The Journey

by H. G. Adler

  Paul has gathered a small bouquet and wants to place it next to the mirror, which could not hold just Paul’s face alone forever. After an hour he arrives at the barracks and can see from afar that something has happened. The inhabitants are amazed that he has heard nothing, for everyone else already knew about it that morning.—Paul had not been there the entire day.—Then it was high time that he find out, because in three days prisoners will arrive at the barracks, both healthy ones and sick. Anyone who has set up house here on his own has to leave tomorrow or the day after tomorrow. Some have moved fast and are already gone. Others are still searching for a place to go, some wanting to go to the collection camp, where they will be taken care of. Paul is sad and out of sorts, though he pulls himself together and only says: “That seems kind of sudden!”

  Someone asks, “Is this the first time in your life you’ve had something happen to you suddenly?”

  Paul has to laugh, he was right: it’s always sudden. He knew enough people in order to find a place to stay for a couple of nights. But it would no longer be necessary. Paul decides to leave Unkenburg by the day after tomorrow, perhaps even tomorrow. The few things that will be of use for his trip he will pack in the morning. There isn’t much: a knapsack, a satchel, a small suitcase. If the suitcase is too heavy then he can leave it behind. The journey beckons, it is sure to happen. Today the first trains left. Paul has no idea at all how far they will travel, the main thing is that they are running. People warn that they are too full. Paul has no fear of that as long as he can leave Unkenburg. Already today he decides to go to the train station. There is no schedule, yet every day some trains arrive. They move slowly. Departure times cannot be given. The best thing to do is show up at the station early in the morning. One has to be patient, for it could take a couple of hours.

  Paul decides to leave the day after tomorrow. He then heads into the barracks. He’s tired from the short hike today, yet he’s happy, for soon he will travel the way that he wants to. Paul prepares a good dinner out of his provisions and chooses to have the best bits that he’s been saving until now. Otherwise he won’t be able to take everything with him. He prepares everything and sets the table as if he were expecting a guest. Never had Paul gone to such lengths before. The flowers he’d gathered were placed in a little pitcher on the white tablecloth, along with a wineglass and a genuine silver spoon for the stewed fruit. Paul enjoys his dinner immensely. Even though it isn’t dark yet outside, he lights a candle. Is it someone’s birthday? No one sees any of it, for Paul has locked the door in order not to be surprised by anyone. He could have propped up the mirror on the other side of the table, but he had not invited that fellow to dinner. He needs no witness to confirm that he has become a person again. He has granted himself the highest honor, which no one else can give him.

  In his pocket he carries the folded-up identification papers that he had asked the Unkenburg city officials to grant him. The wording is nicely put and requests the assistance of anyone to whom the letter is presented. When Paul went to the office, where everyone sought the affirmation of their existence through official channels, he simply gave them the name that he had always gone by. The helpful attendant asked whether he had any other papers that would attest to the accuracy and truth of the name he’d given. No, he had no such papers; the lack of them was the very reason Paul was here. The attendant was already used to hearing this, though he still asked, half out of protocol, if he had any witnesses. Paul had no one he could present, a stranger among strangers has no witnesses, the best he could do would be to ask someone to say, yes, that’s Paul Lustig, but none could say they had known him for a long time. The civil servant just waved away any such need, and Paul was deeply grateful for his courtesy and understanding. He said his real name, he stepped out of his solitude and reentered the world, all of it carried out on a typewriter, where those who had been taken away were taken back into existence and not asked a penny for the privilege. The civil servant wrote and wrote what he was instructed to write, making sure not to note his own name anywhere, for he was indeed an official, a dispenser of verified existence by virtue of an imposed order, a man who is authorized to do so and who wields a stamp, there in his position where he serves the needs of justice. Paul told him his date of birth, told him the name of his hometown was Stupart, handing over all such information out of a deep desire to acquire a name, and then the miracle happened, one granted by the authorities, who had been appealed to, but about which no more questions were asked. In order to conclude the transaction, Paul took the pen that the official offered him.

  “Here, take my pen. Sign here, but legibly, please!”

  Paul hesitated only for a second, then he did as he had been instructed. With thanks he said good-bye, able now to convince anyone that he is alive and is official. The name he signed verifies that Paul can exist. He looks fondly at the piece of paper and thinks, Look, I have found myself again. What others wanted to eradicate when my life was no more than a nameless nothing, this official has restored only because I wanted him to. It’s the greatest victory I have accomplished. A small victory. A victory that thousands who show up before the officials in order to let their reality be put in order will attain. Yet a victory, a genuine victory.

  Now there’s no longer any need for such assurance. Paul celebrates the birth of his own freedom, something no official can certify. The dinner comes to a tidy close, Paul gives thanks with a deep bow of his head. He gets up from the table and bows once again. His extreme behavior is unusual, this he knows, but no one would dare laugh at him. Paul lifts his hands before him. A current flows through them, Paul can feel a deep warmth. He no longer walks stooped over, he is sound and can feel the strength within himself. Decisions are now more likely than promises. Paul wants to leave because that was his plan. According to the Office for Former Prisoners, he could indeed travel soon. In some countries, large groups of people have already left. Paul, however, is too proud. He won’t go to any collection point, and he won’t let himself be loaded up according to some train schedule that is completely unknown. He doesn’t wait around to be told to be patient or to be granted patience when he finds himself at some meeting point. Such journeys horrify him, ones where he is suddenly whisked off and has no time to decide for himself what he’d like to do. When he wants to start out on his journey, he will arrange it for himself. Certainly he can’t do it all by himself, for there are only so many opportunities, but among them he will make the choices that he can. He lives by his own laws now; it’s the only way possible if what he wants is more than to be called by just any name like all the others.

  Paul clears the table and makes the bed. He wants it to be nice for the chosen guest who will soon move in today. He folds the nightshirt and lays it carefully on the pillow. He pulls up the blankets and smooths them out. When the master of the house returns home he should feel cozy. Then Paul leaves. He wants to tell some acquaintances that he has decided to go away. Many would be happy for him to stay in Unkenburg. Paul had so often confirmed that nowhere in the world did anything special await his return, that he had no one upon this Earth, though he didn’t really count the cousin in America. Why then does Paul not want to stay? It would not be that difficult to begin a new life here.

  Paul thanks them, but it’s too late, he has decided to go away. He must hold to the conviction that has grown within him. He must see the world and most of all the country that he had been taken from and from which he was set upon his journey. He would not stay in Unkenburg, for a month would pass, or maybe two, but he wouldn’t be able to bear any longer than that. Paul didn’t want to wait around for that. He wants to make the departure from Unkenburg as easy as the entry was difficult. He thanks them for all the kindness and friendship that has been extended to him here. Then he says good-bye, for his time has come. These days, whoever has a chance to leave is wise not to worry about parting. Thus Paul takes leave of his acquaintances. In reply to the question about whether he will ever come back, he s
imply shakes his head.

  “I will leave tomorrow, if I can get a train. I wanted to leave the day after tomorrow. I think, however, that it will be better if I leave the city tomorrow. The day after tomorrow the Kanonenberg barracks will have to be cleaned out because prisoners of war will be brought there.”

  “Is that the reason you’re leaving so soon? Stay with us and travel in a week’s time!”

  “No, I will leave tomorrow, if I can. I don’t want to rest a moment longer.”

  That’s how Paul feels. He wants to lose himself amid new contingencies in order to leave behind this haphazard life that he has just survived. It is a blessing to have only yourself to worry about and to figure out on your own which way to go, but the moment one destination is reached, this feeling would disappear if he were to rest there any longer. Any pause that jeopardized moving on would be painful and would undermine the freedom that only exists when the heart isn’t lost to its own desires, but rather chooses its own path, even if all the promises made, which would hold one back, are not kept. Paul explains this to his acquaintances as well as he can, because he doesn’t want to hurt them, for they have taken care of him and were happy to see how he was able to come back from the wilderness and regain his strength. They ask if there is anything else they can do for him, yet there is nothing that Paul needs, everything that he will need in the next weeks has been taken care of, it being senseless to think any further ahead than that. It’s also possible that the train will not take him as far as he hopes, and then he will have to walk a long ways. Paul was not afraid of long marches, but too many bags would be a problem. And so his friends didn’t weigh him down with anything else and simply wished him well. Herr Brantel asks Paul to just remember that in the country whose people had robbed him of everything precious and dear there were still decent people. Paul promises to keep that in his thoughts. Then he is ready to go, though Herr Brantel says there’s no hurry and brings in a bottle of wine.

  “Some thirty years ago I brought home four bottles of wine. This is the last one. I wanted to save it for a special occasion. Now is the right moment. I had thought it would be different. My daughter was engaged. The war has claimed the groom. He was taken away even before his wounds had completely healed. He never came back at all. The wine was for the young wedding couple. Please, don’t think twice and give us the pleasure of drinking this wine with us!”

  The old bottle’s cork creaks, the wine is dark red. The glasses clink with a silvery ring, everyone drinks slowly. They are silent, three people from Unkenburg—father, mother, daughter. The stranger from Stupart sits almost motionless and studies them thoughtfully. He was often a guest here, they were wonderful times. They had never asked a thing, but had only listened, nor had Paul ever left empty-handed. Now it is silent. It has not been this silent in years, so still. The man from Stupart remembers nothing. Is that what peace is? More wine is poured, the bottle is emptied. The empty glasses cast a dull light. The last drop is enjoyed. Paul gets up. The friends are upset, yet warm and subdued; they know that he is leaving, the looter, the one who came searching for booty among the blown-apart bricks of their building. Paul looks at the girl. What are her hands searching for and why is she trembling? The groom will never come again. What else is it? Hands reach out, hands are taken. Maybe this is where Paul should embrace his happiness. Perhaps at last the daughter of this house, too. What a bold proposal! Is it the last possible sin among the rubble that has fallen? An old grandfather’s clock announces the time in low tones, striking three-quarters past the hour before falling silent. Paul looks away. He doesn’t say much, but instead turns toward the door with half-closed eyes. Frau Brantel and her daughter are bent over, weeping quietly. He can hardly hear them. He takes hold of their hands and feels the magic pass between them.

  “What we cannot hold are the hands of our neighbors. The journey calls, each of us is called to take it. I thank you all for the kindness you have shown me. I leave your house wholly recovered.”

  Herr Brantel accompanies his guest down the stairs, clinging to a candle along the way. With his free hand he protects the flickering light. The stairwell is quiet, but the steps echo loud and strong. Paul is not anxious, yet he feels himself descending into darkness as if encountering the arches of a crypt that holds the past. But then mockingly and with a smile the door is opened, the air heavy with the scent of lilacs, the clear spring night feeling contemplative and unusually warm.

  “I can walk along with you for a ways.”

  “You should go back to your wife and daughter.”

  “Just to the next corner. I can’t go very far. It’s a quarter to eleven. It’s almost curfew.”

  “You don’t have an overcoat?”

  “On a night like this?”

  “You want to accompany me just like you did then on that first afternoon when I was dumb enough to speak to Captain Dudley so stupidly.”

  “Captain Dudley? He was transferred out of Unkenburg yesterday. I thought you’d like to know.”

  “That’s all behind me. Everything in this town, everything in these past few years is behind me. Herr Brantel, what do you want with a stranger whom you will not see again? He drank the wine for your daughter’s wedding.”

  “It was the wine of friendship that we shared. The journey will not separate us.”

  “Hasn’t too much happened? Still, I think joy is still possible. I feel perhaps a bit too unburdened, more than is right to feel, yet I’m an old man. I can be forgiven somewhat. The official who filled out my papers couldn’t believe how young I was.”

  “Anyone who remains committed to such a journey and is impatient and wants to complete it as fast as possible is still young and cannot be broken. You have a lot ahead of you. Perhaps it won’t be easy, most likely not, I don’t want to lie to you. I’ve gotten to know you enough such that I can understand the path that lies ahead of you and know how long it is. But it will continue. It will continue for you, for us, for everyone. That you can count on, something that for most is a terrible thing and even more terrible than sheer despair. In our time there exists a race that has a propensity for the negative. At first this world degenerated into loveless-ness and then into madness; it was destroyed and made uninhabitable, which only brought satisfaction and joy in the downfall that was served in turn. Maybe you are right, or at least for yourself, when you claim that no one has a home anymore. I can’t conceive of that, though I have to say I respect what you say. Yet homelessness must not lead to nothingness.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that with me. I have goals, many goals. Someone like me, who was swept away and no longer knew whether he belonged to the living or the dead, cannot be held back for long. I, too, despair. Despair can be like a warm bath, something that I wish more people could experience. It can exist without enmity. But I think I already see things in a similar way as you do. There are too many in the world who, because of fear and vanity, fall into despair; fear, because there’s no stability, vanity, because they don’t want any stability. One should despair for something, not about something. Do you understand?”

  “I think so. One must have a center, an unshakable quiet space that one clings to vigorously, even when one is in the middle of the journey, the unavoidable journey … an unmuddied sensibility free of rubbish, no left, no right, only the center, a constancy that does not change for the better or for the worse. I don’t mean it strictly in a spatial sense. I mean it instead as a circuit, one that travels from hand to hand, from heart to heart and really exists.”

  “The immutable amid the journey. Free of sin and the fall from grace. I see what you mean. Despair is our fall from grace, here amid the rubble, our confiscated stolen property, our transmutable and disputable names, the heart’s home, but not the heart—in short, everything that could be taken from us. The center, if I understand correctly, cannot be taken away from us. It travels with us and lifts us up from sin, from the rubble.”

  “I think we understand each othe
r. We must bring everyone that we can into the circuit, no matter how young. One’s potential growth is only the very same transformation that vanity and fear latch onto when transforming true freedom into an impediment. The conditions are such that, in regards to this circuit, most likely it is quite small. When other people look into our faces, we have to try to reach out to them. I know myself how hard that is, for who wants to stand in someone else’s shoes?”

  “Hardly anyone. But there’s always somebody. One has to trust that it will happen.”

  “One can trust. Now one will not only be taken from, but also given to. That is the grace amid which creation is woven and renewed. Without such grace it will not happen.”

  “The moment of creation is perhaps only a matter of a reawakened will; creation itself is a result of such grace. And grace is the journey. The dead must rest and possess a grace that, presumably, comes from the human masses and is not the journey. The first night I slept in this city, when you forgave my way of speaking, I experienced for the first time the grace of death. It was a feeling separate from the journey. It was without question something in and of itself and yet a spirit that moved, no, actually, it was the center that is within us all.”