The Journey (15 page)

“Do none of you have a clue, or are you all mad? Diet is important, but that’s not enough on its own!”

Leopold should not have had to work, for normally someone his age was freed of such responsibility, yet in return the old ones were expected to give part of their rations to the other prisoners. This was what was simply expected of them, though there was no interest in hearing what they had to say about it, they were expected to just accept these measures. The authorities in Ruhenthal had given the order: more for the young, because they will live, and less for the old, because they will die! This was the normal run of things in Ruhenthal. Human wisdom confronted natural law and sped up its course. Die, Doctor, die, you are not needed! There’s hardly any bread, and so one doles out a few hard crumbs, which don’t harm the digestion. Also the long overdue return of justice is helped by such clever distractions, for the day-to-day boredom of life simply
won’t allow itself to continue. The state has a stranglehold on the people and like a leg they fall asleep. Die, Doctor, die, and lie down on the rotten straw! Everywhere the human race has secured a victory with hardly a struggle. A new age of inventions is here, die, die, the state has tightened its bandage around you! The destruction and care of the Earth has been handed over to mankind, the compress in place, the state thrice blessed, dear Leopold! So die, for the stethoscope is broken and your hearing has failed!

No one can bring about something in the world without encountering certain problems in its structure that have been unavoidable. Thus those who are dissatisfied begin to gather together and disturb the image of perfect unity that exists in society. What they want, contrary to all reasonable rules, is to keep other options alive, though the only option that’s given them is the right to work. Whoever doesn’t work doesn’t eat! That’s fine. But whoever works should be able to eat! Work or death are the choices, dear fathers and grandfathers! Honor the young, who came up with the idea! Leopold, there’s no need to die, your tired old bones are not a day older than seventy-five. You’re healthy, you can do it. But old folks shouldn’t desire to speak openly or have any say in matters, for silence suits the old ones, as well as a modest spot under the sun, frugality the order of the day because—watch out!—the old ones can’t have all the wisdom for themselves. The old ones should be happy with their lot, a teeming heap of rubbish, for there they can wait patiently until they are dragged off, though if they don’t want that, then, indeed, there are plenty of small jobs by which such creatures can make themselves useful. Get away from the rubbish! You’ve had it too good for too long! Now try sauntering through the city and showing the young what you’re good for!

It was a clever idea to gather together thousands of old folks in Ruhenthal. They were a group of volunteer workers among which there was no woman under sixty and no man under sixty-five. The thousands of old people were used everywhere they were needed. Old people hauled coal, water, bread, and bricks. They cleaned the toilets and swept the streets. They pushed funeral wagons and wheelbarrows. They made sure no provisions were stolen, that no break-ins occurred.

Leopold also has asked to be put to work and is now on the rubbish
detail. It’s pleasant and healthy work. The job just takes care of itself and is not so rushed as in Leitenberg, all of it happening at a leisurely pace. Now and then a voice barks out an order, but it doesn’t mean anything. Silent laughter is the proper response, each one thinking to himself without being especially upset, Sorry, we can’t, we’re doing the best we can. And so the work moves constantly along from building to building. Quiet talk full of memories and hope accompanies it, helping to keep disdain for present matters intact. Eight to ten buildings are taken care of before noon, followed by the same number in the afternoon. When the three barrels on the hearse are full, the group pulls and pushes the wagon slowly along toward one of the roads out of town. Continually they have to stop in order that the old ones can try to catch their breath. Then they lean on the barrels, regardless of the dirt; it feels good to rest and it’s the one happy part of the job.

Leopold stands there and closes his eyes for a while. Sometimes he thinks of nothing at all, then he remembers how important it is to the inhabitants of Ruhenthal to have the rubbish cleaned out of the courtyards where the blue flies buzz. The rubbish lies there for weeks before it’s hauled away, for the hearse is not available to take care of things each day, yet there are many people living in each building who always have something to throw away. But if the prisoners want to live, they have to empty their buildings of filth and junk. This the former doctor knows and tells them so, whether he’s asked or not. And as soon as a talent is discovered it is put to use, its value appreciated, each profession having its function, nothing done in vain. Those who laugh at this are wrong. Taking care of rubbish deepens one’s relation to the stuff we use. That’s why, if we are indeed thankful, we love rubbish; it doesn’t matter that it’s what we no longer need.

At last the group of ancient garbagemen reaches the outskirts of Ruhenthal with their wagon. The group leader leaves his place on the shaft and tells the guard how many companions he has with him. Then someone walks out from the guardhouse with lazy steps and counts the people three times over, hands the leader a note, waves, the barrier is raised, and the old folks slowly start moving with their wagon, the barrier lowering behind them.

The path is not far off, it takes only a few minutes before they get to the dumping spot. Now there approaches a difficult moment, for the heavy barrels have to be emptied. But it’s not that hard as long as there is enough strength to take care of the task. The leader has a rope that is tied around the last barrel. Two of the women in the group and the leader are young. The leader gives the order, the young women grab hold of the ends of the rope, some old guys place themselves on the other side of the wagon and push or at least make it seem like they want to help. The leader then yells “Heave ho!” and the two women pull hard on the rope until the barrel tips over. It empties out with a loud rumble and usually falls from the wagon, although that’s not supposed to happen since it’s easy for the staves to burst. Whenever a barrel is done in, it’s the leader who gets into trouble.

“You’re banging that barrel! Do you think I can just fix it? Watch out! It will be a month before I can get hold of another one that good!”

But everyone yells that nothing has happened to the barrel, it’s only rolled off, and the ground is not that hard. Because the leader is really not a bad man, he only scolds them for a while and then calms down again once the barrel is lifted back onto the creaking wagon with a great effort. The tipped-over barrels do not empty out entirely, which is why the leader bangs them with a shovel until all of the rubbish is out. One barrel follows another. Once they are all empty and are placed back in their rows, the rubbish still has to be spread out so that there is enough space for the next load as happens in any properly run dump.

This place is not sad, it’s a garden of freedom where everything that is dead is given over to itself. No longer does this place have to suffer through the presence of misery’s sweat, or the greedy looks that like to peer out between rotting crusts or keep on the lookout for the sticks that poke and digging hands that grab hold of something that no one wants anymore, reducing it to despised possessions once again. Instead, such residue is free of all greed, humiliation done away with, all that is left is sun, wind, and rain, which are offered in peace to the useless treasures that the earth takes into its arms with an almost undetectable rustling. All power fails when the unalterable law of nature completes its unconscious work. No one looks on any longer, everything becomes still and discovers itself amid silent reflection.

Time also stands still, a healing measure. Leaning against the wagon, the old folks rest. They feel the first early warmth of spring, which takes away their hunger as if it had never existed. The air is light and free of every nasty rumor, for it is gentle and blows from a distance from which it has gained fresh strength. Perhaps it’s blowing in from the nearby mountains that you won’t come any closer to, something that makes their dark brooding quality seem even sadder. Perennials and weeds grow on the slopes and don’t worry about a thing since they live without knowing. No one scolds them for thriving, because their undisputed prerogative is that they neither hate nor are hated. On the other hand, whoever does something nasty to them does so without bad intentions; whatever is done to the stems and leaves is done unconsciously. They remain unaware of the state of mind of whoever destroys them, since such intent simply drifts away over the open countryside, unless they grow ever more thin, conquered and calmed by the stillness of the meadow, disappearing without a trace.

The will to destroy is directed essentially toward people and their works; everything else remains off to the side, only grazed or accidently swept up. Indeed nature’s resilience is its salvation; whatever bends straightens itself again. But destruction’s fury, which culminates in death and never can hold itself in check, is nothing other than a sick and twisted form of greed that prefers a peaceful, versus a violent, control of things the moment sinister war breaks out, during which owners lose the balance and security of normal lives and orderly relations, the seemingly irrefutable right to ownership suddenly being suspended. Then they die or become despondent if they don’t do something bad out of the fear that causes them to do terrible things. Then they turn into hordes that are hard to control, everyone joining the march or urged to join in the uprising. Everyone is sent forth and given the charge to spread trouble, which is wicked, but even more wicked when it is done on the sly. For that’s how a fiend spreads trouble, who then is only satisfied when it leads to an orgy of destruction that swallows up everything in its reach. That, however, is when the rubbish blows about! And it blows around as well what is not yet rubbish, but will be! It has to be stepped on and kicked out of the way, its memory left to rot! Murder and fire and terror wander among those who unleash them, though they themselves will also be
consumed by such force and will be pulled under by the misery they instigated.

Yet this race that eventually leads to self-destruction is rarely apparent to the minds behind it. The horror behind the flickering flames and tinkling shards of glass remains hidden and protected by secrecy, both the rampagers and the victims of the day remain unaware. Whoever outlasts such events and looks back at them as judge or victim shuns the light and doesn’t want to know in order that silence absolve the sins. Forced to speak, the participants claim that is not how it was, or at least not how it was supposed to be, fear’s dirty euphemisms smoothing things over with clever sayings that gladly conceal what they carry. However, the sadists listen to whoever among the escapees finds the courage to force himself to speak and are barely able to contain themselves before such fabrications, though it’s not long before their patience bursts and, mixed with obviously bored yawns, the crack made in hatred’s facade closes up again and new wounds are inflicted upon old open wounds, laughter soon following, then disgust, and finally suffocating forgetfulness. If the accuser, however, still cannot prove the charges, he must continue to press and threaten, for only that will bring him peace. If that fails, then nothing more is heard; no accuser is clever enough or strong enough to jump over or knock down the wall of willful deafness once it’s erected. Then the accuser must go hungry and thirsty, every exit is blocked, the desert in which he initially cried out simply disregarded, or it’s simply too far off, no one having any idea in which direction it lies, the journey leading from one desert to another desert, though the right desert is never reached, everything having been in vain.

What is destroyed never really was, and that which is in vain never came to be. And so they are one and the same, soon indistinguishable, and soon gone. From withered fingers the last drop of dust has fallen, and they are dry, brittle brushwood that collapses upon itself. Yet when everything appears to be over, when the past means nothing at all, what should have been will again be known by those who come after, all the rest now gone like a last giant breath of air one tries to take while dying. It would be useless to try to find the dust that’s blown away in a huge new sigh, for that won’t work. The hope that it will still be there leads to a rare new beginning, but in the face of the rubbish heaps it collapses. This time all the
barrels have fallen from the wagons, the dust rises high, the old men are terrified, the group leader is upset and yells louder.

Go outside and stand in front of the gully in Ruhenthal, but don’t think about why you have been allowed out. Instead be happy that you have cold, damp noses that you can touch with your fingers. You’re alive! You’re alive! The bittersweet odor winds around you and makes your eyelids heavy, yet that is good. At least you know that you’re alive. You are counted off. All noses are gathered together, present and accounted for are the long snouts of the dogs. And don’t blow your nose if someone presses it!—Ouch, my nose!—Don’t scream! The nostrils take a deep breath and suck in air that tastes good to you whenever it’s not rancid. Hair grows long in the noses that bend over the spots where others have died. Just think, you noses, it didn’t take much to seduce you into a dream, one that you hardly could have imagined would turn out this way! Now you root about in mud and muck. But now off with you, for the leader has to call the tired noses back to the barrels and the wagon. Easily the empty wagon rumbles over the gravel on the way back to town.

Go to the dump that’s half the way to Leitenberg and behind the Scharnhorst barracks and stand in a long row. You can say a blessing over the past, but then you will no longer know what really has happened, how you got here and why. Only because you are tired will you stand there satisfied that you have been granted a moment’s peace, you noses on long legs. Your eyes have been allowed to stare, their gaze comprehending where recently, perhaps yesterday, the bellies of the wagons were emptied, where weeks ago, months ago, and already years ago, there where gradually the earth resettles, it no longer looks so bad because the rain has smoothed out the ashes and mixed them into the earth. The blesséd wind has also spread seeds. Pointed, jagged weeds have sprouted and dare to display their colorful blossoms. When the gaze can free itself of disgust and can take in the healthy little patches of color, then it turns toward renewal and doesn’t have to know that here misused, betrayed, and eventually tossed away goods rest, which in good-natured fashion no longer resent the harm done to them.