him. They offer him a chair. The celebration of freedom. Paul forgets for a moment, because the drum beats so loudly. Paul is a victor, and victors celebrate. Soon they’ll be going home. This Unkenburg, who cares about it! What happened, there’s no need to talk about it, it’s all in the past. The city is
destroyed. Who can be sad about that? It’s only right, it’s pure revenge. The cathedral there, a couple of hundred steps away. A cathedral? They’ll rebuild it. But people! Taken away! Taken away! At least there’s peace again. Time heals all wounds. Only life matters, lovely freedom and all of its revenge, the overflow of riches showering down on all.… Paul no longer listens, the voices blend into one another such that none can be heard. The tired spirit cannot hold together what is being torn apart here by many voices crumbling, and what a sound, each one singing a different song.

  Paul squats with his back bent and sinks into himself. They bring wine, they bring bread and butter, a plate full of apples. They offer him sweets. He should take some more. They bring good shoes; it doesn’t matter that they’re not completely new. His feet are pleased, Paul is satisfied, even if one is bigger than the other, the pliant leather rubbed with whale oil. One of them ties Paul’s shoes and strokes them with his fingers as if blessing them. They bring him a dark green woolen coat. It’s soft and smells clean. The people say that they will soon leave Unkenburg, most likely in the next few days, in a week at the latest. He should stay with them, there’s a bed free in the hallway, he can have two blankets, a feather pillow, and a mattress that’s been filled with fresh straw. Paul is not from their country. He has to leave.—Where are you going? Paul doesn’t know, maybe to Stupart, maybe not. The new friends press him to stay, they will make him comfortable and take care of him, they will take him along to their country, there it’s beautiful, there he will be free, he will have a new home. Paul is touched and thanks them, yet he says sadly that he knows nobody in that country.—What do you mean you don’t know anyone? You indeed know everyone who is here, and everyone there is just like everyone here.—No, Paul has to go back to the country from which he came.—They tell him that the war is still on there, even though it won’t last much longer. He should wait until it’s over before he returns. Meanwhile they invite him to travel with them. If he still wants to go back later, then he can go on his own to Stupart. Paul thanks them again but says no, he has to get to the commandant. They hardly pay attention to what he says and continue talking. Yet one of them knows that the commandant is at the other end of the city, not far from the train station.—Police headquarters?—Yes, that’s it. They explain it to him, first take a right, then straight on. Paul says good-bye in his new shoes and new coat and is once again on his way.