The Journey (11 page)

And so you looked at the inhabitants of Leitenberg who wandered around the streets of their town naturally uncertain. You and others marched four abreast between the rows of buildings and across the market square. You were not allowed to stop nor to step onto the platform at the station, but were forced to hurry across the tracks as if you yourselves were a train waiting to serve its master’s every wish and desire rather than its own volition. Essentially what awaited you was an open question, for there was nothing you had to worry about. To the extent that you were buried in your own cares and worries, you were aware of no one else but yourselves, the worries themselves superfluous simply because you had not yet learned to give up your dear old sense of normalcy.

Even if it wasn’t quite right, Leitenberg was nevertheless indifferent to your plight. It was a town through which you were led like so many times before, this being perhaps not the last time either. What strange fate awaited you that perhaps you were not aware of? A town, fine, a town—but there are plenty of towns. No curious onlooker claps the restless, runny-nosed traveler on the back to help him breathe better. No sooner did you reach a town and you left it behind, so it was no use tossing pebbles at a window to try to find out the secrets to some stranger’s home cooking. The severe penalty you’d have to pay for such a misdeed would not have been worth whatever unlikely relief you might have gained, and the penalties might have meant your own end, one of pure misery.

Leitenberg is not your town, no matter how many times you may have been led through it, for it offers you no view of itself but the backyards of houses on the outskirts that for years you quietly passed almost every day on the train. In the dark, or even in your sleep, it’s enough for you to think that you’ll soon be there, just a little longer, just another half hour before you reach your stop, the one meant for you alone, and so you stand and move on, almost home. You could also wander through Leitenberg with your eyes almost closed, or you could lower your gaze to the ground and count the paving stones and your steps. Soon you will know, having passed
the last houses and reached the open field. Leitenberg is only a dream, or no, an accident, which you can no more avoid than the train can leave its tracks; only by jumping the tracks could it plunge into the strange town and disappear.

Only certain views meet certain faces. Everything else remains hidden and buried in impenetrable murkiness. At first you wander along a river valley where there are poplars and vegetable fields. The land is wet and lush. Its owners are unknown to you, unknown also to you is how they tend the fields and nurture the fruits and vegetables. You’ve no idea if there has been enough rain or sun this year to guarantee a good harvest, because you know no one who will enjoy the yield, and it’s even questionable if there is indeed anyone who takes care of what grows here. Seeing the blossoms on the weeds makes you happy and would continue to do so if you were allowed a brief stop. You’re just happy that it’s not raining, for your shoes are rotted, the puddles of mud make your steps difficult. Quietly your gaze takes in the plants that required such incredible toil, the kind generated by either great hope or bitter need. A hailstorm could destroy it all, bursting the soft melons and battering the cucumbers, the harvest crushed.

Keep moving! You’re not allowed to stop here and while away the hours. No one prepared this harvest for you, none of it is for you, no matter how much you may want it. “Look, a tomato! It’s almost ripe!” It’s better to chase away all such thoughts before they start to cause you great pain. Keep moving! Out in the countryside already you pass the surprising somberness of individual houses covered with vines and surrounded by overflowing gardens in which productive hands and nature’s powers vie with tender plants and bushes. Who will win the battle between them? Meanwhile you pass barns, workshops, small factories, dumps, and sheds, all of which announce the presence of anxious owners who must live nearby, their need or greed serviced by these facilities. You’re not allowed in, you’re not allowed either to take care of anything or destroy anything, because no one is allowed in who doesn’t have the right to enter already.

Only the inn called The Golden Grape heartily invites anyone in, but it is empty and quiet. The door is closed, the windows of the dining room
gray with dust. Ridiculous are the musical notes painted on the walls, ridiculous the sign and the inscribed lead plaques with all of their advertising slogans, which are already rusted and no longer mean anything. Still, you read them.

Yet you don’t believe them, since they are a joke. The powers that be had called for a war that no one wanted and that put everyone in debt. That’s why the beer became scarce and finally dried up, coffee also disappearing from the planet. At the very least there was no way to stock The Golden Grape, and so sadly enough the inn is closed and dirty. Perhaps the innkeeper had been taken away and it was closed for good.

“My dear sir, you’ve tapped kegs and served up beer for free long enough. It’s time to leave it all behind. If you don’t wish to die, then it would be better to come along now in order to die later. In any case, here you’ll have nothing to do for the foreseeable future. The magistrate and the citizenry of the town of Leitenberg will gladly confirm that.”

The innkeeper was a portly man who bowed respectfully to all authorities and never raised a peep as long as things concerned himself alone. On the other hand, it seemed to him unfair to close the inn as a result of his—as he hoped—temporary departure, since there was still a wife and some daughters, along with a maid, who could keep things running.

“Look how many there are …,” as he made one sad gesture after another at the members of his house. “Look how many there are who can cook and serve, who can carry booze back and forth. My business won’t fail. There’s plenty of customers.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Herr Innkeeper, or at least you’ve only partly grasped the truth. You’re right, your business won’t fail, for the statutes don’t forbid your wife from running it. But the times are against you, and that’s what is shutting down your garden and cozy booths.”

“You mean the war?”

“That’s right. You have to understand that there’s no more beer and wine, no sausage, no cheese.”

“But there are still allotments! Smaller, but they still exist! If there isn’t enough of one thing, then there’s enough of another. It just keeps changing. Not everything disappears all at once.”

“That’s right, it doesn’t disappear, but is redirected and shipped elsewhere. Only a few important restaurants are still open, and even they have to limit what they can serve. Here outside the town, where at most wagoners stop or on a sunny day good country people come to enjoy your shade garden, business has to be sacrificed until the victorious end of the war. The business must close.”

“My inn doesn’t matter? Nor the wagoners or good country people?”

“They’re not important. The drivers will disappear no matter what, and as for good country people? Herr Innkeeper, open your eyes!”

“Don’t mock an honest man! My inn is important, I say, important, for I and my people live off what’s left over after taxes.”

“None of you need live any longer. It doesn’t matter if you do. Just think of our new anthem!”

“ ‘Everything will soon be over, everything will soon be finished’?”

“Why do you say it with such a questioning tone? The anthem is simple and clear. It’s meant for those on the journey, yes, for the journey.”

“But the wagoners, even if they no longer trot along with a team of horses, but barrel along instead, sir, they travel nonetheless! They need their beer, yet another drop appearing out of the bottle.… I always poured a full glass for free! Twice I’d fill it up! I’d sacrifice my own profits for the beauty of a well-poured pint. I gave away good beer.”

“Travelers can drink water, it’s also bright and clear. We need sober lads if we’re going to win.”

“And the Sunday guests?”

“There aren’t any more! Days off have been done away with!”

“Good country people. I know a slew of them!”

“There’s no such thing. They’ve been done away with!”

“Why should my wife and children suffer?”

“We all must suffer! That can’t be helped! Everyone has to pay the price!”

“Yet people say …”

“Lots of things are said, but everything is different than what you
hear. Words mean nothing, they can easily be taken back. What is still of value will be so because it is what is willed.”

“My people shouldn’t have to starve!”

“No one wants that, Herr Innkeeper, at least as long as it can be avoided. Though many in history have starved. But it won’t come to that. There are means of support if you need them. Nothing will happen to anyone. In general the prospects are good, there’s no need to worry. Especially if your wife and oldest daughter volunteer to work. Everyone is needed. It’s been ordered. That’s the way it is. If there are no extenuating circumstances, there are no exceptions.”

“How about my family …?”

“Not reason enough. There are families everywhere. There are no grounds for exception in your case. The world is big. Your wife is strong. Your daughter is able. We must win.”

“And so I must leave house and home?”

“Yes, you must leave everything. No one can stay who is of no use. Here you are of no use. Everything will be taken care of in this manner, because it’s for the best.”

“And the little children?”

“The local authorities will take care of them. You have our word. You can leave them behind.”

Then the innkeeper was gone, taking along only a pair of kisses and a packet of snuff in his pocket. On his way, over the mountains, into battle without beer or coffee. With the last pint poured, the keg is empty. All the other family members are gone as well. Only traces of them remain, but they are not apparent to anyone who can read them, since the memory of them no longer exists. The inn stands empty and listlessly waits for the time when it will return after much has changed, that is, if it hasn’t already been destroyed, its bricks having crumbled into sand scattered to the wind.

Yet you’re still here, despite having been so transformed that your displacement can be brought off painlessly. None of you want to sit in the shade garden of the inn, since you would be afraid and wouldn’t even know how to sit on a proper chair. If the innkeeper’s wife came herself she wouldn’t serve you, rather she’d be frightened and would implore you to
disappear. You wouldn’t be able to stand this request, it would remind you of ancient prohibitions. Whoever articulates this within his thoughts allows death to awaken. You are like yellow chickens lined up once again, and the dust that covers you no longer offends anyone, because you are not who you are but rather are led through Leitenberg like strangers. The bridge that spans the wide river already awaits you. The moment you cross it another wish is fulfilled; you are transformed yet again. No one will recognize you.

The town stretches out before you and is magnificent. From the bridge it offers up a pleasant view that has existed and been loved for centuries and is steeped in history. Happy people pass by. They are tired from a long walk and ecstatic with the knowledge that they’ll soon be home safe. Their eyes are free to roam in wonderment and they celebrate the happiness that has come to them. You, too, can look around just as long as you keep moving. The one thing you can’t do is stand still, for that will disturb the travel plans. Misuse of the emergency brake will be punished, as well as the continual transformation inherent to your own being. To the right and left beneath you there stretches the ribbon of river, silver and deep blue. Several boats lie anchored, some move along the surface.

But before you lies the town that rises from the banks and stretches off into the distance where peaceful mountains rise above Leitenberg. There in their lush green live the thick forests that can only be killed but not transplanted. They are unfamiliar woods that stand before you, but you could know them and walk through them and wander among their shade if you saw how close they were. Many paths tempt you, soft, compliant ones, yet they only lead to the free outdoors that you may not use because it’s been designated as free. From the moment a foot steps toward the forest, it must keep to fixed paths, for the fields must be protected, since they are owned by strangers and bear crops that are handled by many hands that transform their labor into food. Meanwhile the woods remain inviting with their shady embrace cooling the sweat of your fear, the trees towering above you that no human step can harm. Now you are no longer bound to certain trails and can explore curious paths known only to the game warden. Now everything has become a forest; the light is muted, the shade provides protection, and the crunching of leaves beneath you stops, everything peaceful and still.

Yet the forests remain far away and unreachable, occupying an impassable area that is cut off, only inquisitive glances allowed to enter as shy guests. It’s for the best, for these woods are undeveloped and it’s easy to lose one’s way, a network of many paths running between the trees, their destination unknown despite the promise they offer you. Only those who sustain their solitary ways by walking through the woods know where the paths lead. They know where they are and where they are headed and don’t want to be subject to the eyes of strangers. That’s why you have to remain chained together. You make up the band that crosses the river, a train that sways left-right, moving onward step-by-step, always a little farther, obedience not being a condition you chose for yourself, freedom of choice having been taken from you instead.

You have been inserted into an overpowering machine. You can’t ignore its reality, even if its construction and purpose are not clear to you, since the chief operators to whom you are mere tools never reveal or review what will happen to you or even to them. Everyone becomes blind as soon as they are pressed to say how things look from their position at the moment. Don’t cause trouble by asking questions! Your bewilderment, your disillusioned empty gazes will only bring you harm, only more trouble can come of it. As for you at the end of the bridge, you who walk through the city’s Gothic gate while in the distance the forests cause you to lower your eyes, these bailiffs in army gear with their weapons hanging loose know nothing about you, the individual links to the chain that wanders on, no, they know hardly anything about any of you. The soldiers are only following orders.