The Journey (46 page)

People stand there in long rows, shying away from Paul when he enters. Such is their feeling still toward an officer. Paul won’t have any of it and thus makes it clear that he’s not an officer. Then they laugh, for of course there are no officers, they are either imprisoned or have fled. Anyone dressed like Paul would not be allowed to stick around. So they give him a full bowl and utensils. Others sit around. On one side are the so-called officers, on the other a lot of people press together. The warm food makes Paul happy, he savors every bit. Yet he’s still not full. He should go back to the counter. He goes back, he goes back, he goes back once again. He keeps going back until he is full. He doesn’t ask about the check, yet nobody asks him if he’s going to pay either. He is a guest and thus deserves such treatment. He just needs to keep coming back until he regains his strength.

Paul walks along the streets again. Some people greet him, and he learns that he has other rights as well. Notes and cards are pressed into his hands. Paul takes on all the rights he desires. The day passes full of rights that are granted to him. All Paul has to do is walk down the street, picking them up or discarding them at his will. His pockets are full, there is no more hunger. Even breakfast is served to him because he has a right to it. And the time? When someone gives him the time it seems much too early. Yet Paul is well provided for and can now have his dinner in his own room. He walks through each district, each person shies away from him the moment they think he’s there to demand his rights. Then there’s even money in his hands, though he doesn’t know who gave it to him. Finally he grows tired and thinks of heading home. He wants to check on his
rights, to see himself in the mirror again. Paul climbs the streets toward Kanonenberg, soon the officer is in front of the familiar gate, the master of the house steps through it with his rights intact, so quickly does everything revert back to normalcy, the yard, the steps. There appear to be a lot more people in the camp than there were at noon. They have all attained their rights, many rooms are now occupied. There are names on the doors, and Paul now has a neighbor, while across from him there are three people living in a room. Paul is pleased that he had first choice. He has a place to himself, alone and undisturbed in his room, everything like it used to be long ago, just needing a little tidying up so that it looks nice, though Paul is already so tired as it grows dark, the curtains are closed, it’s night once again.

Paul has turned into an Unkenburger able to find his way through every part of the destroyed city. He knows the parks that surround it, the forests nearby. He knows certain corners that he loves. He has people he knows and looks up and who hide nothing from him. He has become friends early on with Herr Brantel. Hungry, he had broken into a half-destroyed villa in which there was a lot to eat. He hadn’t asked if he could, but instead stole what he needed under the same right by which others had stolen from him when not allowing him enough food for years at a time. He wasn’t at all ashamed of what he’d done, nor would he ever regret it. The rightful owner arrived and saw Paul and other looters taking things from ample stocks that had been broken into. The owner said little, for quickly Paul’s look reduced him to silence. The owner just looked on and took in what was happening. Then they smoked cigarettes and left together. They walked along for many hours, Herr Brantel listening and not interrupting Paul’s talk. At the end Brantel asked him a question.

“Didn’t I see you sitting on a bench at police headquarters the day after the troops entered the city?”

Paul at first can’t remember, but then he realizes this was the stranger who had led him toward Kanonenberg. Now they are good friends. The Brantel family had found refuge among their relatives. Now Paul is often their guest. Wine is served that has been waiting for him to taste. He is asked to tell about what happened, so Paul talks about the journey. At last he can say what it was like. He quietly talks about it without emotion. It feels different than when he was with Frau Wildenschwert, whom he no longer visits. People listen and are quiet.

Once there had been a family. They had an apartment in a building. You went there and it was as it always was. Everything stood at the ready. When the clock struck, things were set in motion. The table was set. Each plate was familiar. Emmy, the maid, was spotless when she carried out the food. The food tasted good. Often the father was not there. Emmy had to keep the oven warm in the kitchen so that his food would be ready for him at any time. A doctor had his responsibilities, not just his rights. Everything was so similar to how it was in Unkenburg, there was nothing to fear. Clothes hung in the closets, Emmy ironed and cleaned. The sister’s name was Zerlina, she loved fairy tales. She sang songs out loud. She made beautiful little things, loved to paint, and had a good sense of tone. She made boxes for gifts out of leather or parchment, and they were lovely. This silver case lying here on the tablecloth would have really pleased her. Her mother was different, she loved to talk and have visitors, a lively woman who danced wonderfully, that was what she loved most. Yet the father had no feel for such things. The mother loved trinkets, she always had to have something new. Inside she was really a child. She seemed a lot different than she really was. She always kept something hidden inside. Zerlina, who looked like her, was not that way. She was simply an open book, perhaps too open. The father was the same way, but much simpler. He didn’t waste his time with brooding questions. He lived for medicine and was a good doctor who cared about nothing more than the care of his patients. Then came a wife and children. There was hardly ever much of a family life, and yet, between the four walls, it was a pleasant household full of an intimate yet subdued exchange. Then the mother’s sister came, a widow who had a good son who is perhaps still alive. He went to America to be a photographer. The aunt had a light touch and always smoothed out any differences between the others. Thus the fabric of everyday life in Stupart was probably no different than what it was in Unkenburg.

But alas, Unknenburg is just a shadow in comparison, Paul should have realized earlier. There is simply no comparing it to Stupart, though one could be happy living here. The song is over. In a hundred years the residue of the war will still be present. City hall cannot be rebuilt, even if they had the original plans for it.—Paul agrees. But the citizens have not suffered that badly despite the destruction, their families were not torn
apart and will soon be reunited again.—Did Paul have any hope at all? What happened to his cousin?—My cousin? He must be somewhere, though Paul doesn’t want to talk about him. Even if the hand had pointed toward somewhere, there was no hope. It’s even doubtful whether Stupart came through it all intact. Paul had no idea, there still are no newspapers. There is nobody he could ask either.—Maybe there is. Someone said that two girls had recently shown up from there. They had fled early on.—What did they have to say?—The city had not suffered. All the buildings were still standing. The citizens had risen up and driven away the foreigners, but otherwise everything is still the same.

Thus it’s time to head home. Paul only has to wait a couple of more days until the trains are running once again. One still had to walk a ways in order to catch a ride on a train. For that Paul would wait. He has already recovered, the mirror tells him so. People no longer draw back from him. The children don’t run away when he talks to them.

Paul roams through the surrounding area. He remembers how often on the march from Ruhenthal to Dobrunke he had wanted to peel away from the road and run freely through the trees in the forest. Now he could do that, there are no guards to prevent him. Nothing has happened here. Now and then he bumps into someone who also wants to be on his own. They look at each other then hurry off in opposite directions. The days are lovely and warm. Innumerable paths lead through the bushes and have no idea how close the destroyed city is. So lightly have the footsteps pressed into the countryside, they are only aware of themselves and they know nothing of the refugees either. There is fresh moss growing on the summit. There a strand of sunlight beams down and a pair of butterflies flutters. Logs lie across the path, the peeled-away bark shines red and smells fragrant. Is there nobody who needs wood in Unkenburg?

Paul should not go back to the strange city. He has stayed there too long; he might be too tempted by what it is best to avoid. It had been a mistake to talk to so many people there, to let just anyone in, yet it was an attempt to once again live in the world in order to figure out whether such talk would be allowed and bearable to others. Once he found that he could speak freely, that was enough. The country promised loneliness, its people too much to take; it would not work to remain here even among such kind strangers.

It could be that this road is forbidden, for a sign warned about something and threatened penalties, though the commands no longer mean anything. Paul is not worried about having to answer to some forest ranger. He walks on wherever he wants. He slips around a corner, turns around, stands there, closes his eyes, walks on for a bit, looks up at the sky, smells a leaf, a blossom, stops, closes his eyes again, blinks, then opens them again, feels the sun warm his back, enjoys the kind embrace of a bench, then jumps up again, reaches a fence whose boards hang loose and are painted honey yellow, walks past and sees tender saplings growing, the forest nursery, where the hand of the forester makes—once again a hand. Paul smiles, turns around quickly, and slips out of the nursery.

Then he climbs a hill. He wants to get to the top quickly, but he loses his breath, the steep incline requiring repeated stops to rest. On the top there stands a small viewing tower. A price is written down, which the curious wanderer is supposed to pay, though there is nobody there to worry about the deserted tower, the owner and the guard have left it. Had they been taken away and imprisoned? Or did no one else come who wanted to pay money to enjoy the view? The tower is unlocked. Paul feels free to enter; slowly he climbs each step and counts out loud. The stairs rise in a tight circle, and he counts eighty steps. The climb was hardly worth it, down below the view was better, though Paul can see Unkenburg again from above. The city is far enough away that one can’t see all the destruction. The intact outskirts of the city and its parks have not suffered any damage. The red roofs of the Kanonenberg barracks shine between the trees. The old part of the city is deeply embedded and hides its wounds, the cathedral appearing hardly touched at all.

Paul looks at everything matter-of-factly. He feels like a reporter who shares what he has to say free of any emotion. Yet to whom should Paul report? The Unkenburgers know all about it already and are not waiting for his story. The rest of the world has its own destroyed cities and doesn’t care about Unkenburg. Everyone has had enough of the news and doesn’t want to know anything about any journeys that might be offered up by a journalist to his readers. Paul no longer looks off into the distance, no longer at the city, but rather in front of him at the balustrade. It is made of wood, letters and names have been carved into it, along with dates. Was there ever anyone here whom Paul knew? He doesn’t think so, for the names seem
strange, the dates don’t mean anything. Then he thinks of the names of his new friends in Unkenburg, though none of them have immortalized themselves here. Nor is the name Küpenreiter scratched in. The captain didn’t write anything either, he only saw the tower amid the battle and thought only about defenses and fighting and victory. Now Paul has won the tower, having taken it without a weapon in his hand.

Should Paul also lend his name to this tower? He has no knife with him, only a pencil; any trace of it would soon disappear. Paul plays with the pencil in his pocket but doesn’t take it out. Paul has paid no entry fee, the tower won’t allow his memory to be preserved. Paul has already started back down the stairs and then hurries away as fast as he can. He wants to go home to the Scharnhorst barracks. The day has shown him that he doesn’t want to stay in Unkenburg any longer. Life among complete strangers is much too easy. He can say whatever he wants, he can lie, he can inspire sympathy and friendship, he can experience this and that, yet have no responsibilities, no ties, be free of it all, always on the fly, and no price to pay. Paul knows many names that have been written down in a notebook. They are hoping that he will let them hear how he is sometime, and they will write back as well. But Paul will not write. They are just empty gestures that one exchanges, but soon they are forgotten. The road had caused their lives to come in contact with one another, then they had all gone their separate ways back to different countries, the ties between them dissolving amid all the changes.

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.