The Journey

by H. G. Adler

  He reaches the curtain, the fingers feel rough cloth, which has kept Paul protected during the night. It takes a while before he succeeds at lifting the curtain, which hangs down tightly wound up and ends in a roll. Then there is light. Paul squeezes between the curtain and the window because he is not able to push away the heavy fabric. Before him stretches a huge, broad yard, which causes him to remember. He feels like he is back in the Scharnhorst barracks, but this does not make him anxious, for it is all so different than before, it’s now freedom’s camp. Paul smiles, aware of the contradiction between the barracks and freedom. Outside a bit of life stirs. It’s morning, though Paul is uncertain of the hour, nor is there any clock in sight. Paul is embarrassed to look around at the room that late yesterday afternoon fell to him with hardly any effort. He then turns back to the view outside. Nothing special is noticeable, but Paul is at peace because the broad yard calms him. Here and there he can see a person who casually moves about as if there were no other world but this one. Will Paul be able to move about in the same manner? There is still time to answer that question. Paul turns away from the window.

  Paul is happy to have his own room that no one will hassle him about, at least for the next few days. It’s good that such a refuge exists in which one can prepare for the resurrection of the world. He looks around the room. Without avarice, without shyness, he feels the room is a gift. Whoever lived here before had left nearly everything behind, even his toiletries, a good bar of soap, a new toothbrush still in its case like it just came from a shop. Paul finds many little everyday objects, looking over them piece by piece, picking them up and then laying them back down. He’s as happy as a child and is grateful.

  Paul catches a side view of himself in the mirror and stands there transfixed. An old, dirty man appears in the glass, older than Leopold on his deathbed and almost as used up. Paul lets out a scream then he quickly shuts up. Should he close his eyes? Should he look away? Throw the mirror out the window? No, don’t be a coward! Paul is spellbound, he can’t help but look. Even old women look into their mirrors and with great tact manage to console themselves. His eyes are set deep and look wild and confused, the mouth is small and bitter, the lips awfully pale, the skin dull and gray, the cheeks sunken, the brow wrinkled, the throat a ridiculous pole that can bow and nod. Paul wants to flee this wretched image, yet his gaze is completely spellbound, something bothers him about it, he doesn’t really know why and feels ashamed, though he cannot resist, nor can he prevent himself from sobbing constantly and crying helplessly and watching his own tears fall. Is it possible for an old man to lose control amid his own tears? Is he allowed to cry? Who is he crying for? What’s he crying about? Is Paul missing or is he what he used to be, has he been taken away or is he standing here alive? No, it’s not an old man, it’s not a child who is crying. It’s a silent, unstoppable weeping, an infinite sadness that has no reason at all and cannot cease.

  Paul tries hard, feeling as if he must remember everything, although he remembers nothing; his consciousness remains empty, no matter how hard he tries. Does nothing make sense, such that he cannot find the key to unlock the secrets into which each day he had newly and unmercifully been initiated for years? Perhaps everything has been too deeply repressed, such that it won’t allow itself to resurface, so deep in fact that it has now become a part of himself, no amount of courageous will capable of bringing it out once more. Everything has collected in an abyss that no gaze can penetrate. There it is sealed like iron and incapable of being moved, nor can it be changed; it simply must be borne, it is the fruits of evil that fall to one’s lot because the weapon of wisdom was not forged in time. But now that Paul is free of the ark of affliction, how will he in fact free himself completely so that he can step away from the mirror once more, though not just from the mirror, but from the room, not just by looking out the window, but by heading out the door, down an unknown hallway, where the way is at last discovered that leads to an exit and then farther across the yard and out of the camp and into the city, whose suffering had just begun and which Paul now has to leave behind?

  Now Paul can recall clearly the events of recent days, the tears swimming into the light and emptying out the past. Such sickness cannot be healed by any means, it can only be cried out in front of the mirror, which is why Paul doesn’t hold back any longer, the fruits of evil have burst open. The mirror once again stands open to the observer. Paul feels the glass with the tips of his fingers. He wants the mirror in front of his eyes constantly in order to touch it and recognize himself. Soon the face quietly becomes more real, a sense of safety making it possible to feel that a new era is about to begin. Years ago Paul had not liked mirrors and had avoided them. He doesn’t like the way his gaze is trapped here as well, but he will take this mirror along with him when he leaves this room. Then a decision begins to dawn inside him. Paul will not stay in Unkenburg any longer than he has to. He wants only to regain his strength and his wits before he prepares for the onward journey. The journey will have to take him back to where he was hauled off against his will. Nonetheless, Stupart is not the only destination. Paul wants to go farther, yet he knows he has to travel to Stupart, because only there will he find what was taken away from him on this journey. Finally conquering the storm of tears, Paul smiles at himself. It’s not a happy smile, but rather an end to this keening.

  Now Paul finds his bearings in the room, finding as well what he is looking for, as if he has known this room for years. Every board and nail reconfirms the fact that he is safe and free to roam between the window and the door at will. Paul opens cupboards and drawers; the goods lie openly within them, everything just waiting to be picked up and made use of. Paul is the master of the day here; he knows how to treat as his own everything brought here and arranged by someone else. The strange is not strange if it can be of service to Paul; in his hands it will become something he owns and no one else’s. Paul reaches for a new shirt and his pants; he dresses absentmindedly and the moment he reaches the hall is ready to run off. Where can he find some water?

  Paul goes from door to door, all of them are unlocked. Most of them are to living quarters where there are a lot of things lying about, some of which he can use. A few things are gathered together, for Paul doesn’t want any shortage of things. He’s living in the barracks now in order to avoid further hardship. Out of a bunch of ownerless goods he gathers together an impressive collection. He finds a good knapsack, a blue cap that fits him well, a beautiful silk handkerchief and long gray socks of soft wool. Once Paul’s hands are full, he hurries back to his room and dumps everything. He discovers an office where everything has been turned upside down, a nicely sharpened pencil points to a list of obsolete words, a ream of fresh writing paper awaits dictation, in a drawer there rattles a heap of bent metals, the kind that Captain Dudley collects with such zeal, while books also lie around that teach one how to slaughter, and which are signed with a dedication complete with a snakelike signature, as maps remain heaped up in thick piles, military leaders staring out awkwardly from behind framed glass amid such devastation. Paul does not touch most of it and smiles to himself. Useless, completely useless, nothing but rubbish.

  In one room Paul comes upon an old man who has also collected a number of things. The stranger is frightened when Paul appears, but soon he settles down and asks Paul’s pardon for keeping on the lookout for things, since his household has been destroyed by enemy hands and is scattered all about. Paul laughs at this, he can well understand it, not everyone can have come through as easily as did Frau Wildenschwert. He asks if the man is from Unkenburg.—No, he’s not from this city, he has fled here from far off, but he has been lucky, his wife and children had also been saved. Then he asks Paul how things are with him; he must also be a refugee, for no one from Unkenburg looked the way he did.—No, Paul confirms, he is not from Unkenburg, but he has not been so lucky, yet he is still happy that he had neither a wife nor a child to lose.—It’s a huge advantage to be in this mess witho
ut anyone depending on you, for then at least you only had yourself to worry about. Paul doesn’t say anything in reply, he has vowed not to speak about his fate, at least for a good while. He recalls his crazy visit with Captain Dudley, thinks about the thoughtless conversation in front of the theater, the hesitant intrusion among strange people in those rooms. Such false steps cannot happen again. Paul says he had drifted here and there, a prisoner who survived it all, something he can’t hide after all, though the hard times are now over.

  The man replies that for Paul everything is simple, he will be taken care of, soon he can go home or wherever he wants to go. Whoever attaches himself to the victors will be well taken care of, his worries are over, something that for the man had just begun. This war had lasted so long, and yet it had all come to this! If his people had only been victorious, then everything would be different. The world could have done nothing about it, for nothing could be done against a mighty victor.—Paul should have kept silent, but he doesn’t and instead expresses his own doubts.—Indeed, he should have known. Now he can be happy! Hopefully he is more decent than the many others who, with no reason at all, scream for revenge instead of being grateful they had been so well taken care of. He should be fair and tell the truth back in his country, namely that no one who was imprisoned had to worry about a hair on his head as long as he worked.—Paul promises to never speak anything but the truth.—Then the man is relieved and pleased to find that among the victors a reasonable man still exists.

  Paul asks him where he is from.—Oh, a little town that nobody here knows, yet it was a lovely town. Too bad that he can’t show it to him! There he had his own house, a villa with six rooms, in which the victor would be welcome if he ever had a chance to make the trip. Yet it’s all gone, even if the house itself were still standing. It was an old town, much smaller than Unkenburg, but certainly just as beautiful, the countryside lovely around it. Paul hears the name, Leitenberg, an episcopal see, a cathedral, a town hall, old arcades, the guildhalls, and in the middle of the plaza a column dedicated to Saint Rochus. Beside the town there flowed a river, which was deep blue and sometimes looked silver.

  Paul asked about the opposite shore, whether there was a town there as well, smaller than Leitenberg and not as pretty. Yes, said the man, there was a town there, quite generously it had been cleared of its native inhabitants, the higher-ups having done so for the prisoners in order to help them. You couldn’t help but appreciate what an act of kindness that was, an entire town for prisoners, such that they could live there undisturbed and provide for themselves, no one to bother them, almost as if they were free, themselves feeling completely at home. The enemy had never done anything that honorable, but today there’s isn’t even a hint of thanks for those who have suffered so much, since all there is now is slander and lies taken as truth. The enemy’s newspapers write what they want, they are unmerciful.—Paul asks if this town was called Ruhenthal, an old fortress, dirty and unhealthy?—Ruhenthal, that’s right, but dirty and unhealthy? That’s not true! Certainly pleasant and simple, yet nice and clean. That the prisoners were not happy there, that could be, for that’s the way prisoners are, they can’t stand living with one another and are often dirty. But that’s their fault.—Had he known any of the people who lived in Ruhenthal?—Yes, he had seen many of them himself; many of them had worked in Leitenberg, a group of them walked leisurely each morning and evening through town, almost as if they were free; handsome men they were, who looked well fed. One noticed how pleased they were that nothing bad had happened to them.

  Paul is on the brink of setting the man straight, yet he doesn’t do so. He’d like very much to ask him whether he himself ever went to Ruhenthal, and whether he saw that funeral wagons were provided to the living, but for the dead there were none. And whether he had looked into the narrow rooms and saw the old people, crammed together and helpless, living upon what was left of their possessions? Whether he had seen the sick who were left untended and for whom there was no care available? Whether he had seen the hunger that ravaged faces, wasting away the living, erasing them? There was a lot he’d like to ask about, for Paul could see no end to it, yet he is now so far away from Ruhenthal, such that so much else had come between him and what no amount of questioning could ever touch upon. There is something today that is also omnipresent, something that years ago was only known as corrupt and unjust; now the entire country is a wasteland, and all countries have been laid waste along with it, suffering having broken out among all of those imprisoned, a plunge into the rubbish heap, a lone ark floating above like a wretched home, though it is leaky and gurgles as it sinks in the bubbling mud. Paul doesn’t ask a thing, he wants to leave the man to himself. No one can hear and feel what has happened to another, just as another’s guilt cannot be taken on. Only he who wishes to feel guilty will embrace guilt, yet it cannot be allotted. Perhaps this man from Leitenberg really is innocent and barely reaps expiation, as all men are implicated in the work and deeds of their brothers.

  He is a guest in the barracks just like Paul, and so he plunders ownerless goods, which for Paul is loot that he takes from strangers, since they took everything from him, though for the man it feels like robbing his own people in Leitenberg. No, that’s unfair. There is no difference between them: everyone robs his neighbor, whether it’s his friend or foe. No one has anything, that’s why everyone takes something. The man from Leitenberg had to leave behind his belongings, just like Paul. Both of them were now refugees, so there was no distinguishing between them; one leaves because he cannot stay, the other is taken out of his house because he is not allowed to stay, but everyone has to leave. Whoever among those still alive is unwilling to beg has to take something when it lies there ready and in the open. Even the soldiers have to flee the barracks without having enough time to take the pictures of their loved ones down from the walls, the books they were reading from lying open on the table, the plates from which they ate left behind unwashed, knives, forks, spoons, and glasses left unattended, there to save the lives to whom all these goods have been sacrificed. Paul is amazed that more people don’t arrive to take advantage of such a respite. Certainly that will happen soon. Most people in the city are still paralyzed; the inhabitants of Unkenburg move through the destroyed streets and look for their family members and what can be gathered of their goods among the rubble; thus the salvation of rubbish as it becomes goods once again.

  The man from Leitenberg starts to speak again, Paul’s silence has gotten to him. He wouldn’t want him to think …—No, Paul wasn’t thinking anything, there is nothing more that one can think. The man from Leitenberg had lived well, one could see it by looking at him. He had said so himself. Paul wants to know from him what he was?—The man from Leitenberg drew himself up. Would the victor believe him? He was the mayor of Leitenberg. He had run the town and sat in the town hall. Now he stands amid a hostile wilderness, a beggar in a strange town, which doesn’t have a mayor of its own either. What is it like now in Leitenberg without a proper town government to run things? It’s hard to imagine. No one knows who is leaving, who is staying. No news gets through at all. The people who used to live together have been separated and so scattered that no one can bring them together again. No one knows for sure how many are dead. There is no one in charge of the country, there are no leaders, everything is destroyed, it’s terrible! Nor is there any leadership whatsoever. It’s all done with and gone.

  Paul says that Unkenburg already has a commandant and that order has been restored. The former rulers are not completely gone. Many officials are still alive, they have only ducked around the corner and will soon return, looking for their old desks.—Yet if everyone flees? You fled, otherwise the air raids would have done you in!—Doesn’t matter, there will be others there, the seat of government is still there. Someone will claim it when it’s time to do so.—Even in Leitenberg?—Even there it will be the same. There will be someone there to take power, the government never disappeared entirely.—But the m
ayor of Leitenberg no longer has a position. In Unkenburg no one needs him, no one here would even give him the time of day. They would laugh in his face.—If he is not needed here, then there are other positions elsewhere. In any case there is no need to stay in politics, there are other professions.—But when one is born to govern?—What do you mean born to? There’s no such thing.

  The man from Leitenberg means that it doesn’t matter for the victor, for he will go home, he will arrive in a city where he belongs, where he has his rights. There’s no chance of that for the mayor. He has been taken away and has been banished for good, he cannot go back to Leitenberg, at least not for long, he wouldn’t survive it, or at least the mayor cannot expect that any such miracle can occur. He no longer has a home, Unkenburg is no home at all, nor can there be one anywhere. He doesn’t even know if he will be allowed to stay here. He is the last mayor in a long line of mayors, for eight hundred and two years they had held office. Two years before the mayor had spoken at the eight-hundredth anniversary of Leitenberg. The festivities were somewhat curtailed, it was the fourth year of the war. Back before the war everything had been planned, there had been an organizing committee. So much more had been planned, visitors from near and far were expected, tourists, special trains, renovations of the guesthouses, overnight stays arranged for with community members, the laying of a cornerstone for the new hospital, the Leitenberg archivist and the principal of the school thought big and composed a festival play in which the historic rise of Leitenberg from the darkness of the Middle Ages up until the brightness of the present was supposed to be depicted, the Beautification Association was supposed to take care of so much, old frescoes were to be uncovered, benches installed, the castle park behind the bishop’s palace was supposed to be connected to the docks on the shore by a new set of stairs, a broad expanse on the edges of the town that was more than just an adornment—it had been a dump full of dirt and ashes for many years—had been envisioned to be developed into an open park, drawings for which still existed in the Planning Commission of the town hall. The clearing had begun when the war broke out. The work had to be stopped, but one hoped for a quick victory, for then most of it would have been finished. Yet it was not to be. And so the celebration was a bit scanty. Because of the blackout, the torch parade that the children had been so excited about had to be canceled at the last minute. A couple of speeches were given with great vigor, a special edition of The Leitenberg Daily was issued with eight pages, rather than the hundred that would have been published in peacetime. In the schools the students were told about their history and the future. A gathering on the main square in front of the plague column was canceled, only a High Mass was celebrated in the cathedral. That was all.