by H. G. Adler
Paul can’t make any headway. He asks once again for the building he’s looking for. Most have no idea. Some point him in the right direction, others lead him astray, but slowly he presses on. At one intersection he remains standing and recognizes the theater. It looks a lot like the one in Stupart. About half of it is still standing, namely the stage with its protective iron curtain that has been scorched by heat and shot through by bullets. The prompter’s stall has survived intact. Maybe the prompter still sits inside it and whispers his prompts so that the show isn’t interrupted. Yet nobody makes a sound, the actors have gone off. Strands of fabric onstage sway in the wind. Isn’t there a rabbit squatting there who is waiting for the show to start? The music plays on merrily, yet so quietly that Paul cannot hear it. The coffin has already disappeared, soon the burning will occur, which the public never sees. One cannot even demand the producers show it, for no one has been charged an entrance fee. Nonetheless some would steal a glance at the stage, though no one remains, there being no proper audience left. The public is denied the sight, though in fact it’s never even presented on stage. The spectators have been taken away, their most important role has disappeared. Paul knows for sure that the time of the spectator is over. Whoever does not want to act for himself now is lost, for he does not exist, he no longer even has an apartment in which to live. Will guest performers still be allowed to make an appearance? If the trapdoor has not been destroyed, there’s still hope. Whatever is still a part of the theater can be rebuilt. The onlookers will gather before time’s stage. Then the present will dawn again.
Paul quietly says to himself: “You’re still a part of this. You are on the road with your companions and friends, you stand, you walk, you fall, and you die. The image of the journey. Memory that is ever drawn to wandering. There is a center that is the original beginning and final destination of the journey. Have I reached the destination? Am I now a guest? Am I the innkeeper of The Golden Grape who plays his role before his guests? I’m standing on the stage, like a dead man fleeing a specter.” Paul stops short and ceases whispering the moment he senses someone nearby. Paul laughs, trying to pull himself together as he is spoken to.
“You’re not from Unkenburg, are you?”
“No.”
“I thought not. But a theater lover nonetheless?”
“The hand. The wrong way. The crematorium.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry, I know. You mean the theater?”
“Yes, the theater. I’m from Unkenburg.”
“You’re from Unkenburg. That was the stage. I can see it. That means the stage is still standing. Everything is there. One can still play a part.”
“Unfortunately that’s not possible. But I thought the same thing. You were just talking as if you were onstage!”
“And you understood what I said?”
“No, I didn’t. It was too soft. Are you a professional? Pardon me, a friend of the muses?”
“I’m not a professional actor, and yet I am. It’s kind of a joke.”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean that I’m not at all from the theater. I only act in a certain way, not for real. I don’t want to disappoint you. Instead I’m from the museum. I am from the Technology Museum in my hometown.”
“So then a theater lover. Pardon me, but you seem somewhat upset. I don’t want to bother you.”
“What do you mean!”
“I see that you’ve had nearly as hard a time of it as me. Any sensible person today can’t help lamenting any destruction that occurs. Whether it has to do with a theater or with a museum, there’s really not that much difference.”
“Or people, the many, many people? If it has to do with a crematorium?… The difference, perhaps one can only flee the specter, no rest … the journey … taken away … rubbish, rubble everywhere … Forgive me …!”
“Are you all right?”
“I already said, forgive me! I’m tired. I have traveled too far. The image of the dead stage got to me.”
“I had a subscription.”
“Really? Tell me about this theater.”
“Even in the last year of the war the best plays were still staged in Unkenburg. Then came the tragedy—everything destroyed. You can see for yourself!”
“I do see! And yet you had a subscription?”
“As you can imagine, I was well off. But you have to bear what you have to bear.”
“Yes, yes, you have to bear it! It’s terrible! Everything is terrible! Please, just keep talking! Did anyone take a bow after the dead waltzed across the stage in their own blood? Was there a lot of applause? Were people moved?”
“My friend, you’re talking crazy! Theater is not reality, theater is art. What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?”
“No, no! But the applause? Was there any applause for the actors as soon as the curtain fell?”
“Yes, it was often wonderful! It really released tension, then people settled down.”
“Did you settle down?”
“Yes, of course I did. You should also settle down. You have to be able to forget. Only the exalted remains. It above all has to remain. One must seek out refinement, not rawness, which is served up today. Please, pull yourself together!”
“I am together. And haven’t you nonetheless settled down? Forgotten as well?”
“One has to! It’s the responsibility to do so that art demands. Only then will life be life once again. The ideal raises us out of the everyday, the pure joy found in the highest things.”
“Enough of that! The horror is still afoot. The voices call out. A hand points into the abyss. The long road. There are the refugees who stream out of the ark. They don’t want anything more to do with the theater.”
“I can’t make sense of what you’re saying.”
“I’m talking about rubble. It’s everywhere.”
“Ah, what does this have to do with rubble! The rubble will be whisked away. The need to rebuild is what matters.”
“My friend, the rubble, the rubble! You will not make a dent in it with picks and shovels. It stands in the way and will trip you up.”
“Bewilderment will get us nowhere. But we can deal with it. You can be sure of that.”
“No, that’s not the way it is. But I don’t want to quarrel with you. And the crematorium? I mean, the theater?”
“That will also be taken care of with time, at least I hope it will.”
“You mean the theater?”
“Certainly! That’s what you were asking about?”
“We’re still talking about that?”
“What else is there?”
“I’m talking about rubble.”
“I’m talking about the theater. I’m happy to talk about everything, but first things first.”
“You mean rubble, at last I understand. Theater or rubble, there’s no longer any difference.”
“You talk strange. It’s perhaps better if we don’t talk about this anymore.”
“It’s hopeless. I know that one of us is dead.”
“Forgive me, but aren’t you the one who is acting now?”
“I’m not acting. I see only the rubble of Unkenburg. I’m sorry, I don’t want to disturb you.”
“No, no, it’s fine. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“How do I find police headquarters?”
Paul moves on and doesn’t look back. He passes other buildings, many of them without any damage. What would happen if he entered one? It doesn’t take him long to decide before his hand is already on a door handle. It gives way, the door is unlocked. The stairway is clean, the steps gleaming. People must still live here. Nothing at all has happened, on each door there is a nameplate. These are displayed in the usual manner. None of the names is familiar, but they are names that sound pleasant. Here nobody was taken away, time has stood still and has not been torn in two. People were not disturbed and walked in and out freely. They only had to put up with little raids, then they went back
to their routine affairs. Maybe someone lives here who can help lift someone else from the rubble if you ask him to do so in a reasonable way. Paul adjusts his coat and wipes a hand across his face so that he looks refreshed and a bit better. He doesn’t want to frighten anyone, he is neither a beggar nor the bearer of bad news. He has only one wish, he wants to see the inside of an apartment, if indeed one really exists. On this nameplate is the name Wildenschwert. That’s as good a name as any, and so the address has at last been found. No need to walk the length of eight streets and around the corner. Here is the final destination, here lives someone who lives in his own home. He also has a doorbell, so he must get visitors. He cannot be completely surprised that someone should show up. There are many who come and don’t even attempt to ring the bell. One certainly opens the door for them. What need then for doors at all?
Paul presses the button and it rings. Someone is in the apartment. After a while Paul hears footsteps. The door is cautiously cracked open, the eyes of a woman look out, as a strong voice asks what the stranger wants, there’s nothing here to take.—Just a simple request, no need to be afraid. Just to see the apartment, nothing more.—There is nobody here, it’s not even my apartment.—Yes, but he wants to see it, he isn’t armed.—What a strange request. What’s the meaning of this?—Nothing really, just to come in for a little while, no, not to move in completely. Just a visit, in and then out. Not to confiscate anything or to steal anything.—There are so many who show up now who want something, all of it out of revenge, though that means you have nothing for yourself.—Paul shows her his empty hands and says imploringly that he wants to see an apartment, just to look, nothing but look at an intact apartment, an apartment free of rubble, if such a thing still exists. It’s been four years since the stranger has seen an apartment.
The woman decides to trust him and no longer denies entry to her unknown guest. Once she opens the door, Paul takes a step back in surprise, then gathers himself and staggers clumsily over the threshold. He is blinded and can see nothing and asks if a light can be turned on in the foyer.—No, unfortunately that’s not possible, for even though the electricity is still on in the building, there are no lightbulbs, there are none to be bought. The woman opens the door to the living room. Paul realizes he should walk in. The dog is tame, he doesn’t even bark once. He strokes the pant leg of the guest with his snout. He’s a good dog. What, Bunny? No, he’s not called that. That would be a strange name for a grown wolfhound. Two boys are there, whom Paul at first doesn’t notice; they stand there with mouths open. The children shouldn’t be afraid, he’s not a bad man. Big boys shouldn’t be afraid. The guest won’t be staying long and he likes children.
Would he like to sit down? He’d love to, he’s a little tired, but he’ll wait until later to sit, if that would be all right. His heart pounds loudly, he feels hot, he’s come a long way and at the end had climbed the stairs, which was a strain. That’s certainly the sitting room, but it’s been cleaned out, a bed put there instead. A refugee lives here, but luckily not a foreigner. It’s important to have someone you know when you take in people these days; the foreigners are so careless, the things they use here are not theirs, and so they ruin them, and nothing can be replaced anymore.
The woman talks on, but Paul hardly listens to her; he is transfixed by the sight of the apartment and wants to press it into his consciousness: a room with furniture, a room where everything is intact. There is the bed where the refugee sleeps, a tasseled blanket thrown over the bed that’s not new, but smoothed out so that it looks nicer. Each morning the bed needs to be made in order that the room remain pleasant. At night the blanket is lifted and folded back carefully, underneath it are the white sheets. Paul would love to grab hold of the blanket; underneath there must be a mountain of sheets as white as blossoms. The wood is brown and gleams with polish, the woman having wiped it with a dust cloth. Emmy had done it once a week. The furniture also is not new, yet it is well taken care of. It had been purchased in the hope that it would last a long while. The children are well brought up, they don’t kick the paneling with their shoes. There stands the vitrine, the family’s treasures, their inheritance and memories. Paul bends forward and sees a lot of glass and porcelain. Something one has but doesn’t need, it’s just beautiful, because gifts are always beautiful, though pointless. Yes, they are souvenirs, the woman confirms with a smile. Most likely she is pleased that such things interest her guest. Not a bit of dust mars the view, she is a good housewife. That one belonged to her grandfather. He had indeed smoked this pipe, it’s made of real meerschaum. Today nobody smokes such a pipe, there’s no tobacco. There’s also a plaster figurine there, it’s the boy who is pulling a thorn out of his foot. They had the very same figurine back home, just a bit bigger. Paul said that his mother had taken it when her parents’ household things were divided up. It stood there on the piano. Paul can recall when his mother had brought it home. There had also been a lute just like this one on the wall, though it didn’t have as many strings and was made of lighter-colored wood, more yellow than brown. His sister had played it when she sang, though sometimes she played it quietly without singing, plucking lightly at the strings. Now the lute is gone.—Why?—It’s broken.—How did that happen?—Don’t ask, it’s too sad to tell.
“Will you go home now?”
Paul hesitates. He should not have intruded. Frau Wildenschwert doesn’t mean to press him, she is just curious and talks and talks without end. He doesn’t want to talk about himself.
“You’re one of those people that was set free, right?”
Paul can’t disagree. But “set free”? Who had set him free? Nobody he knew. He left. Nobody had tried to stop him. The ark was forgotten on the beach. He walked eight kilometers, and back and forth throughout Unkenburg.
“Yes, I was one of them. But that’s all over now.”
“Was it really so horrible? There have been so many lies. Indeed, no offense, but at the very least it doesn’t appear that respectable people were taken away.”
Paul listens with burning ears. He doesn’t want to say anything that he’s thinking. Perhaps it hadn’t involved respectable people. But what does that mean? And where are the respectable people now? Respect? What respect is there left? Respect had disappeared from the world. Whatever happened outside as the ark sailed on and whatever rotted within it—all of it had rotted to the core. Yet no one today can slander those taken away, those who were gathered behind barbed wire and left to die.
“I lost everything. Father, mother, sister, my name, apartment, possessions, and home. If I make it home, I will not be at home. I am your guest and don’t want to bother you.”
Frau Wildenschwert says she is sorry. She can’t do for her guest what he deserves, but she can offer him some coffee, there’s also a bit of schnapps in the house. Paul won’t allow himself to be bought off through gifts. He goes along with it, for he needs it, but he’s not a guest who was expected. An intruder is usually an official with a task at hand and thus someone who needs to handle matters appropriately. The orders are gone through carefully and not simply carried out haphazardly, like when Herr Nussbaum’s messengers hunted down their victims in the middle of the night while desecrating the apartment. Yet Paul has no orders from a government office, not even a bogus office; his appearance here is inexcusable. The disturber of the peace in the best room, his presence detestable since he has no right to be here. The best thing to do would be to say a sincere thank-you, turn around quickly, and hurry out of there with his tail between his legs. But Paul has no control over himself, he has lost all his strength. Because of his weariness his gaze remains fixed on a painting. It’s a medium-size oil painting that shows the Unkenburg Cathedral, still intact, in bright light, the sun beaming down too strongly, though the colors are not too bad, just a bit overdone, too much that’s too pretty for an aged cathedral.
“Yes, that was our cathedral. Before the enemy, excuse me, America …”
“It’s nicely pa
inted. It’s not entirely destroyed. Just the one tower is broken off, the slate roof done in. It can all be repaired.”
“Not inside, it’s completely gutted! Barbaric! The marvelous remnants of our glorious past! Not even the stones are spared! And they’re supposed to be human beings?”
“The theater is much worse off. I saw it. Only the stage is left.”
“The theater … that’s right. But the cathedral! Have another schnapps! It seems to suit you. It was in the middle of the High Mass when the sirens went off. What did the faithful do to deserve that? With effort the bishop escaped without being wounded. It was almost a miracle. What is it that we’ve done that allows our city to be laid to waste? We were peaceful people and wanted only to live in peace with the world! A country of justice and order! A prosperity achieved through the fruits of labor! We’ve been hounded by envy and hate. What took us a thousand years to build was swept away in an hour! Rubble like sand castles that children build and then destroy. What right do they have to do that? Everything, everything taken away from us! Before the war we had a lot of tourists, even Americans. They couldn’t believe the beauty of Unkenburg. Now what can they look at? Have another schnapps!”