Authors: Marcel Beyer
The Karnau Tapes
Marcel Beyer
The Karnau Tapes
Translated from the German by John Brownjohn
Copyright © Suhrkamp Verlag Frankfurt am Main 1995
Translation copyright © 1997 by John Brownjohn
First published in Great Britain by Martin Seeker & Warburg in 1997 First published in German in 1995 as
Flughunde
by Suhrkamp Verlag
# ISBN-10: 015100255X
Contents
'I hear the sweet little voices
that are dearer to me
than anything else in the world.
What a precious possession!
May God keep it safe
for me!'
I
A
VOICE
PUNCTURES
THE
DAWN
STILLNESS
: '
FOR
A
START
,
GET
those signs up. Hammer the posts in good and deep, the ground's soft enough. Hard as you can, the signs mustn't sag.'
The Scharführer's commands ring out across the stadium. He aims a finger at several boys in swastika armbands, who detach themselves from the rest and set to work. All have been freshly shorn down to ear level, to the point where the shiny skin of their clean-shaven necks begins. They look like puppy-dogs with stubble. If they had ears and tails, they'd be docked for good measure. That's the way our youngsters are reared these days.
'Get cracking on those ramps for the wheelchair attendants — boardwalks, so all the cripples can be wheeled into the front few rows. I don't want any of them getting stuck in the mud if the rain comes down any harder.'
The rest of the Scharführer's minions stand stiffly at attention, not even shivering in the dank air. Weary, ghostly figures, they're alert to every gesture and word of command that emanates from their Hitler Youth troop-leader in his sodden brown uniform.
'Six of you, take the line-markers and lay down some parallel lines along the boardwalks for the guide-dogs to follow. Distance between the lines, sixty centimetres precisely: the width of one man's shoulders plus dog.'
This is a war of sound. The Scharführer's voice slices into the gloom, carries as far as the platform. The acoustics here are odd. Six microphones are required in front of the speaker's desk alone, four of them for the batteries of loudspeakers aimed at the stadium from all angles. The fifth, which serves to pick up special frequencies, will be adjusted throughout the speech to bring out certain vocal effects. The sixth is hooked up to a small loudspeaker beneath the desk and can be controlled by the orator himself.
Additional microphones are installed at a radius of one metre to create a suitably stereophonic effect. Positioning these is an art in itself. They're concealed inside the floral decorations and behind the flag, so the audience can't spot them from below. But they must also be invisible to the guard of honour and the Party bigwigs seated behind the speaker's back. Where are the stadium's blind spots, acoustically speaking? Where will the sound-waves break on the listening ranks to best effect? Will any stray sounds be deflected and unexpectedly rebound on the speaker himself? No one really knows if our calculations are correct. There are numerous doubtful areas, but they're only vaguely indicated on the ground-plan.
Of special importance to the general effect is a microphone mounted in the Party emblem suspended overhead. This precludes any loss of volume when the speaker projects his words at the sky. The night is over, but it's still dark out here. Raindrops are falling from the outsize swastika above me. One lands on my upturned face.
Down in the stadium the marshals are receiving their instructions. 'All the amputees are to be wheeled in first. Double smartly across the field and keep to the lines, utmost care essential while pushing the wheelchairs. No collisions, so watch it!'
The leading wheelchair attendants come trotting in, barely visible through the pall of mist that enshrouds the stadium. They double across the field, each pushing an empty wheelchair ahead of him. The whole procedure will be rehearsed several times more before noon to ensure that the World War One cripples and other disabled veterans are paraded without a hitch. Chairs have been ranged along the boardwalks to represent the audience during rehearsals. One boy slips on the wet planks and crashes into this barrier, wheelchair and all. He earns himself an immediate tongue-lashing: 'You useless blithering idiot! Do that this afternoon and you're for it. One little goof and you'll be on punishment parade. All right, once more from the beginning. Back into the tunnels, all of you, then out across the field in double-quick time.'
The way that Scharführer bullies his underlings . .. How can they meekly endure his strident bellowing so early in the day? Do they knuckle under and submit to such humiliation, do they grit their teeth and tolerate the sound of his masterful adolescent voice because it makes them feel they're part of a movement in which they themselves will grow up just as masterful? Is it their firm belief that a similar organ will implant itself in their youthful throats as time goes by?
My gaze lingers on the luckless bungler as he doubles off, surreptitiously rubbing his knee and elbow. I turn up my overcoat collar. The clammy material adheres to my Adam's apple and brings me out in gooseflesh. My fingers are cold, so cold and stiff they can hardly hold the cigarette I'm smoking. The men with the cable drums appear. They thread their way through the retreating youngsters and make for the platform. Someone must have a word with the man in charge of the design team before the cables are laid up here. That's because the oak-leaf arrangement he's planning must be used to camouflage them. All the cables must be carefully taped aside and led beneath the platform through holes in the floor. The speaker will want to come down and mingle with his audience after addressing them, so nothing must get in his way.
They're already installing the lights. We sound engineers are running a little late. The Scharführer, too, is becoming edgy because the blind veterans' entrance has presented unforeseen problems and his boys are getting into a lather.
'Apply wheelchair brakes! Amputees to stay exactly where they are. After them will come the blind plus guide-dogs trained to follow the white lines. Canes to be carried under the arm. They're not to make contact with the ground until all the blind are in position.'
A few blind men have actually been rounded up to help rehearse this procedure, but they keep blundering into their Alsatians. Many of them become entangled in the leads and nearly fall headlong in the mud. Young dogs stray off the boardwalk or stand there looking bewildered. The Scharführer rallies his youngsters with a note of panic in his voice: 'Those white lines — thicken them up! Go over them again at once, two or three times. The brutes can't see a thing in this light.'
One of the blind men pauses in the beam of a spotlight, warming himself in its glow. His dog tugs at the lead, but the man refuses to budge. The harsh glare is reflected in his dark glasses and bounces off the tinted lenses, straight into my eyes.
'All the dogs know their places. Procedure as follows: they're to park the blind and then turn, but not on the spot, not back the way they came. Around the front and then out, rear rank first, front rank last.'
The blind veterans are to listen to the speaker in a relaxed pose, and their dogs would only spoil the picture. Besides, the press photographs must mitigate any impression of frailty in favour of strength and martial fervour. Everyone is more or less formed up at last. For the past week the blind have devoted one hour a day to practising the correct execution of the Hitler salute. Now, however, as they raise their right hands, a horrific sight meets the eye: some arms are parallel to the ground, others point almost vertically at the sky, and one or two are extended so far to the side that they brush the faces of their owners' next-door neighbours. The Scharführer has recovered his voice, and words of command ring out in quick succession: 'Up! Down! Up! Down!'
The Hitler Youth boys kneel to adjust the blind men's arms until they're neatly aligned. A technician reports the loudspeakers in position and the cables laid. The microphones can now be hooked up. Someone in the distance gives me a wave: the power is on. Who's going to try out the sound? Not me, definitely not. In any case, the Scharführer renders any sound test abortive: 'Last of all, march in the deaf-mutes! The deaf-mutes won't be able to cheer the Führer, so they'll have to stand at the very back.'
The Hitler Youth boys exchange uncertain glances. Two of them, I notice, are actually whispering. The deaf-mutes .. . Here they come, emerging from the tunnel. Or maybe they aren't deaf-mutes at all, those men crossing the running track with resolute tread. Has the Scharführer got it wrong? Aren't they simply guests of honour? No, this must indeed be the heralded arrival of the contingent of men unfit for military service. What a spectacle they make in the half-light of dawn, conversing in their esoteric sign language and attired in weird, absurdly starched and well-pressed uniforms beaded with raindrops — fancy-dress uniforms, given that none of their wearers could ever serve in the armed forces.
What are we to do with them, we sound engineers? They won't be able to follow the text of this afternoon's speech, but the gigantic public address system will set up continuous vibrations in their bodies. Even if they can't grasp the meaning of the sounds, we can set their innards churning. We adjust the public address system accordingly: higher frequencies for the cranial bones, lower for the abdomen. The sounds must be made to penetrate the darkness deep inside them.
Some SS men are sighted in the stadium, come to check on the progress of preparations. The Hitler Youth boys seem intimidated by their black uniforms. The glances they exchange differ from the ones that preceded the entry of the deaf-mutes. Leather boots, waterproof capes — even the faces in the shadow of the peaked caps are only dimly visible against the pale, misty background. But now, as luck would have it, the Scharführer has his invalids neatly drawn up. All are in position, medals tinkling faintly. There follows a trial run-through. The Scharführer gives vent to a few words at the speaker's desk. He bellows them in emulation of his Führer's characteristic delivery, subjecting the public address system — and his voice — to maximal strain.
Isn't he aware that every shout, every utterance of such volume, leaves a minuscule scar on the vocal cords? Don't they realise that, the people who so brutally erode their voices and subject them to such reckless treatment? Every such outburst imprints itself on the overtaxed vocal cords, steadily building up scar tissue. Marks of that kind can never be erased; the voice retains them until silenced for ever by death.
The stadium shakes. My body shrinks and contracts. Or does it? Hasn't it simply been compressed into a rigid mass by sound-waves? Putting your hands over your ears is forbidden, not that it would do any good: the din is enough to drive the marrow from your bones. Air masses are churning around with undreamed-of force. Meantime, the little band of supernumeraries in the arena stands there spell-bound.
As soon as the sonic pressure ceases the deaf-mutes raise their right arms and open their mouths like everyone else. This creates a homogeneous impression, but whereas a loud
'Sieg Heil!'
rings out from the first few ranks, all that can be heard at the rear is a chorus of faint, effortful croaks. Next, standing in for the speaker, an SS officer inspects the front rank. The veterans, whose outstretched arms and sightless eyes are directed at nothing, stare past him into space as he grasps one upraised hand and gives it an appreciative shake. Simultaneously, the band strikes up a march.
My job is done. On the way out I see a bunch of deaf-mutes loitering some distance from the parade. Wearily shuffling from foot to foot, they smoke and converse in sign language under the paling sky. Like bats, their hands flutter silently in the limbo between day and night.
One of them puts two fingers to his lips, then jabs his arm in the air. Does the vehemence of that gesture carry some special force? Is it the equivalent, in a deaf-mute, of speaking loudly? If so, what form does a quiet, diffident remark assume? That man with his head bowed — should the tremors that run through his limbs be construed as a message to the others? What if they themselves are trembling so much in the dank morning air that they don't even notice? Trembling alone may mean something, but it's no substitute for sound.