The Outlaws [Illustrated] 1907166491, 9781907166495

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Translated from German to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.com

Ernst of Solomon

THE OUTLAWS

novel

THE DISPLACED

“Blood and knowledge must coincide in life. Then spirit arises." FRANZ SCHAUWECKER

confused

The sky over the city seemed redder than usual. The light from the lone lanterns smashed against the November fog, coloring the damp, saturated air and making the clouds heavy and milky. Hardly anyone was to be seen on the streets. From afar came the long drawn-out sound of a trumpet, tormented and reverberating. The pounding of drums banged menacingly against the house fronts, caught in dark courtyards and made the closed windows tremble. A group of twenty or so policemen stood crowded at the main station. Their faces were very pale, almost spongy, and their white-gloved hands hung down heavily. The triangular cases of ungainly pistols hung awkwardly from their brown belts. They stood and waited. When my footsteps echoed over the pavement, they turned their heads and followed me with their eyes, otherwise not an expression on their faces, a limb on their bodies moved. One of them had the ribbon of the Iron Cross in the buttonhole of his blue tunic. He stood a few paces in front of the crowd of others and seemed to be listening intently for the trumpet blast. "Are you going?" I asked him and stopped, and my voice sounded hoarse. The policeman looked at me with dull eyes. He stood motionless in front of me, like a log; I had to throw my head back to look at him. He fixed his weary eyes on the bare buttons of my uniform, then looked into my face in astonishment, suddenly put his huge hand on my shoulder and said: "Go

You go home and take off your uniform." And to me, who was accustomed to obeying orders, this seemed like an order: I clicked my heels together in alarm, as I would before an officer, and said "No, no———" and after an unspeakably confused while "No" again and left then, then ran away almost blind and stumbling, through deserted streets with sightless houses, across wide squares on whose sides only scattered shadows scurried, through the grounds where the leaves rustled on the ground that I stumbled before the step of my own feet jumped. Only the narrow lines of light from encased lamps penetrated through curtained windows. The shops had iron shutters with compact locks across the wide expanses of their windows. I ended up shivering in my room, I was tormented by the silence in my room. I had set up the things on the table that were supposed to give me support. The picture of my father, in uniform, taken when the war broke out, the pictures of friends and relatives who had died in the war, the sash, the crooked saber of a hussar, the shoulder straps, the French steel helmet, my brother’s wallet that had been shot through — the blood was already whole darkened and stained — my grandfather's epaulettes with the heavy, now blackish silver tassels, a bundle of letters from the field on foxed paper — but I couldn't see it any more, all that. No, I couldn't see it any more.

All of this was no longer valid. All this was part of those victories when the flags hung from every window. Now there were no more victories, now the flags had lost their shining meaning. Well, in that confused moment, when everything was in ruins, the path that had been marked out for me was buried, I stood incomprehensibly before the new, before what was pressing ahead, without having taken shape, without making a clear call to ring out , without forcibly hammering a certainty into my head, except that the world to which I was attached, to which I did not need to confess, since I was a part of it, now finally and irrevocably sank into the dust and never again, never again would arise. I leaned out of my attic window. The water clicked in the gutter below me. I saw the looming black shadows of the houses, the wet, tattered trees far below on the glittering asphalt. A putrid mist rose from the street, climbed the gray stone, streamed into every corner of the little room. The candle went out. In the dark I threw the things that were on the table into a drawer with a clatter. I didn't sleep all night. I was at the mercy of the dangerous silence, knowing only that I had to stand up, to stand up to whatever the cost. For what now offered itself out of the confusion could only be conquered by the unwavering attitude that I had to struggle for from now on. When I came into the kitchen in the morning, I saw how

my mother separated the white armpits from my coat. I couldn't face her, I drank the thin brown broth and reached for the dark bread, I hastily cut two soggy slices and sat chewing, eyes downcast. Then I took the coat, climbed into my room and sewed the armpits back on. I walked quietly, carefully lifting my feet in the heavy, nailed, halfcalf cadet boots, down the stairs to the forecourt. I buckled the belt over my coat, contrary to the regulation that cadets should buckle under. The bayonet, long, narrow, in an elegant leather scabbard, was shiny and pointed, but not sharpened. I pulled it out and looked at it sheepishly. Finally I went out into the street. As always, the women stood in long rows in front of the shops. They spoke animatedly to each other. Hands clasped over stomach, bags and baskets on arm, they sow after me with red-rimmed eyes out of gray face. Many business people had not yet opened their rooms. A small man with a careworn face stood on a high ladder and carefully unscrewed his purveyor's sign. In the inner city I suddenly heard a loud noise coming from a main street, which I immediately decided to turn into. I felt how pale I was, I gritted my teeth and said to myself, "Hold on!" and hissed at me again: "Attitude!" and heard fragments of a shrill song, heard screams from gathered throats, sensed confusion and tumult. A huge flag was a long train

carried forward, and the flag was red. Wet and cloudy, it hung on a long pole and floated like a bloody stain over the rapidly flocking crowd. I stopped and saw. Tired crowds rolled around following the flag, stomping around in disorder. Women marched at the head. They pushed forward in wide skirts, the gray skin of their faces hanging in folds over sharp bones. Hunger seemed to have hollowed her out. Out of their dark, frayed shawls, they sang a song with clattering voices, the rhythm of which did not suit the hesitant heaviness of their walk. The men, old and young, soldiers and workers, and many petty bourgeois in between, walked with dull, worn-out faces, in which there was a gleam of dull determination, and nothing more than that, fell into step again and again, and then, as if caught, tried the Set feet closer or further. Many carried their tin cans with them, and behind the wet,

So they went, the fighters of the revolution. So the glowing flame was supposed to leap out of this blackish bustle, should the dream of blood and barricades come true? Impossible to capitulate to them. Scorn for their claim, which knows no pride, no certainty of victory, no taming waves. Laughter at their threat, for these marched out of hunger, out of weariness, out of envy, and under these signs

no one has won yet. Defiance at the danger, for she wore a shapeless face, the face of the mass that rolls mushy, ready to absorb into its silky vortex everything that does not resist. But I didn't want to fall into the whirlpool. I stiffened and thought 'crags' and 'rabble' and 'mob' and 'rabble' and narrowed my eyes and looked at these dull, emaciated figures; like rats, I thought, dragging the dust of the gutter onto their backs, they are, scurrying and gray with small, redrimmed eyes. Suddenly there were sailors. Sailors were there with huge red sashes; They had rifles in their hands and smiling faces under their ribboned caps and broad, elegant, jaunty trousers around casually set legs. "Our blue boys!" it flashed through my head and I thought, now the disgust must rise up in my throat, but it wasn't the disgust, it was fear. They had made the revolution, those young blokes with the determined faces, the rude lads who had linked girls and sang and laughed and whooped and walked along, broad and self-assured with bare necks and flapping ties. A car roared up, sailors stood on the running boards, crouched on the radiator, and the red cloth fluttered, billowed out like a beacon. And some were there, they looked cheeky, they shouted hoarsely, they had twisted curls on their foreheads, and the women screamed at them. And they waved, where were they waving, to me? To me?

Then came the danger. Don't dodge, I thought, for God's sake don't dodge! I reached for the bayonet and remembered that it wasn't ground, but I kept my hand on the grip and hunched my shoulders and pulled my chin back. In front of me, however, was a soldier without a belt, with brown gaiters, a young man with pince-nez and a briefcase, and he still had the shoulder straps on his long coat. And towards him they went, and one, an artilleryman, broad and stocky, with high, chunky boots and with the red cockade on his forage cap, shouted: "There's another one!" and slammed his fist into the young soldier's face and ripped off his shoulder straps, left and right, so that he staggered, turned around, pale, very pale, and stammered: "But why, why?" And he hunched his head back, and the pince-nez splintered, and the pale face turned fiery red.

Those pigs, I thought, that gang, I couldn't think of anything else; but then the artilleryman stood in front of me and had small, malicious eyes and a dirty chin and shaggy hair, and he raised his hands, red, broad, hairy hands. I looked around quickly. Many people suddenly stood in a circle, there were also women and one with a round, bowler hat, and he raised the umbrella towards me, and another laughed, many laughed, but I only thought of the armpits. Everything depended on the armpits, my honor — how ridiculous, what was the point of the armpits? — it all depended, and me

grabbed the bayonet. Then the fist planted itself in my face. At the moment everything was dull, eyes, nose and chin, and the blood ran warm. Strike, I thought, now there's only one thing: strike! I pushed, but the artilleryman spat at me and laughed, and I had saliva on my face, and a woman yelled, "You monkey, you rascal, you trouser trumpeter," and a stick flew into my neck and I fell. One kicked me, many kicked and punched, I lay and kicked, kicked and kicked and knew it was for nothing, but I was a cadet and they didn't have the armpits. They all laughed and hooted and slapped, and my eyes bled, and my nose bled, and suddenly there was silence.

One came out of the Carlton Hotel, I saw him with swollen eyes, an officer came, he was slim and tall and wore blue hussar uniform and had his cap askew and had patent-leather boots with silver braid, and the EKI was stuck to his Attila and his face the monocle. He slapped his boots with his riding-crop and had a narrow, brown, square face, came closer, cracked his whip, had impenetrable eyes, and walked straight toward the pile. The women were silent, the heap opened up, the man with the bowler hat disappeared, the artilleryman was gone, the tall, elegant, blue one bent down, took my arm, I staggered to my feet and stood to attention. "Please stand comfortably," he said, he said: "I was also a cadet, please come to my hotel." I went along and wiped the blood from the

nose and said, "They didn't rip off my armpits."

Hope At that time, I was just 16 years old and senior second in the 7th company of the Royal Prussian Main Cadet Institute, back then in the first eight days after the outbreak of the revolution I had the plan to dig out the sailors' headquarters. About eighty sailors had made the revolution in the city, they formed a People's Marine Division and sat in the police headquarters. With a handful of determined fellows, I thought, it must be possible to render them harmless in one fell swoop. But it had to be done quickly, for the city was still seething, lost shots were still ringing in the streets, no one knew how things would turn out. The building of the "Volksstimme", the police headquarters, the post office and the train station had to be taken into our hands, then we were the rulers of the city, until the soldiers from the front returned. This could probably be accomplished with a hundred armed men. It was just a matter of collecting them. There were more cadets in town, I went to see them one by one. They had all dressed in the strangest civilian clothes, they wore short trousers from earlier boyhood or reworked field-grey trousers and the blue Litewka with Schiller-

collar. With their uniform they seemed to have given up all security of posture. Pale mothers were afraid I would make their sons rash and the sons stood by embarrassed and one cried and another said he was glad the revolution had come and that he didn't need to go back to the corps and that Ludendorff was on to blame for everything, his father had already said that, and in the mess hall people only ever talked about horses, women and drinking, and a third man, who stood by while his mother complained, ran after me on the stairs when I wanted to go and whispered hurriedly that if I was up to anything I should let him know, but I didn't want his mother to know. Day after day I roamed the police headquarters, yes, I ventured in, put up with the good-natured mockery of the sailors, who admittedly did not sense any danger in the shy cadet, although the patent-leather belt still wore the crude bayonet. I indignantly drew attention to two detectives I knew who were sitting in their rooms and continued to do their work undisturbed, about the filthy business that was being carried out in the rooms by the sailors, and they listened to me in a friendly manner and smiled, and then one said, they were just doing their duty as detectives and they didn't care about the rest. And then I went to see Major Behring, a friend of my father's, redfaced, mustache and unfortunately unfit for military service because of lumbago, and I let him in on my plan, and he was thrilled

put in a sewer manhole. I wandered the streets, examining and rejecting in my mind hundreds of people I might have sought out, and rousing my anger at the passing sailors with their red armbands and red paper flowers in their cap bands, and long since ignored the many looks of the People for my uniform and the belt and the cockades. The city was quiet, only short demonstration trains passed the train station; and once, at the head of the train, stood a young officer, field gray, with a huge red sash, and that was the station commandant; he gave a speech and declared that he was fully committed to the cause, to the sacred cause of the revolution. And I wandered the streets, examining and rejecting in my mind hundreds of people I might have sought out, and rousing my anger at the passing sailors with their red armbands and red paper flowers in their cap bands, and long since ignored the many looks of the People for my uniform and the belt and the cockades. The city was quiet, only short demonstration trains passed the train station; and once, at the head of the train, stood a young officer, field gray, with a huge red sash, and that was the station commander; he gave a speech and declared that he was fully committed to the cause, to the sacred cause of the revolution. And I wandered the streets, examining and rejecting in my mind hundreds of people I might have sought out, and rousing my anger at the passing sailors with their red armbands and red paper flowers in their cap bands, and long since ignored the many looks of the People for my uniform and the belt and the cockades. The city was quiet, only short demonstration trains passed the train station; and once, at the head of the train, stood a young officer, field gray, with a huge red sash, and that was the station commander; he gave a speech and declared that he was fully committed to the cause, to the sacred cause of the revolution. And and whetted my anger at the sailors patrolling past with their red armbands and the red paper flowers in their cap bands, and for a long time I had stopped paying attention to the many looks people gave to my uniform and the belt and the cockades. The city was quiet, only short demonstration trains passed the train station; and once, at the head of the train, stood a young officer, field gray, with a huge red sash, and that was the station commander; he gave a speech and declared that he was fully committed to the cause, to the sacred cause of the revolution. And and whetted my anger at the sailors patrolling past with their red armbands and the red paper flowers in their cap bands, and for a long time I had stopped paying attention to the many looks people gave to my uniform and the belt and the cockades. The city was quiet, only short demonstration trains passed the train station; and once, at the head of the train, stood a young officer, field gray, with a huge red sash, and that was the station commandant; he gave a speech and declared that he was fully committed to the cause, to the sacred cause of the revolution. And there stood at the head of the train a young officer, field gray, with a huge red sash, and that was the station commander; he gave a speech and declared that he was fully committed to the cause, to the sacred cause of the revolution. And there stood at the head of the train a young officer, field gray, with a huge red sash, and that was the station commandant; he gave a speech and declared that he was fully committed to the cause, to the sacred cause of the revolution. And

I greeted him, yes, I greeted him, I walked past and greeted him as briskly as I could, my hand flitted to the brim of my cap, I walked right past him and looked at him as prescribed, and he saw me, and in the middle of the word his was his mouth stood up and his hand went halfway up and then hesitantly dropped again and his face turned very red.

I found one who was willing to participate. "We want to smoke out the gang of red pigs," he said, and also had a revolver, which he showed me, and perhaps that was the only thing that embarrassed me at this unexpected willingness and the way of expressing it, that it was my younger brother, cadet and senior tertians. No one else was ready, not the head teacher, who lived on the third floor, and he trembled with anger just hearing the word Social Democrat, but now he murmured that the excitement of those days had made him quite ill; not the painter next door, holder of the War Merit Cross and board member of the Fleet Association, who was painting a still life, strawberries on a cabbage leaf, and said he had to live his work first; not the cashier, purser off duty, he still went to his office and had absolutely no time; not the father of my friend with lung disease, a textile manufacturer, who feared for his business, feared the anger of his workers - and they were all right, they all had that damned right for themselves, the measured, wise consideration with which they met every objection, every flared up to stifle enthusiasm. And by dissolving the previous ones

Order, which happened at the same time as the deepest and most secret desires and addictions were released, through the loosening of all ties, one distanced himself from the other and no longer had to consider it necessary to anxiously veil the actual content of his being. Yes, so they all suddenly stood on their own and could only be evaluated on their own, and any friendship became impossible. Since I couldn't collect people, I collected weapons, and it was easy to collect weapons. In almost every house there was at least one gun, and my friends were glad that I carried the dangerous tools out of the apartment for them. At night I carried rifle after rifle, wrapped up and tied, through the streets and was infinitely proud when the weapons were piled up in my attic room. Though I did not know what to do with this depot, yet the knowledge of possessing those things gave me the thrilling happiness of mastery of deadly means, and surely it was the danger of their possession that kept me in constant selfrespect and the moments of my justified humiliating inaction. The terms of the armistice were announced. I stood in front of the newspaper building in the middle of a large crowd. There were the wide sheets with the loud headlines, and the gentleman in front of me read half aloud and hesitantly, and others crowded in, even one with a red bandage on his arm. At first I couldn't see anything, but one

laughed excitedly and said that all that was nonsense, that couldn't possibly be, and that Wilson would see to it that . And one said that the French had already said and wanted that when the war broke out; a woman yelled hoarsely: "But aren't the French coming this far?" And then I stood in front and read. Bold and portly, the headlines reported, and my first instinct was anger at the paper for making these horrid, dry, laconic terms almost comfortable. But then I felt as if the hunger, to which I thought I was already accustomed, was tearing the walls of my stomach together. It got up to my throat, filled my mouth with a putrid emptiness and made my eyes flicker so that I could no longer see the people crowded around me could see that I could see nothing at all except the black of the letters, which were shoving one monstrosity after the other into my brain with dreadful indifference. At first I didn't understand. I had to force myself to understand. I thought I had to laugh, I mumbled to myself with a dry throat, and the longer my eyes darted over the lines, the harder the pressure in my throat grew. In the end I only knew one thing, that the French would come here, that the French would enter the city victorious. to understand. I thought I had to laugh, I mumbled to myself with a dry throat, and the longer my eyes darted over the lines, the harder the pressure in my throat grew. In the end I only knew one thing, that the French would come here, that the French would enter the city victorious. to understand. I thought I had to laugh, I mumbled to myself with a dry throat, and the longer my eyes darted over the lines, the harder the pressure in my throat grew. In the end I only knew one thing, that the French would come here, that the French would enter the city victorious.

I turned to the man next to me and grabbed his arm and only then saw that he was wearing a red bandage and said anyway and the voice was

brittle: "The French are coming here," and he just looked at the newspaper and his eyes had a fixed gleam; and one said: "We must also hand over the fleet"—and then they all spoke at once. But I ran home and saw on the way that nothing had changed, while it seemed to me that the city was about to start screaming, like it was about to erupt from every street. But there were only a few small groups at the corners, street speakers raised their voices with mighty gestures, and I heard when soldiers and officers had received the same pay and food... but there was still an old gentleman who said we should go today but don't ask about guilt and not-guilt, the people have to be united on that, because the French are coming to the city. But no one listened to him, and it was touching to see the old gentleman addressing one by one and talking to them, and after a few moments each one turning away, apparently bored, and then the old gentleman, sad and shaking his head, went on. One of them, however, said and looked after him: "One would soon like to say that it is better for the French to be in the country than the Reds," and then he got a fright and went away with a hastily waved umbrella. Of course, the cars were still racing through the city, full of red-armed men, and I examined them closely and saw strong, resolute figures, seized by the intoxication of the fast drive, and I wondered whether they also had the intoxication of a mad resistance to the invasion of the French to be trusted. And I read

the placards, the red placards with the announcements of the Workers' and Soldiers' Council, and he sensed a dangerous, enchanting energy behind the reverberating force of her expression, and a hot will behind the boastful announcements. Yes, since it seemed to me that the feverish anticipation that characterized the city in the first days of the revolution was giving way more and more to a dull resignation, I wished for excess and was almost startled by the satisfaction I felt when It was said that the jails had been stormed and opened up, and that a fat guest at the Cafe Astoria, who dared to laugh at a demonstration of war invalids, had been beaten half to death. The clothing depots were ransacked, and the sailors were the leaders, and many young girls of the town, who were friends with the sailors suddenly wore makeshift, field-grey coats. But little by little, instead of the daring sailor stripes, older men in black coats and stiff collars, with the red armband emblazoned strangely enough on their sleeves, appeared in the streets, along with the pale soldiers of the offices, who carried rifles instead of briefcases the muzzle in the dirt, as had become the custom; but what appeared with the sailors as a bold sign of rebellion was with them only the expression of a secret fear of not being regarded as dangerous. The sailors withdrew bitterly, they were no longer the heroes of the revolution, they felt betrayed and walked grimly past the security guards, the guards everywhere suddenly wore makeshift, field-grey coats. But little by little, instead of the daring sailor stripes, older men in black coats and stiff collars, with the red armband emblazoned strangely enough on their sleeves, appeared in the streets, along with the pale soldiers of the offices, who carried rifles instead of briefcases the muzzle in the dirt, as had become the custom; but what appeared with the sailors as a bold sign of rebellion was with them only the expression of a secret fear of not being regarded as dangerous. The sailors withdrew bitterly, they were no longer the heroes of the revolution, they felt betrayed and walked grimly past the security guards, the guards everywhere suddenly wore makeshift, field-grey coats. But little by little, instead of the daring sailor stripes, older men in black coats and stiff collars, with the red armband emblazoned strangely enough on their sleeves, appeared in the streets, along with the pale soldiers of the offices, who carried rifles instead of briefcases the muzzle in the dirt, as had become the custom; but what appeared with the sailors as a bold sign of rebellion was with them only the expression of a secret fear of not being regarded as dangerous. The sailors withdrew bitterly, they were no longer the heroes of the revolution, they felt betrayed and walked grimly past the security guards, the guards everywhere But little by little, instead of the daring sailor stripes, older men in black coats and stiff collars, with the red armband emblazoned strangely enough on their sleeves, appeared in the streets, along with the pale soldiers of the offices, who carried rifles instead of briefcases the muzzle in the dirt, as had become the custom; but what appeared with the sailors as a bold sign of rebellion was with them only the expression of a secret fear of not being regarded as dangerous. The sailors withdrew bitterly, they were no longer the heroes of the revolution, they felt betrayed and walked grimly past the security guards, the guards everywhere But little by little, instead of the daring sailor stripes, older men in black coats and stiff collars, with the red armband emblazoned strangely enough on their sleeves, appeared in the streets, along with the pale soldiers of the offices, who carried rifles instead of briefcases

the muzzle in the dirt, as had become the custom; but what appeared with the sailors as a bold sign of rebellion was with them only the expression of a se

stood around importantly and followed the vagrant sailors with small, coldly glittering eyes. On one of the nights between those confused days, I dreamed of the French invasion. Yes, I dreamed of it, although apart from the prisoners of war I had not yet seen any French soldiers—and let it be said, as I dreamed them, I saw them later, seventeen months later, when they actually occupied the city—and That's how I saw them: They were suddenly in the city, in the dead, muffled city, lithe figures, gray-blue like the twilight that hung between the houses, dull helmets over light faces, over blond faces, and they walked quickly, the rifle on their shoulders and bayonets on their rifles, they walked with springy knees, their cloaks opened in front of their knees, and they pushed into the wide, empty squares, undeterred, as if a wire was being pulled, and before them the mist receded, camped over the city, and it was as if the pavement groaned, as if every step drove a sharp wedge into the tortured ground, and it was as if the trees and the houses cowered before the jubilant threat of victory, before the invincible, deadly intoxication of their march; Columns marched, endless, precise, splendid columns, with flashes and sparkles and with gleaming copper hubs on the guns' wheels; and like a scream rose the steep lights of their glaring banners, like a scream rose above the roaring of the short, rattling steps the clairons suddenly blared—where did I see that, where did I hear that, the march of the regiment Sambre et as if the trees and the houses crouched before the jubilant threat of victory, before the indomitable, deadly intoxication of their march; Columns marched, endless, precise, splendid columns, with flashes and sparkles and with gleaming copper hubs on the guns' wheels; and like a scream rose the steep lights of their glaring banners, like a scream rose above the roaring of the short, rattling steps the clairons suddenly blared—where did I see that, where did I hear that, the march of the regiment Sambre et as if the trees and the houses crouched before the jubilant threat of victory, before the indomitable, deadly intoxication of their march; Columns marched, endless, precise, splendid columns, with flashes and sparkles and with gleaming copper hubs on the guns' wheels; and like a scream rose the steep lights of their glaring banners, like a scream rose above the roaring of the short, rattling steps the clairons suddenly blared—where did I see that, where did I hear that, the march of the regiment Sambre et

meuse? —, a wild, echoing, death-defying music, which sent its shrill jubilation to the sky, chased it into the hearts of the opponents, pressed it into the stones — and before it there was flight, panic and the nameless horror of the inescapable. The scorn was immeasurable, the jubilation torturous, the laughter of the victor, the ruler, unbearable, at hunger, at need, at the whining, at the fluttering, breaking, desperate resistance. And between them came swift columns, small figures, slim, agile, brownish, like cats; Tunisians, with pawed steps and bared teeth, they meandered, sparkling, sparkling eyes wandered, scent of the desert, restlessness under the blazing hot sun, over shimmering, white sand; in between, in fluttering, shining cloaks, on tiny, tough horses, agile, skilful, hissing blood, the Spahis; in between, black as the plague, long legs, muscular, silky bodies, blank faces, bulging, greedy nostrils, the Negroes! And we, overrun, trampled, subdued: that must not be with God! Unnamable force: and we are crushed before her, we are trampled in the dust, devoid of any claim, vanquished, desecrated, abandoned, never to shine again... "After this revolution the usurper will come," I read in the newspaper, and the Generalanzeiger, sure of his cause, referred to the example of the French Revolution and Napoleon. I still had a picture of the Corsican in my closet—it hadn't hung in my locker since the outbreak of war. I looked for the picture and got a fright

in front of that face. It was pale and spongy and I thought if you stuck a needle in it the skin would burst and it should ooze whitish and greasy from the wound. But the eyes were dark and full of the most dangerous riddles under the torn curl. Yes, Napoleon the usurper was from the revolution. That stormy look, hadn't it seen everything collapsing, hadn't it tamed what threatened to foam apart, wasn't France and the world under the direct threat of this look? If what was then created was new, it was new because behind this forehead the flickering desires of the people for justice, for freedom, for bread, for fame and for love were concentrated in the whirlpools of mad mockery , boiled down and transformed into flashing energies, because those compelling eyes sucked in what lay on empty fields after the collapse of strength and movement, because that narrow, imperious mouth formed words, this cold, glowing heart gave birth to plans that the seething Paris , which threw mangled France into a single, compact nucleus that grew and grew and broke all boundaries, and should broke all boundaries. With what flaming shudder I read of that Gallic, scorching, sober heroism that drove the ragged, starving, marauding hordes against the invading armies, that scraped the saltpeter from the basement walls for powder, that guillotined generals because she, contrary to orders, what after the collapse of strength and movement lay on waste fields, because that narrow, imperious mouth formed words, that cold, ardent heart bred plans, which seething Paris, mangled France hurled together into a single, compact nucleus that grew and grew and burst all boundaries, and should burst all boundaries. With what flaming shudder I read of that Gallic, scorching, sober heroism that drove the ragged, starving, marauding hordes against the invading armies, that scraped the saltpeter from the basement walls for powder, that guillotined generals because she, contrary to orders, what after the collapse of strength and movement lay on waste fields, because that narrow, imperious mouth formed words, that cold, ardent heart bred plans, which seething Paris, mangled France hurled together into a single, compact nucleus that grew and grew and burst all boundaries, and should burst all boundaries. With what flaming shudder I read of that Gallic, scorching, sober heroism that drove the ragged, starving, marauding hordes against the invading armies, that scraped the saltpeter from the basement walls for powder, that guillotined generals because she, contrary to orders, mangled France hurled itself into a single, compact nucleus that grew and grew and broke all borders, and should burst all borders. With what flaming shudder I read of that Gallic, scorching, sober heroism that drove the ragged, starving, marauding hordes against the invading armies, that scraped the saltpeter from the basement walls for powder, that guillotined generals because she, contrary to orders, mangled France hurled itself into a single, compact nucleus that grew and grew and broke all borders, and should burst all borders. With what flaming shudder I read of that Gallic, scorching, sober heroism that drove the ragged, starving, marauding hordes against the invading armies, that scraped the saltpeter from the basement walls for powder, that guillotined generals because she, contrary to orders,

not won. From these areas grew the Corsican, that was the revolution that gave birth to the usurper.

Levée en masse—who gave us the word? that was it, yes that was it! We all had to stand up against the enemy. We had to give meaning to the revolution, we had to let the country boil up, carry the valid flags to the front, even if they were the red ones—we had to do that. Shouldn't we learn to love the revolution? Had not Kerensky continued to fight and had not Lenin declared war on the whole world? We would all bear arms, and we would bear them with the passion of victory, which promised us more than lasting existence, which made us worthy of a mission which took despair's pale gleam and out of bush and hedge, out sprayed our hatred and our faith at every window and every doorway. Who should resist our insurrection? The man who gave us the word

I wanted to learn to love the revolution; maybe their energies weren't awakened yet. Perhaps the sailors were waiting for the slogan, perhaps the workers were standing, the soldiers already formed into clandestine battalions, perhaps the language of the appeals had already emanated from the churning embers of an immeasurable, monstrous, worlddefying revolutionary will—the most active elements of the nation bore arms already in your hands.

And I walked around town, but the town was quiet. And I crowded into the meetings

but heated speakers thundered about Junkers, priests and chimney barons and the cursed Hohenzollern regime. And I read the proclamations fervently, but there was something about a demobilization commissioner and orders to implement the armistice terms. And I ran through the streets, but the people went to work, they hardly stopped in front of the bright red posters, they went about their business tired in old, worn clothes, infinitely patient, sullen, and when they spoke something, then it was like grumbled, and the women, as always, stood in long rows at the corners and waited obediently. I threw myself at the guards, but they looked at me suspiciously and mouthed words I knew, battered and chewed and heard a hundred times. And I saw concentrated masses with waving flags and emblazoned signs, but there was a shout across the squares: "Never again war!" and "Give us bread!" and they stood and talked about the general strike and works council elections. And I turned to my acquaintances, to citizens, to officers, to civil servants, but they said that order had to be put in place first and talked about the pig business that our returning field grays would soon clean up. But the sailors, the sailors, had made the revolution, they were like the admonishing conscience from the first days of departure, they roamed boldly through the city, they were the germ and carrier of every excitement. For the second time I went to the police headquarters, climbed over the dirty,

stepped stairs, went into a room with rough wooden tables and benches on which cookware, bread bags, beer cans, bars of soap, combs, tobacco pouches, fat jars, pieces of bacon lay in a mad jumble and in between scattered cartridges, carbines, sidearms, leather goods, meanwhile a machine gun bucked in in the corner stood next to a crate of hand grenades. There the sailors lay, squatted, stood, smoked, played, dozed, ate, talked, and the air hung over them, heavy and blue, made of sweat and dust and smoke, the smell of an army camp, full of a strange oppressive flavor, as if everything suggested that explosives were stored here, waiting for the igniting and liberating spark. And I humiliated myself, let myself be snapped at or sneered at, stood in the way, didn't go, offered bad tobacco, mingled hoarsely in rude conversation, laughed at the dirty jokes, told one myself, flattered me, threw me over, looked for one , two who sat apart, brought out newspapers. And one, a small, young man, with a cheeky face, he questioned me, I lied to him, insulted the Kaiser, had me told about bragging heroic deeds, how she beat up her officers, how many girls she cheated, marveled at him , until he was flattered and allowed me to scold the guards, the limp dogs who wanted to betray the revolution for fear of the bourgeois and for fear of the French. And if he knew that the French were coming and what they would do then,

and would they fight, would they fight against the French? Then the fellow laughed and said: "Not us, who else?" and spat in the corner.

homecoming

In mid-December the front troops advanced into the city. It was only one division; she came from the Verdun area. Crowds thronged the sidewalks. Individual houses timidly showed the black, white and red flags. Many young girls and women stood there, some of them carrying flowers in baskets or small packages. More and more people came, the main streets were filled with crowds who, after some movement, patiently pushed their way to the sidewalks. We stood and waited for the front. It was as if the dark pressure that had hung over the city for weeks had lost some of its weight, as if the tetanus that had hitherto thrown people out of their togetherness had eased. It was pretty much the same as it used to be when a big win was reported. We all thought we recognized each other, ready to give expression to our moods, and inclined from the outset to believe that what fills us must also

move others. The front came. Now it would be decided. Because we all suffered because we felt that in the midst of the turmoil, that despite the events, the changes, the destiny, the real, the true, the real was still missing. The front would bring it. It was impossible that the solution should not arrive now; we could hardly bear to live like this, so torn out, so abandoned, so apart from our own beliefs. We stood and craned our necks to see if they weren't coming yet, and all the wishes gathered at one point. Now everything was different. The front came and had to carry with it the breath of the world that was valid for four years. We stood and waited for the best in the nation. Their efforts could not have been in vain. The dead of the war didn't fall in vain, that couldn't be,

I thought, here we all stand and wait, and everyone now formulates their wishes, and they are varied enough. But the acknowledgment of her greatness had to be unequivocal, it lay in renouncing her own decision. The front returned home. Confidence wove a radiant glow around her. Suddenly our speeches and opinions were freed from the musty haze of the back rooms to which they had been banished for weeks. Our field grays returned, our gleaming army, doing their duty to the utmost, winning our brightest victories, victories whose splendor seemed almost unbearable now that the war was lost. The army was not defeated. The front stood until the end. She was coming back and she would remake all the bonds.

The variety of our desires, which gave the crowd its peculiar movement and excitement, sought expression. There was murmuring in the rows, groups formed, small groups stood around, clustered around eagerly gesticulating figures. It was said that the troops had marched here from the front on foot. They refused to set up soldiers' councils. And the French followed on their heels. A name, a number, they suddenly stood at the core of our thinking. Almost no one had heard of this division before, the 213th Infantry Division, it was just a high numbered division, one of many, one that had been fighting on the western front for years. Most recently at Verdun. No one knew more about this division, which was now to march into the city, which now with imperious, proud, of all unhesitatingly granted claims reached into the most secret areas of our consideration. She wasn't supposed to stay in town, she moved on the next day. But the city felt its joyful duty to give the brave fighters the festive reception they deserved, to express the gratitude of their homeland, to greet them with open arms, grateful, proud and warm hearts. These were our heroes who were now approaching, the undefeated, who had been deprived of the ultimate success by an envious fate. And in spite of all the sadness and regardless of the fact that the circumstances at home had changed, it was no longer right to receive them in a welcoming manner, in unity, far from any small quarrel. But the city felt its joyful duty to give the brave fighters the festive reception they deserved, to express the gratitude of their homeland, to greet them with open arms, grateful, proud and warm hearts. These were our heroes who were now approaching, the undefeated, who had been deprived of the ultimate success by an envious fate. And in spite of all the sadness and regardless of the fact that the circumstances at home had changed, it was no longer right to receive them in a welcoming manner, in unity, far from any small quarrel. But the city felt its joyful duty to give the brave fighters the festive reception they deserved, to express the gratitude of their homeland, to greet them with open arms, grateful, proud and warm hearts. These were our heroes who were now approaching, the undefeated, who had been deprived of the ultimate success by an envious fate. And in spite of all the sadness and regardless of the fact that the circumstances at home had changed, it was no longer right to receive them in a welcoming manner, in unity, far from any small quarrel. who brought an envious fate around the final success. And in spite of all the sadness and regardless of the fact that the circumstances at home had changed, it was no longer right to receive them in a welcoming manner, in unity, far from any small quarrel. who brought an envious fate around the final success. And in spite of all the sadness and regardless of the fact that the circumstances at home had changed, it was no longer right to receive them in a welcoming manner, in unity, far from any small quarrel.

It was asked again and again. We have not yet heard the roar that announces their arrival

had to. The blare of the trumpets had not yet sounded, nor the dull bang of the drums, and the flags had not yet appeared.

The day was wet gray and cold. I stood wedged; the sweat that the unknown neighbor's body heat created for me covered my forehead with a disgusting layer. The hum of excitement hit the houses, we waited and listened, chattered, shivered in the frost and damp heat, tortured by the tension.

Suddenly the soldiers were there. They were hardly heard, only the masses moved briefly. Individual shouts rang out that nobody understood, which died away immediately. A woman began to cry, her shoulders heaving, sobbing silently, her hands clasped. The guards spread their arms and braced themselves against the crowd. But they were swallowed up, and the human wall pushed forward with a jerk. There they came, yes, there they came. Suddenly there they were, gray figures, a row of rifles over round, blunt helmets.

"Why isn't there any music?" whispered one, hoarse breathless. "Why doesn't the mayor have any music?" Unwilling hiss. And dead silence. Then someone shouted "Hurrah..." from the back. And again there was silence.

The soldiers went very quickly, tight crowded together. The first four men appeared like shadows. They had stony, rigid faces. The lieutenant walking alongside the first group wore shiny, glittering epaulettes

a clay-gray tattered skirt. They came up. The eyes lay deep, in the shadow of the rim of the helmet, embedded in dark, grey, sharp-edged sockets. The eyes looked neither to the right nor to the left. Always straight ahead, as if transfixed by some terrible goal, as if peering out of clay hole and ditch over torn earth. Before them remained free space. They didn't say a word. No mouth opened in the gaunt faces. Only once, when a gentleman jumped forward and, almost begging, held out a box to the soldiers, did the lieutenant pull aside with an unhappy hand and say: "Don't do that, there's another whole division behind us. »

The soldiers marched. One group, the pack tightly packed, the second group, the third. Distance. Far distance. Was that a company? What, that was probably a whole company? three groups? Oh God, what did they look like, what did these men look like! What was that marching up? Those emaciated, immobile faces under the steel helmet, those bony limbs, those tattered, dusty uniforms! Step by step they marched, and around them there was, as it were, infinite emptiness. Yes, it was as if they drew a spell around them, a magic circle in which dangerous powers, invisible to the eyes of the excluded, drove secret beings. They still carried the confusion of raging battles in their brains, clenched into a knot of whirling visions, just as they still carried the dirt and dust of the devastated fields in the

wore uniforms? This was hard to bear. They marched as if they were emissaries of death, of horror, of the deadliest, loneliest, iciest cold. Here was home after all, here warmth awaited them, happiness, why were they silent, why didn't they shout, why didn't they cheer, why didn't they laugh? The next company advanced. The crowd, recoiling from the angry, surprised, agonizing force of the first groups, pressed forward again. But the soldiers pushed blindly into the streets, stepping in step, fast, closed, untouched by the thousand wishes, forebodings, greetings that were woven around them. And the crowd was silent. Only a few were decorated with flowers. And the bouquets of flowers on the gun barrels hung withered. The young girls had flowers in their hands, but now they stood there, trembling, helpless, embarrassed, their faces twitched, their pale, anxious eyes turned to the soldiers. The soldiers marched. An officer carelessly carried a laurel wreath in his hand, waved it, hunched his shoulders. The crowd rose. Screams rattled out, as if from rusted throats. Handkerchiefs were waved here and there. The crowd wooed the troops, one of them stammered, "Our heroes, our heroes!" There they marched, our heroes, there they strode past, unshakable, their shoulders pushed forward, their steel helmets almost surmounted by their chunky luggage, straight as a die

with slinging, cracking knees, company after company passed, small, concentrated little groups with wide distances. Sweat ran from the soldiers' helmets down their skinny, gray cheeks, and their noses jutted forward. No flag. No sign of victory. Now the baggage wagons came. That was a whole regiment. And when I saw those deadly determined faces, those hard faces as if hacked out of wood, those eyes that looked past the crowd strangely, strangely, unconnected, hostile—yes, hostile— then I knew, then it overcame me, then I froze — — it was all very different, it was all very, very different, it was not at all what we thought it would be, all of us who were standing here, as I thought, now and throughout the years , it must all have been very different. What did we know? What did we know about these? From the front? From our soldiers? We knew nothing, nothing, nothing. Oh god, this was horrible. That wasn't true at all; what were we told? We had been lied to, they weren't our soldiers, our heroes, our homeland protectors - they were men who didn't belong to what had gathered here in the streets, who didn't want to belong, who came from other areas, who knew other laws, felt other friendships. And suddenly everything seemed stale and empty to me, what I had hoped for, what I had wished for, what I had been enthusiastic about. That these

there, the men who were marching there, rifles on their shoulders and strictly isolated from everything that was not their own kind, that they didn't want to belong to us, that was the decisive thing. They didn't belong to us, they didn't belong to the Reds, before them all our foamy, cramped, ridiculous importance slid apart like the water off the bow of a ship. Everything we had thought, what we had hoped, everything we had spoken, had become invalid. What a monstrous mistake it was that was able to make us believe for four years that we belonged to each other, what a mistake that now broke! Now an officer came on a scrawny, muddy horse. He rode past me, a major, and I clicked my heels together. But he didn't even look at me. He turned the horse so that the one in front rose a little, with the broad croup and the punting legs, swept aside the crowd behind him. Then the horse stood in front of us, the major raised his hand to his helmet and looked at the troops. An officer jumped into place and shouted a command. That pulled the soldiers together, that turned their helmets with a jerk, their legs jerked up as if they had snapped out of their joints, then their boots banged on the pavement. march past How, did that still exist? And without music?

The major sat hunched on the horse. His regiment filed past. The tired, rusted legs pounded the ground. The crowd stood around and didn't move. That made no sense, that there. Why this parade march, without music, without

Flags without a reason, without a shine? Or did that have a meaning? One that was deeper, more distant than we could understand? That wasn't a spectacle for us, or should it be one? That was, yes, that was a challenge, that was mockery, defiance, contempt, that was a demonstration of the front, a dogged provocation. The ridiculed parade march, the senseless pulling together and kicking legs! Yes, see, it is not pointless for those who know that you are now ashamed. That you can't laugh now, you Reds and you burghers who were willing to admit, for the sake of your peace, your safety, your respectability, that such a parade march was pointless. And you even believed that the front was in agreement with you, you citizens? You even believed that the front was as liberal as you are, as sensible The regiment thundered by. No, the guard didn't dare smile. The major put the horse into a ponderous, jerky trot and rode forward. Baggage wagons came again. The drivers sat motionless. And when someone threw something at them, they didn't say thank you, they didn't say hello, they quickly stuffed the gift into the cart and grabbed the reins again. There were also a couple of little flags, cheap cloth on little sticks, they stuck to the wagons, the cloth hung matt. Machine-gun wagons rolled past, painted with large areas of brightly colored daubs. The men marched behind the rifles, belts over their shoulders, eight men behind each wagon.

And then came guns. The service eaten up. The steel helmets fell diagonally in the gunners' faces as they bounced over the pavement. Brave girls handed them flowers. One didn't look at all, one took the bouquet without thanks and put it next to him, one looked up in surprise, didn't smile, took the flowers and held them in his hands, embarrassed. And all this time the woman sobbed. She breathed muffled, forlorn sounds through her half-open mouth, the crying gurgled very deep and dry from her breast. Every sound was heard, for the crowd stood silent and watched. Infantry again. No, they didn't want anything to do with us. Or was the horror still in their eyes, in their throats, were they not yet released from the war? These battalions came straight from the front. They came from a landscape that we didn't know, that we knew nothing about, they came from areas that were glowing like crucibles in which they were cast, burned out, slagged out, they came from a unique world. We didn't know anything about what those eyes had seen, staring ahead under the helmet, we only heard vaguely about it, read only distorted reports, saw only bad pictures. There they marched, mute, lonely, and still under the constant threat of death. People, fatherland, homeland, duty. Yes, we said that these words were current—and didn't we believe in them? We believed in her?! But these? The front that passed by?

Company after company passed, pathetic little knots, carrying a dangerous whiff, a scent of blood, steel, explosives, and sudden grasp. Did they hate the revolution? Will they march against the revolution? Will they, workers, farmers, students, move into our world like us, with our worries, our desires, our struggles, our goals? And suddenly I understood: These, these were not workers, farmers, students, no, these were not craftsmen, employees, merchants, civil servants, these were soldiers. Not in disguise, not commanded, not dispatched, these were men who heeded the call, the secret call of the blood, the spirit, volunteers one way or the other, men who experienced a hard communion and the things behind things — and those in Wars found a home. Homeland, fatherland, people, nation! Since the big words

— when we said it, it wasn't real. That's why, that's why they don't want to belong to us. Hence this silent, mighty, spooky invasion. — Because their homeland was with them. With them was the nation. What we blatantly boasted to the world had found its secret meaning in them, they had lived by it, it meant doing what we happily called duty. Suddenly home was with them, it had shifted, it was being seized by a monstrous whirlpool, whirled out, flung up, it was coming to the front. The front was their home, was the fatherland, the nation. And they never spoke of it. Never

if they believed in the word, they believed in themselves. The war forced them, the war ruled them, the war will never let them go, they will never be able to return home, they will never belong completely to us, they will always carry the front in their blood, death is near, readiness, horror, the intoxication, the iron. What happened next, this invasion, this insertion into the peaceful, into the orderly, into the bourgeois world, that was a transplant, a falsification, that could never succeed. The war is over. The warriors are still marching. And as the masses stand here, as the multitude stands here, here the German world in the process of reorganization, fermenting, awkward, made up of a thousand small addictions and streams, acting through their weight, containing all the elements, that is why they, the soldiers, will march for the revolution, for another revolution, whether they like it or not, lashed by forces we cannot suspect, malcontents when they disperse, explosives when they stay together. The war gave no answer, no decision was made by it, the warriors are still marching. There marches the last regiment of the division. I stand, oppressed, tormented, in trembling turmoil. The last groups swing in. The ground is still groaning from their steps, and the crowd is already dissolving. I don't see the crowd, I hear the echoing footsteps of the soldiers, what do I care about the revolution...

Ads hung on street corners. Volunteers were wanted. Formations should be put together for border protection in the east. The day after the troops entered the city

I let myself be advertised. I was taken, I was clothed, I was a soldier.

Berlin

"Just! Whoever goes further will be shot!"But he goes on—should I shoot? What nonsense, that's a completely harmless person. Order is order. I what, that was in the past, as Private Hoffmann always says. A disgusting feeling: the little man walking across the square there in a shabby coat and without a coat, so I don't want to shoot you in the back... There, of course, now the others are walking across the square too. "Just! Just! Stop, can't you read? Back there! No one is allowed to cross the square here! Why? Because the shots will be fired soon!» And today is the twenty-fourth of December. And there is the castle bridge and there is the castle and there are the royal stables and there the sailors sit in it.

It's cracking. Up there, in the wall, it's dusty, stone splinters fly. A man scurries around the corner, sticks himself to the wall and laughs. And I laugh too. Women peer out of the hallway. People pass by unsuspecting. I shout: "Stop!" A group quickly gathers. A shot comes from the castle. "You can't go past here," I say, tucking my chin deep into my coat. The

Hand grenade dangling from my belt.

The corporal comes. We both rush forward, behind the advertising column. There are many people in front of the castle. "The general is negotiating," says the corporal. Then the others run up, guns outstretched. "We're supposed to go to the reinforcements." - "So what's going on?" — "Order: no one should be allowed through." A chain of posts stretches around the palace square.

- "What is up? The brothers were already locked in when the general wanted to negotiate, now the sailors all came out and others too, now they are all standing in our midst: back there!” We line up. Suddenly we are right in the middle. Suddenly I'm alone; I can just about see the corporal's steel helmet. A woman stands in front of me and laughs. She stands there wide and laughs in my face, very close. She's fat, she's gray and has a gray, coarse blouse and only a few teeth and a wart right next to her nose. Why is she laughing? She smiles at me, folds her arms over her mighty body and snorts in my face. Damn that woman, that hag, I could put my butt in her face—but I turn my head away. Why do I look so young too? Now the others are starting too. They are crowded around me and suddenly there are sailors, guns slung over their shoulders, red bandages, they look at me and one of them says: "Beef critters, why are you fighting us? Send your officers to hell, don't run after the people toilers!"

What should I do? That's disgusting. Ah, thank God, here comes the corporal. He pushes his way through, sees the sailors, says: "Take it easy, you take care of your dirt."

Movement on the pitch! "Return!" the noncommissioned officer suddenly yells and raises his gun. There is space at the moment. In front of us roaring, women screaming. The sailors run into the gate. We're approaching slowly. At the window I see a young fellow, a sailor with red hair, who leans forward and examines us, then calmly pulls out a hand grenade. Rattling, lying down — hell, that's splashing into the pavement. I jump up and dash back, there's a bang and a whistle.

Three men are already lying behind the pillar. And on the square, there and there, heaps, strange gray, dark, elongated spots — oh yes.

The corporal is next to me. "Where's the MG? Damn it." Then it rattles off, from the other pillar. "Here!" calls the sergeant. Now comes the second MG. We're getting closer. «So, now you answer it; Yes, you! Let's see if you can do anything. So, wait, not yet, just throw that gun around, first shoot that guy over there on the bridge. Yes, yes, Lehmann's stone figure there, on the bridge. That was all right, now the gun, bottom row of windows, hold it a little higher, that's good, that's good." The wide butt hits me in the shoulder. I see the muzzle dance, jump, spray, stop rattling. The row of windows rises in my sight,

the window where the young sailor was standing earlier

— there he stands again and draws his gun and shoots at us — my gun lies still; Rear sight, front sight, crooked fingers and go. I can't see anything at the window anymore.

We lie long. It bangs around us, we bang again. "They're squeaky boys over there!" says the corporal. "Return!" shouts one. "Why? Oh, guns!" We crawl back quickly. And the artillery is already standing on slender wheels at the corner. As soon as we're there, someone pulls the cord, it echoes and howls and bursts over there, tears a hole in the facade, makes the stones jump. And half a man throws himself out of the window and gets stuck in the bulge. And night is slowly falling. Sergeant Poessel was shot in the head opposite the Admiralspalast. But Sergeant Poessel was a man who had taken part in the war from the very first day mobilization began, and he had come through well, with a single, not serious wound, and had the EKI. He was lying there, against a brown wooden fence, against the his brain was splattered and stuck, and above him hung a poster, a wide, yellow poster announcing a war widows' and bad boys' ball, and behind the fence stood the wooden shacks and tents of an amusement park, every evening the merry-gorounds spun and blared, hissed the cable car, the girls yelled. Sergeant Poessel lay there. We then carried it a bit

to the machine gun that was supposed to take him to his quarters. We carried him through the narrow streets teeming with people, past luxury bars, from whose doors opened from time to time a sultry, red light penetrated the streets, we heard nigger music from bars and floorboards as we panted past, saw traffickers and cocottes , noisy and drunk, saw the citizens protected by us sitting in boxes with their wives, tightly embraced, in front of tables with sparkling glasses and bottles, they tapped their rousing, unnerving dances on shiny, reflective surfaces. And in the distance the lost shots of our comrades were still ringing out. We shot each other around with the roof gunners. We pressed against the walls of the house, around the corners, rifles ready to fire, looking for open hatches, we squatted behind quickly erected barricades, we lay behind advertising pillars and candelabra, we smashed down doors and stormed down dark stairs, we shot at everything, who was carrying weapons and did not belong to the troops, and sometimes there were people lying on the streets who had not carried weapons, sometimes women were lying there too, and sometimes children too, and the projectiles darted over their bodies, and it could happen that the bullets went into the dead, then it was as if they started up again, and we had a putrid taste in our mouths. But behind the front of our combat groups the whores roamed the streets. They waved up and down Friedrichstrasse when we were shooting on Unter den Linden. She

threw themselves at us with an unspeakably strange breath when we, still seized by the laws of this confused struggle, still staring at the enemy above our visors, lingered for a short pause behind the protective house fronts, and it was not the whispering offer that seemed so unbearable to us , but the relaxed matter-of-factness with which they grabbed at our bodies, which had just been exposed to the twitching lines of fire from the machine guns. And if we, staring blankly and bothered by the hustle and bustle of the street, still full of excitement, pushed our way through the crowd, past rows of beggars, war invalids, shakers, blind people, past the quickly assembled stalls of street vendors, then we could be it that one approached us and offered cocaine and another a diamond ring and a third the last Kiesewetter verses. And from the windows of the little shops hung the postcards with pictures of loose girls, nothing short of seductive, but just as naked as the face of these inner-city streets.

January 6, 1919. "Department stop!" We're standing, a noncommissioned officer, eight men, on a street corner. The streets are still not busy.

The NCO takes a few steps forward and peers up and down the main street. He comes back and shrugs his shoulders: "Nothing to see yet." Individual people stand still; an old gentleman

walks by, stops and says to us with a beaming smile: «At least they are still soldiers!» He turns to the corporal: "Well, you'll soon put an end to this bastard government?" The corporal looks at the gentleman calmly and says: "I'm a socialist." The gentleman flinches, blushes, and quickly walks away. Movement among us eight men. Sergeant Kleinschroth is a socialist? This quiet, dark, serious person? I look at him shyly from the side. Private Hoffmann turns his happy face towards me and smiles: "You're amazed, aren't you? I'm a socialist too. Registered since 1913!» I keep silent. Hoffmann says half aloud and eagerly: "Man, we want the state!" And then after a while: "I used to be a worker, iron turner." — "Been a worker," I think, "been, he says, why does he say been?" Hoffmann looks straight ahead: "If we want to socialize, then let's not destroy what we ..." beforehand, and is quiet again. Suddenly there is a roar in the air. It descends from above and fills the mist that hangs heavy and pregnant. No, it doesn't come from above, it pushes in from the left, swells and swells, and swallows every noise of the street, swells in space and, as it were, presses all movement against the walls of the houses. The corporal leaps forward a few steps and quickly comes back. "They are coming!" he says and points us into a dark gateway, the road makes one

bend, oblique to the open space. There we stand, in the shadow, unseen, but seeing everything ourselves. "Peace in the ranks!" The corporal looks straight ahead, then turns around, takes three steps towards me, the youngest and smallest, who I am standing on the left wing, and says almost menacingly: "Man, if your gun fires, before I order it...» I say: «No, Sergeant!» He looks at me darkly, then he goes in front of the middle of our front. Many people are suddenly in the quiet street. Women run out of the houses, children gather, carters stop their wagons. More and more people are coming, young fellows, most of them in fieldgrey jackets, are passing by. The street corners are already black with people. The roar intensifies. With the scraps of a song, the Internationale, a truck comes hissing and groaning, on which a red flag is bulging, wide and huge. We stand breathless in the gateway and stare at the square. Not one moves. The belt with the hand grenades presses. The rifle leans heavily against his leg. We have pulled foot to foot, the back straightens into a tense curved line, the eyes peek out from under the rim of the helmet. The road is black across the board. The road itself advances. It's as if the houses wanted to tilt, the tangled band rolled slowly, huge, unassailable, unstoppable: masses, masses, masses. The red spots show up brightly over the heap,

white signs are floating, a shrill voice is screaming: long live the revolution! The crowd roars: Up! It sounds deep from a thousand breasts, throws the haze aside, windows rattle. Up and up! The ground rumbles, it rolls and rolls on. People! The notion of what that means: that is the people! No, there are masses, thousands, just masses - and man to man and body to body and head to head - the force of the footsteps lets you feel the rhythm, and flags come again, they stumble along with difficulty and between the armed men, the sailors, The flashing guns are hung with the signs: "Down with the worker traitors, down Ebert, Scheidemann," "High Liebknecht," "Hunger," "Peace, freedom, bread!" The current doesn't stop. What immense fist seized these masses and mercilessly stuffed the slop into the narrow tube of the street? Yes, if you wanted! Who can oppose this? It's noisy, they scream, hatred spurts out of their dark mouths. Armed men are marching, rifles are crossing each other in a confusing manner, wagons crammed full of people are beset by men, the machine guns peek with round eyes, while the rows of shimmering cartridges spill out of their bellies, ready to be fired.

A young man, very pale and eager, comes into our gateway. He waves his hands excitedly and blurts out: "It's starting, they've occupied the whole newspaper district tonight. Liebknecht speaks at the Brandenburg Gate. You will be killed! It's not over with the Berliners

joking...' The corporal says, 'Go away, man, you have no business here.' Outside, the roaring stops abruptly. One stands on a wagon and speaks. It is a small, dark, pale man with pince-nez, goatee and umbrella. He lets very short, clear sentences ring out. The words come hard to us: "The international proletariat... Our fellow workers all over the world... Our brothers in France, England and Italy... Germany is to blame..." The whole place is now filled. We see a wall of people's backs. Men stand between them, they have white, shaggy furs on, the belt is laced so that the stiff fur bulges out of shape. The guns hang upside down. And one of these men sees us. He pulls back, he screams and waves. I feel sparkling cold through all my veins. A thousand eyes stare at us, poisoning, paralyzing. They roar — now it's important — they press on. "Beat them dead, the murderous rabble—". Hate hisses like water hisses on a hot stove. Heads, hands and bodies twirl in the red fog, they crowd in flat and full force. Then the non-commissioned officer yells—it goes through our cramped bodies, releasing it—: "Load and secure!" We yank the rifles up, the muzzles pointed in the face of the crowd, we put our clammy hands to the lock, cartridges out, it rattles with a mean noise, the lever clicks, snaps back — for a few seconds it's quiet.

Eight guns threaten death in the barrel. And in front of us the space widens. Two lines tighten. The tension bends unbearably, it tears and tears like a thin, glowing thread, a single breath hangs in the air, if it doesn't rise hot and groaning from the ground, so glassy, gas vapor of the last moments... There's the little man with an umbrella, waving his hands: "Back, don't shoot!" and stands in the middle between both rigid fronts. «Move on!» he roars, and they obey. They come loose hesitantly, he drives them ahead of him, he turns and says to us: "And you should be ashamed of yourselves!" We quietly take the rifle by foot. A droplet of sweat falls from my forehead into my eye. I see confused circles all red, I turn weakly and lean two steps further on the wall and look up with difficulty. There's a poster hanging there, white with a red border. Two large black lines burst out of the tangle of small writing: "And that's socialism!" shouts it from the wall. And under this word we stood. The place is empty. The street empty. The sky was cold, wet and cloudy, heavy and grey.

We line up. The corporal orders unloading. "It went well," he says. We march off. Private Hoffmann says: "They're stupid if they miss every right moment." (A year later the "Red Flag" reported from

that day: "What happened on Monday in Berlin was perhaps the greatest mass proletarian act that history has ever seen. We do not believe that mass demonstrations of this magnitude have taken place in Russia. From Roland to Viktoria, the proletarians stood head to head. They stood far into the Tiergarten. They had brought their weapons, they waved their red banners. They were ready to do anything, to give everything, life itself. An army of 200,000 men like no Ludendorff had ever seen.

And then the unheard of happened. The crowds stood in the cold and fog from 9 a.m. And somewhere the leaders sat and deliberated. The fog rose and the crowds stood on. But the leaders deliberated. Midday came, and with it the cold and hunger. And the leaders deliberated. The masses were feverish with excitement: they wanted an act, even a word, to calm their excitement. But nobody knew which one. For the leaders were deliberating. The mist fell again, and with it the twilight. The masses went home sad: they had wanted great things and done nothing. For the leaders were deliberating. They had consulted in the Marstall, then they went on to the police headquarters and continued to consult. Outside, the proletarians stood on the empty Alexanderplatz, guns in hand, with light and heavy machine guns. And inside the leaders conferred. In the headquarters the guns were ready; Sailors stood at every corner of the corridors, in the front room there was a swarm of soldiers, sailors, proletarians. And inside sat the leaders and deliberated. They sat all evening and sat all night

and discussed, they sat the next morning, when day broke, partly still, partly again, and discussed. And again the crowds moved into the Siegesallee, and the leaders were still sitting and deliberating. They advised, advised, advised

No! These masses were not ready to take power, otherwise they would have put men at their head of their own accord, and the first revolutionary act would have been to make the leaders at police headquarters stop advising.

We stood ready for action in a long, gray column. A car came, a gentleman rose from the upholstery and eyed us. The gentleman was tall, squat, with square, slightly hunched shoulders and funny little glasses under his slouch hat. Our officers saluted with deliberate nonchalance and turned, the corners of their mouths twisted. One said it was the new Commander-in-Chief, Noske. We marched through the suburbs, and from quiet houses nestled in refinement and greenery, shouts of greeting and flowers fell upon us. Many citizens stood on the streets and waved and individual houses were flagged. What was hidden behind those gathered curtains, behind those shiny panes, which we passed gray on grey, exhausted and determined, was, we thought, well worth our effort. For though we felt that life had created a different flood here, a different level, with an intensely refined intensity that went ill with our rough boots and dirty hands,

even though we knew that our desire did not extend to these rooms which, carefully enclosed, housed everything that defined the culture of the century just passed, the world of the bourgeoisie, the ideas that the bourgeoisie first created, Western education, personal freedom, pride in work, mental alertness—all of this was helplessly exposed to the onslaught of the coveting masses, and if we defended it, we defended it because it was irretrievable. We advanced into the city — the troops marched along all the approach roads; the ring around the city sent out the columns radiating out. And the city smouldered hot with dangerous allurement, and in its streets blew a breath of bitter turmoil like that after waking from a dreadful dream that nailed to hard ground; the people hastened in indifferent alertness, the stuffy, shimmering air promised discharges into intoxication and death. We took quarters in schools and offices, we camped in cleared, whitewashed rooms in which the musty piles of paper, dry calculations and subaltern people still stood in every corner, on floorboards, amidst helmets and knapsacks, guns and cooking utensils, canvas tents and ammunition boxes , infinitely familiar with these things. We stood guard. We walked up and down, counted the granite slabs of the pavement with our steps, turned our heads to each shadowy figure that disappeared into the darkness and fog, listened to the crack of distant shots. If from

down above the lighter gray of morning pushed into the street canyons, then the ground began to tremble with the laborious pounding of innumerable footsteps, with the rolling of heavy, echoing wagons, eerie and uniform, calling us all out and pushing us to the corners , and we stood, guns in our arms, in the shadows of the houses, outcasts as it were and yet under the spell of the city. But we searched the passers-by for weapons, ran our hands up and down discontented bodies, and we were beset by the shamelessness of our actions and even more the justification of this shamelessness by a mere order. But it was like this

We arrested a red agitator. This was a narrow, dark, elderly man, we got him out of his apartment —and it was a very poor apartment, in the back building, it wasn't really even a room, just a shack —and this agitator had a well-known name the revolutionaries; now he walked very quietly between us, and it was as if he were smiling to himself; we had our guns slung over our shoulders and, as ordered, surrounded him very closely from all sides. The people in the street turned their heads, but that seemed to affect the man much less than we did, we gave each other a nudge of nonchalance and a pinch of importance while he didn't notice anything around him

seemed. We didn't know what he had done; but he seemed to know about us, for he only said once: "Yes, yes, that is your duty!" And we were silent about it. But as we walked through the streets, individual whores stopped and some followed a few steps, and it seemed to me that for a few seconds they were not made up, but then soldiers came and they finally went away with them. We never found out what happened to the agitator later.

But we did learn what happened to Karl Liebknecht and Rosa Luxemburg. We found out about this on January 16th. On January 19, the free and sovereign German people voted. The house we were supposed to search was a tenement in the north of the city, with four courtyards and hundreds of inhabitants, high, gray, with walls from which the plaster had fallen off and with innumerable, not very bright window panes. The street had been cordoned off from both sides while it was still dark, by two groups each, and then there was a standby train from which we could call for reinforcements at any moment.

The corporal said in the gateway: "Always stay together, never one alone in a room. Check all closets and beds, tap walls. Two men always stay in the stairwell. Breaking down locked doors when people don't unlock them willingly. Ask people who else has guns in the house. No provocations! In case of danger: a shot to

out the window."

We spread out. The Kleinschroth group should go to the back courtyard. We stumbled over the bumpy pavement and hardly noticed it when we came out of the archway into a courtyard, for the dark steep shafts did not let the light of the morning sky reach the earth. The house was still very quiet and we stopped at a small, narrow door. Kleinschroth knocked on a window, the window rattled, a woman looked out and recoiled when she saw our steel helmets. "Open up!" said Kleinschroth. And in the same instant the house was alive. It was alive for the first few seconds, like a beehive that a hand reached into. There was a menacing hum that began small, then suddenly spiraled into a shrill, dangerous vibration, heightened to the point of hysteria, into a vicious readiness in the highest treble. Then the corporal kicked in the door with his boot. It was as if the house was groaning. Windows rattled, doors slammed resoundingly, suddenly a gramophone began to howl and high above a woman screamed. She screamed so loudly that it echoed in the courtyards, that it filled the darkest nooks and crannies like sharp needles, and the air began to tremble, that damp, musty air full of musty, mixed smells. That penetrated our chests, injected unbearable tension in our veins, so that the blood pressed against the skin with short and hard gusts. We banged our helmets on our foreheads and ran into the dark chasm that opened before us. 'The Noskes are coming! The Noskes are coming!' so screamed

now the woman and a window rattled and a dish came crashing down, bursting and hurling dark drops and waves of foul stench.

We were at home. The stairwell was so dark I tripped over a bucket. Hoffmann threw open a door, jumped into the room, and I heard him say: "Don't do anything stupid, man, give me the gun!" In there sat a man who had just gotten out of bed and had a gun in his hand. He turned it for a moment undecidedly and looked at us. He was sitting on the edge of a rickety bedstead, the straw tangled under the motley cover, straws still hanging in his hair. The room was small, a tiny window with half-blind panes hardly let in any light, there was still a stove in the room with damp washing hanging on it, and in the corner stood a young woman in a long, crumpled pair of clothes at the hems dirty shirt; she stood as if pressed against the wall and said nothing. Above the bed, however, hung a framed picture of the kind the reservists took home, a colored print of a soldier with a photograph pasted on the head. The man hesitantly passed the gun over, then suddenly jumped up, grabbed the picture and threw it at our feet, cracking the frame and shattering the glass. Then, almost deliberately, he lifted his bare foot, as if he wanted to crush the picture with his heel again, but stopped and said only: "Now get out!" We went. as if he wanted to crush the picture with his heel again, but stopped and said only: "Now get out!" We went. as if he wanted to crush the picture with his heel again, but stopped and said only: "Now get out!" We went.

Now we were back in the stairwell and scarcely knew where to turn. The

disturbed house was in the deepest hostile to us; it seemed charged with hate, with poverty, with a hundred unknown dangers lurking. Within these walls, the dwellings stuck room to room, like honeycombs in a beehive. People crouched on top of each other, wall to wall life separated. The rooms and sheds threatened to burst from the whirl of terrible fumes, which spread around the human bodies stuffed into them. We searched apartment by apartment. We penetrated every chamber, we knocked on every shack. There were dark corridors in which buckets stood and broken brooms, lamps hung so blackened with soot that more than one swung against our helmets, the floorboards groaned and cracked when we stepped on them, our feet sometimes stepped into mortar and rafters, from the ceilings - and how low were the ceilings—bare brickwork hung, the limestone was crumbling. Door stood next to door. When one was opened for us, the others jumped up too, and suddenly the aisle was packed with people. Men, women and lots of children, children of all sizes, most of them half-naked and unspeakably dirty and with limbs so thin that you might think they would break if you grabbed them, children with incredibly large heads and tangled, spiky blond hair, — they stood on the thresholds of their barren, gloomy rooms, and many pairs of eyes stared at us. When the others went in, I stood alone in front of the door, faced them alone, and hatred overcame me

like a cloud, the hissing rained down on me! jeering shouts, women brushed past me and laughed and then spat on the ground, and the men, with open shirts so that you could see the frizzy hair on their chests, called out to each other: "The gang should be killed!" and «Take the gun away from the monkey!» But they didn't hurt me, they just raised their fists and shook them in front of my eyes and boasted that they would crush me like a bug with a finger. Until the others came back and stepped into the next room. I went in and saw. There was a room no more than four meters square, and the room was full of beds. Seven people slept in this room, men, women and children. And two women were still lying in bed and each had a child with her, and when we came in, one laughed, shrill, out of breath, and the others in front of the door crowded onto the threshold. The sergeant came closer, and the woman quickly lifted the blanket and shirt, and her bare cheeks spluttered. We drove back when the others squealed, they laughed out loud and hit their thighs, they couldn't get enough of laughing, and the children laughed too. "Bloodhounds!" they shouted, "Bloodhounds!" The children screamed and the women, and suddenly the whole room was filled with screaming figures, The gramophone was still blaring. The

Translated from German to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.com

was behind a tiny door at the end of the hall. We broke in, and there was a man who was putting on a new record, and we were squawked: "We want to beat France victoriously..." The corridor cried out in delight, the NCO jumped back and took a deep breath and yelled, "Back, everyone! All in his room! If the corridor isn't cleared immediately, I'll have it shot!" For a second there was silence. Then a murmur broke out and a woman began to scream, so that it echoed off all the walls in the corridor, in the stairwell, a long drawn-out scream, like a death scream, from which the children suddenly crawled and which caused more than the rattle of our rifles that the corridor emptied. But in the rooms it continued to boil. We heard muffled sounds pouring through the fragile doors,

Downstairs they began to sing the Internationale. That reached out from door to door, that penetrated through all walls and communicated itself to the courtyards. In addition, they stamped their feet on the ground in rhythm, so that the house shook and we stood frantically in the dark corridor. And we kept looking. We entered a room where an old man was sitting at the table and an old woman was standing at the window. And the old man rose slowly and approached us, knees trembling. He stood right in front of us and then slowly raised his hand and rattled: "Out!" and again: "Out!" and crawled closer and closer, eyes swollen with red veins

raised his arm with a blackened, wrinkled old man's hand and opened his wrinkled mouth as if with a last effort and gasped hoarsely: "Out!" The corporal wanted to calm the man down when he suddenly staggered and swayed and turned and fell on his upper body on the table. But the woman took the sergeant by the arm, as a child would by the arm of a disobedient child, and silently led him out. The corporal was very pale when he turned with us to the next door. We knocked and nobody answered. We knocked again and knocked harder, we knocked with nervous, increasing haste, then Hoffmann jumped forward and kicked in the door. There was only one woman in that room, a young girl, small and pale, with tousled black hair. She stood in front of us and drew back a little, leaning on the table with her hands, and in the sudden silence she asked in a very low but extremely tense voice: «What are you daring to do? what dare you Haven't you killed enough?" Her voice got very dark. She said, "You're breaking into this house like executioners. Are you without shame? Where did you come from that you do not know that we are human?" She said: "Do you hear what they sing Which era do you belong to? Who sent you?" People were standing at the door again, but now they were silent and listened. And the girl went on: "One would like to hammer it into your dull skulls. You protect the same

Class of scoundrels who created this misery! You are exploited, despised like us! And now you feel big with your guns, now the power that has been given to you tickles you. Put down your guns, or no, give them to those who know how to use them for their righteous cause!" But now Sergeant Kleinschroth said from under his steel helmet: "Oh, my lady, we know all that, we've heard that very often. Exactly, it's about the weapons. We're looking for them here, that's all we want. You'd better make sure that people don't do anything stupid there. And we're going to go and search further." We turned around and felt relieved, although it seemed to us that the sergeant should have said something more, but he just looked straight ahead with strangely flat eyes.

But it was impossible to search everything as instructed, and we didn't feel like doing it. When we entered a room, the desolate, stale smell of many people crammed together who were never alone, the sweltering stifling confinement, deadly self-consumption pressed on our shoulders and forced us to embittered sharpness in which we ourselves could not believe. We seemed to be unable to defend ourselves against this pressure in any other way than by stepping as firmly as possible, despite our inner daze, and as casually as possible with gruff certainty

acted. When hatred spat at us from screaming, contorted mouths, then for abysmal seconds we felt the approach of a terrible decision. Because if we weren't rushed by an order to balance on sharp-edged ridges, then we could oppose the hate with our own passion, which would become bitter, since we would then have to suck the hate out of the moment. But we could also let ourselves sink, let ourselves fall, flee, not from danger, only from our own warmth. But we, we clung to the order, we walked through the rooms with dull faces, we indifferently reached into the straw sacks, poked under the beds, opened the cupboards, ran our arms through the poor clothes, and yet it was like that, as if we were acting like thieves. Under the scrutiny of everstaring eyes that burned our backs and stiffened our smalls, we knocked on walls, banged on doors, tore apart sheets, and searched. And found nothing. Found nothing in the whole multi-story house except the one gun. But outside, in the many rooms, they continued to sing, and the worn-out, repeated singing almost gave us a calm freshness. Then we gathered in the gateway. The other groups came toward us through the courtyards. When we were about to march off, the sergeant noticed that two men were missing. The riot platoon began looking for them. We others retreated. The two men were not found. in the quarters

the wildest rumors were going around. Private Hoffmann said: "Boy, boy, I can't tell you how big my stuff is!" And after a while: «I know where they are. They simply deserted. »

Weimar

On January 20, 1919, the day after the election to the constituent National Assembly, the commanders of the troops stationed in Berlin came to Commander-inChief Noske. They declared that they could not guarantee the existence of the troops. The agitation of the Independents and Spartacists among the soldiers was so intense that it was dangerous for the spirit of the troops if the formations remained in the city for any length of time. It should be considered whether the formations should not be taken back to the practice sites, suburbs and villages. The Government of the People's Representatives decided to hold the National Assembly in Weimar. The Maercker Landesjägerkorps was considered to be the best disciplined force, and it should probably be recognized that General Maercker was given the task of protecting the meeting of the people's representatives in Weimar. The Workers' and Soldiers' Council of Thuringia, however, did not agree with this recognition and sent an offended letter

Telegram to Commander-in-Chief Noske. The garrisons of Thuringia alone are capable of guaranteeing the safety of the representatives of the people, and foreign troops are absolutely undesirable in Thuringia.

But the turbulence of those days was determined by the struggle of the revolution to survive. The Independents and Spartacus saw the convening of the National Assembly as an immediate threat to revolutionary gains. It was sharply recognized that the building up of the state councils, which they strived for and carried out in the beginning, had to be asserted by all means against the bourgeoisdemocratic principle, through which alone the National Assembly and the constitution to be created within it could maintain its validity, should not be abandoned a structure grew out of the revolution that falsified its meaning. "All power to the Workers' and Soldiers' Councils!" was therefore the slogan of the revolutionaries, and this slogan was propagated in innumerable proclamations and echoed in equally innumerable resolutions of revolutionary congresses and assemblies. In the Reich, the rule of the councils was still almost completely untouched. Only in Berlin was it broken. But troops were already marching to Bremen, and officers and soldiers under Lieutenant Commander Ehrhardt were already creating a new order in Willhelmshaven in which the councils were eliminated. However, the power of the workers' and soldiers' councils in the Reich rested simply on the fact that

that no one had challenged them before. In the factories the workforce was fragmented and the workers' councils were by no means certain of an unconditional following, the armed combat forces were small in number and not hardened. Even in Berlin it was always only the individuals who dared to do their last bit for the revolution, scattered, incorruptible, and of course, under favorable circumstances, they could force the masses to go along with them. But no one called them other than the voice of their blood, they met on the barricades, as these men always meet where there is danger, but they were not suitable as sparkling tools of a power to be formed, they recognized no leadership , they obeyed no councils. No one ever heard of peasant councils after the first days of the revolt. The soldiers' councils appeared to be the most active. They used threatening language in their rallies, controlled almost the entire administration and presented themselves as the actual rulers everywhere with imperious claims. But they were soldiers' councils without soldiers. The returning army broke up. Already on the march to the garrisons the regiments were reduced, large parts of the men left the troops, certainly not prevented by the officers, and pushed home. In the garrisons themselves were the oldest and the youngest — Landsturm, recruits and those fit for garrison duty. It was they who led the councils in the first exuberance of the revolt

chosen. Each of the returning soldiers at the front received as much leave as he wanted, the others took the leave themselves. The soldiers' councils lived as sole rulers in the desolate barracks, they sat fat and comfortable in the wide rooms and drafted resolutions and received wages and allowances and daily allowances and lived on the provisions and stocks. The clerks from the settlement offices, the unemployed young soldiers collecting their wages, deserters and a few professional soldiers formed the garrisons. But the garrisons were determined to do anything except work and fight. The Independents had set up guard regiments and security guards made up of workers and discharged or runaway soldiers; the sailors lived, grim and resolute, in sparse little groups, Called People's Marine Divisions, in their quarters transformed into fortresses bristling with weapons, like foxes under construction, always ready to shoot, but obedient to no orders. Then there were only the starving masses. The Freikorps, however, lobbied for the protection of the border in the East, the tribe of front-line soldiers, voluntary students, pupils, cadets, officers, workers, farmers, craftsmen and permanent soldiers, they were in government pay and marched as Noske ordered. When the small group of quartermasters from the Landesjägerkorps came to Weimar, the Weimar Soldiers' Council ordered them to be disarmed. But the

Quartermasters rushed to the council headquarters; the chairman, standing between two machine guns, declared that he was only yielding to violence.

Then the Landesjäger threw over the machine guns and forced their way into the building. But the chairman of the Soldiers' Council in Weimar gave way. This was the only act of war that happened in Weimar. We learned about it when we marched into the sleeping city. At the station we had to plant our side arms. Our quarters were in Ehringsdorf, we left shivering and exhausted from the long night drive through the dark streets. We stopped at the National Theater. We assembled the rifles and waited. The soldiers stood around the monument curiously. Lieutenant Kay climbed onto the plinth and sat down between the feet of the two bronze figures. The theater stood white and calm, with simple lines, like a clear, silent temple in the night. Lieutenant Kay said: "The day is really too absurd. confused confused doctrines and confused commerce rule over the world." And patted Goethe comradely on the thigh. After a short while we marched on. Weimar was cered by the Landesjägerkorps. In the city itself there were only a few companies, in the castle and at the theatre. We drilled in Ehringsdorf and in Oberweimar, we stood guard in Umpferstedt and in Suessenborn, we camped in Tiefurt and in Hopfgarten. When work was over, we didn't always want to go to Weimar; for the peaceful city lost

none of their colorlessness due to the blackened swarming of the people's representatives and their varied speeches - and Berlin still burned in our blood.

We were too suddenly torn out of the maelstrom of the great weeks that lay behind us. The departure from Berlin, the city that had never been conquered, seemed to us like flight and renunciation. And between duty and guard, between drunk and schwoof, we lost ourselves in exaggerated conversations. At first we attended meetings in the town where MPs from all parties spoke, but the spiritual weapons that were being advertised to the warriors made the value of longbarreled 15-barrel guns even clearer. Our life took place very apart from what the representatives of the people saw as the gist and essence of things; in those days we stood in the midst of the whirlpool, where it is quietest. And Lieutenant Kay said: "What do you mean about the little fire underneath?" I asked the lieutenant, my platoon commander, over the glass of wine he had invited me to. Then the lieutenant turned around, and three tables away sat a small, plump gentleman in a black coat, a gentleman with horn-rimmed glasses and a briefcase. "That's Erzberger," the lieutenant whispered and looked at me. «A competent man, incredibly hard-working!» And turned the glass and leaned over the table. "How do you think that would go

Chickens cackle if one day they get a good beating? Will you join us?» I said: "Yes, Herr Leutnant!" But Erzberger fled out the window in his shirt when we approached, and Noske was very angry with us. It seemed we were starting to worry him. As Commander-in-Chief, he always took off his hat when one of the soldiers thought to salute him. Ever since he was Reichswehr Minister—there was an order that the Reichswehr Minister was to be greeted in accordance with regulations—since that time he only ever raised two fingers to just under the broad brim of his hat. And we tried so hard! When we saw the car coming at the turnpike in Umpferstedt, we were happy and stopped the car and asked for the passport and obligingly asked the gentlemen to get out, since the car had to be searched for weapons. "Minister's car," the chauffeur ventured to say. "Anyone can say that," we said gruffly and: "Pass, please! "But then we saw the pass and it suddenly snapped us around! Then the rifle crashed on the shoulder so that the helmet slipped, then perhaps we reached out with our right foot and banged it against the left and gave the gentleman an iron look. And the Herr Reichswehr Minister raised two fingers suspiciously, and we didn't move until a friendly wish boomed from the bottom of the car that the barrier should finally be opened. The minister, however, loved to walk the front line during inspections and to ask some friendly questions

to ask people. And he asked Private Hoffmann of all people: "What is your profession?" — «Basket weaver, Your Excellency!» the answer came promptly. And the captain later had the opportunity to say, shaking his head, that we had nothing but nonsense on our minds and that we probably needed to drill a bit more. And there was more exercise. There was also more drinking. Lieutenant Kay invented a mixture that we called the spirit of Weimar. Only this mixture was very insipid, and you had to drink a lot before you got drunk. But we wanted to drink a lot, we wanted to dance a lot, and above all we didn't want to hear anything about what was discussed and debated in the National Assembly. The harmless little town splayed in thin importance. When the People's Commissioner Ebert was elected Reich President, it was the talk of the town that he paced the company of honor in a soft gray hat, not in a top hat. The sixty Berlin police officers represented a cosmopolitan city with dignity. Every speech by Frau Zietz was discussed with excitement in the ladies' circle. When Pastor Traub spoke, some houses flagged black, white and red. Shops were almost stormed when it was said that the first wagons of Italian oranges had arrived. The Landesjägerkapelle played on Sundays. The young girls of the city were only seen in public places with officers, at most with sergeants.

In the evening, the honorable members of parliament drank their wine in the "Elefant" or in the "Swan" and mourned the future of Germany.

In March the news came of the uprising in Berlin. At the same time things began to simmer in Central Germany. A detachment of the Landesjägerkorps moved to Gotha, others prepared to march to Halle. A strike threatened in the Central German industrial area. In the cities, starving masses demonstrated through the streets. Kurt Eisner was shot dead in Munich on February 21. As a result, the deputies in the Bavarian Parliament tried, not without success, to exterminate each other. Anarchy reigned in the Ruhr area, and food was only sparsely transported from the seaports. In the east, weak border guard formations banged around with advancing Polish bands. And slowly the terms of peace became known. We roamed the streets restlessly. There was no doubt in our minds that the Weimar gentlemen would accept. But we lifted our noses to the wind, as if we were smelling the variety that life has never cheated us of. Lieutenant Kay took a few of us aside. He spoke to the Kleinschroth group, he gathered the cadets together, he sat in the company quarters with the non-commissioned officers, in the canteen with people from the other battalion, in the Weimar wine tavern with officers and ensigns

and whispered around.

Some twenty men slowly found themselves. They recognized each other by a look, a word, a smile, they knew that they belonged together. But they weren't loyal to the government, they weren't loyal to the government at all, nothing less. They could not respect the man and the order they had hitherto obeyed, and the order they were supposed to help create seemed meaningless to them.

They were trouble spots in their companies. The war hadn't released them yet. The war had shaped her, sparked her most secret addictions, given meaning to her life and sanctified her commitment. They were unruly, untamed, outcasts from the world of bourgeois norms, outcasts who gathered in small groups to seek their front. There were many flags to rally round—which fluttered proudest in the wind? There were still many castles to be stormed, and many enemy troops were still camped in the field. Landsknechts they were— where was the land to which they were servants? They had recognized the great deceit of this peace, they did not want to share in it. They didn't want to take part in the wholesome order that was praised as slimy. They had remained under arms by an unwavering instinct. They banged everywhere because they liked the banging, they roamed the country, hither and thither, because they liked the distant fields

always new, dangerous fumes breathed, because the scent of bitter adventures beckoned them everywhere. And yet everyone was looking for something different and gave other reasons for his search, the word was not yet commanded them. They suspected the word, yes, they spoke it and were ashamed of its slurred sound and twisted it, examined it in secret fear and left it out of the game of manifold conversations, and yet it stood above them. The word stood shrouded in a deep dullness, weatherbeaten, enticing, rich in secrets, radiant with magical powers, felt and yet unrecognized, loved and yet not commanded. But the word was Germany. Where was Germany? In Weimar, in Berlin? Once it was at the front, but the front fell apart. Then it should be at home, but home was deceptive. It sounded in song and speech, but the tone was wrong. People talked about fatherland and motherland, but the Negro had that too. Where was Germany? Was it with the people? But that cried out for bread and chose its fat bellies. Was it the state? But the state garrulously sought its form and found it in renunciation.

Germany burned darkly in daring brains. Germany was there where it was fought for, it showed itself where reinforced hands reached for its existence, it shone glaringly where the possessed of its spirit dared the last effort for Germany's sake. Germany was on the border. The Articles of the Treaty of Versailles told us where Germany was. We were campaigned for the border. In Weimar

the command held us. We protected rustling paragraphs, and the border burned. We were in poor quarters, but French columns were marching in the Rhineland. We shot at each other with daring sailors, but in the east the Poles pillaged. We drilled and provided honorary companies with umbrellas and soft felt hats, but in the Baltic States German battalions advanced again for the first time. On April 1, 1919, Bismarck's birthday—the rightwing parties held patriotic celebrations—we, twenty-eight men, led by Lieutenant Kay, left Weimar and the troops without notice or orders, and drove to the Baltic States.

advance The silhouette of a farmstead stood in the scope. I lay with my gun on a bushy hill, close to the railway embankment. Lieutenant Kay lay next to me, his carbine converted into a rifle and hung with a flare pistol, hand grenade bags, ammunition belt, Zeiss binoculars and map case. Around us, in the velvety darkness, the Hamburgers crouched close together, light machine guns between them

itself. The mortars in the hollow stood there, mouths raised menacingly. In front of us the Eckau clicked darkly, individual stars were reflected trembling in the black, narrow, slightly moving water. Behind the corner of the forest the armored train was standing under gently streaming steam. The guns had to stand on the railway embankment, covered by the engineers. Everything was in the forefront. All weapons threatened forward. Men and explosives lurked for deliverance in a night of mystery and frenzied tension. From Riga Bay to Bauske, the curved bodies lay close together, ready to jump. The Bolshevik suspected nothing. At the back, over Tetelminde, the sky was tinged with muted red. No sentry call was heard, no shot woke the night. I fingered my rifle again. The belt was inserted, the first cartridge in the barrel. The gun stood stiffly on its insect legs. The levers tight, the mantle filled. Even one end of the hose was carefully buried, as regulation required. I put my head on my arms. We waited. We waited for the signal. And in front the Bolshevik suspected nothing.

With every breath a strange, acrid odor filled the lungs. Almost painfully spicy, he penetrated the whole body. This haze of the Kurland soil gave me a vague idea of what this country had to offer us. I clawed my fingers into the rich earth that seemed to be sucking me in. We had conquered this ground. Now he demanded of us; suddenly it was an obligatory symbol for us.

Surely it wasn't the Bolsheviks who forced us to lie in wait, in raging greed. Over there, where the oppressive darkness pressed the enemy to the ground, like us, over there the front was ruled by a glowing compulsion, a mad will, a divine obsession, a single belief, which the throngs of soldiers and peasants flowing through each other with steel tongs held together and formed, who gave the lost the mission, hammered the ragged into heroes, the abandoned into conquerors and rushed a whole people to the frontier. But we were scattered, no people gave us the order, no symbol was valid for us. We lay here now in crackling darkness; we were looking for the entrance to the world, and Germany lay somewhere in the fog, full of confused images; we were looking for the ground who was supposed to give us strength, and this soil would not give itself willingly; we were looking for the new, the last possibility, for Germany and for us, and over there in the secret darkness that unknown, that shapeless power was hiding, which, half amazed by us and half hated, resisted our urging. We went out to protect the border, but there was no border. Now we were the border, we kept the paths open; we were stakes in the game because we saw the opportunity and that ground was the field we bet on. but there was no limit. Now we were the border, we kept the paths open; we were stakes in the game because we saw the opportunity and that ground was the field we bet on. but there was no limit. Now we were the border, we kept the paths open; we were stakes in the game because we saw the opportunity and that ground was the field we bet on.

The Balts, who were encamped in masses behind that projecting corner of the forest by the road and were waiting for the signal to attack, did not ask about the purpose of their operation. The fight for which they gathered was dedicated to them, it was the only commandment of the hour. They pressed bitterly to take Riga;

for this was their city, and there in the citadel were the Baltic hostages, who faced a similar fate as the hostages of Mitau. Lieutenant Kay had taken me to Baltic families who could tell us about the Bolshevik period in Mitau. And there wasn't a family from which at least one member wasn't kidnapped, martyred or executed, and many families had been murdered along with the servants, and of many only some of the wives were still alive, and of the wives only the older ones. But it had been the case that speaking German on the street was enough to get yourself killed, and that the word "German" was considered the most outrageous insult and the German the most hated creature in the world. The Baltic girls, however, torn from their homes, in their taut, cultivated astringency as coveted prey, and the Bolshevik monsters had their lust to desecrate them and break their noble will in mad lust until, tortured by whole hordes, they lay naked and torn in the dung of the streets or in the courtyard of the prison, meanwhile the Baltic men were shot over their corpses. When the Baltic state militia, without orders, whipped by the mad outcry of their blood, dared the last thrust towards Mitau, and the city was attacked by a storm from Tückum, the hostages were driven into the courtyards of their dungeons and into the densely packed mass of crammed bodies Bundled hand grenades flew, shot after shot erupted from the muzzles of rapidly aimed rifles, that to desecrate them and to break their noble will in mad lust until, tortured by whole hordes, they lay naked and torn in the dung of the streets or in the prison yard, while the Baltic men were shot over their corpses. When the Baltic state militia, without orders, whipped by the mad outcry of their blood, dared the last thrust towards Mitau, and the city was attacked by a storm from Tückum, the hostages were driven into the courtyards of their dungeons and into the densely packed mass of crammed bodies Bundled hand grenades flew, shot after shot erupted from the muzzles of rapidly aimed rifles, that to desecrate them and to break their noble will in mad lust until, tortured by whole hordes, they lay naked and torn in the dung of the streets or in the prison yard, while the Baltic men were shot over their corpses. When the Baltic state militia, without orders, whipped by the mad outcry of their blood, dared the last thrust towards Mitau, and the city was attacked by a storm from Tückum, the hostages were driven into the courtyards of their dungeons and into the densely packed mass of crammed bodies Bundled hand grenades flew, shot after shot erupted from the muzzles of rapidly aimed rifles, that

the clenched bodies kept shooting up and in the end nothing was left of them but a single bloody, shapeless mush. But other hostages were tied to the horses by red horsemen and dragged from the city to Riga with cant shoelaces. The Landeswehr could still count many corpses from their tribe on the road to Eckau. The tomb of the Dukes of Courland had been broken open, the mummies, with German steel helmets on their heads, stood upright against the walls, riddled with senseless shots. It was Latvian Red regiments that took revenge on their former masters in Mitau. But what had hurled us from the calm center of circling Germany, Weimar, to the periphery, into this country, in which we had been fighting for six fiery weeks, seemed to us only weakly explained by those sober promises that accompanied the sound of the advertising drums were offered to us. When, in the days of the revolt, the front of the German Eighth Army in the Baltic Sea countries collapsed, plundering, disorganized, dispersed on all roads to the homeland, the Red Army pressed in, boasting and in the mighty intoxication of a wild belief in superiority, in which the elements of a new national and social pride strangely mixed with Asiatic arbitrariness, to the abandoned country. Riga fell and Mitau, and the ragged partisan groups, confident of victory, marched as far as the Windau. Then the Balts gathered and offered the first resistance. And to them

encountered weak German border guard troops. Ulmani's Latvian government fled from Riga to Libau, but promised the German volunteers land for settlement, eighty acres of land and heavy loans and increased pay if they retook the land. The German troops had orders to protect East Prussia and borders with this province of the German East. The German leader, General Graf Rüdiger von der Goltz, believed that the only way to fulfill the order was to take the offensive. And the campaign began in snow and ice, while the first spring storms howled through the woods, with wild and daring patrol rides, with short, jubilant bursts, with raids and forced marches. Mitau was freed. The new front formed at the Eckau. Riga, the Baltic city, lay wildly longed for behind the dark forests. A confused message reached the German front, gasped out of the exhausted lungs of Baltic refugees, intercepted by Soviet radio signals, violently blackmailed by captured Red Guards. But the German government, fearing the threat of the Entente, forbade the German troops to liberate the city. For us, who were moving to the Baltic States, the word "advance" had a mysterious, happily dangerous meaning. In the attack we hoped for the final, liberating increase in strength, we longed to confirm our awareness of being able to cope with any fate, we hoped to experience the true values of the world within ourselves. We

marched, nourished by other confidences than they could be valid for the homeland. We believed in the moments in which the diversity of life accumulates, the luck of a decision. “Advance”: for us that didn’t mean marching towards a military goal in order to conquer a point on the map, a line in the country, it meant rather experiencing the meaning of a hard common ground, it meant creating a new tension that Pushing the warrior to a higher level meant severing all ties to a sinking, decaying world with which the true warrior could no longer have anything in common. The departure of the German battalion in the Baltic resembled the departure of a new tribe. Each company carried its own standard and fought its own battle. The standard of the Hamburg company was the flag of the German Hanseatic city. But a black pennant was still flying over the flag, and when I asked one of the Hamburgers if this was a sign of mourning

— and I myself was embarrassed by this question — when he whistled the first bars of the pirate song. No, no mourning, Klaus Störtebeker had already carried the black pennant on the mast of the "Bunten Kuh" and it once waved over the war cogs of the Vitali brothers. So the Hamburg flag had its special meaning in the Baltic States, and it fluttered on every panje wagon of the company and also on the field kitchen, yes, in some skirmishes — that was possible in the Baltic States, anything was possible there

— in some battles it was carried forward,

and it shone crimson with its narrow white towers and the sombre line over them. So it could well happen - and it was certainly partly intentional on the part of the Hamburgers - that the Bolsheviks hesitated to fire, unsure whether it wasn't red troops who were advancing, and it could also happen that the Balts would attack the Hamburgers shot—for the Balts couldn't see red without shooting straight away—but then the Hamburgers had only to shout "Hummel, Hummel" and the shooting stopped; because the Hamburgers were known all over Courland and their battle cry too. They were so well known that the Jews and grocers deliberately closed their shops when the people of Hamburg moved into Mitau for a short rest, singing their traditional song, the pirate song, or some obscenity. The soldiers of the other units then stepped out into the street and looked at the Hamburgers, mostly shaking their heads, because they weren't marching, as they should be, by no means, they came along, to the right and left of the street in a long line each, and carried the rifle as was convenient for them, and strode, tanned and with open skirts and clubs in their hands. They had grown their hair and beards long, and they only saluted officers they knew and liked. It was a great honor for an officer to be greeted by the Hamburgers.

and she recognized no compulsion. The will of the leader alone counted, and this in turn had grown out of that motor power that allowed everyone who rallied around the standard to find each other. It was dangerous to step on the toes of even one of them: the unwary had the whole pack on their necks. The booty belonged to all, just as the risk was common to all. And where the Hamburgers met with the Bolsheviks—and they met often enough, for where an order tied the fronts in rigidity, the Hamburgers made war on their own—they had the same deadly friendly respect for one another. It might well happen that one of the band broke the ironclad laws of the clan, then the company assembled for a brief court martial, and after the mutineer was buried,

The Hamburg Company used to be a battalion. But already in the first skirmishes of the daring advance from the Windau to Mitau the battalion was shot up in such a way that Lieutenant Wuth, the leader, could be glad to be able to maintain a strength that at least represented a company. The tribe of the Hamburgers consisted of Lower Saxony from the former Hansa infantry regiments, which Lieutenant Wuth had already gathered around him during the return march and through confused Germany to the East Prussian border and then to the Baltic States

Had led. Lieutenant Wuth, a tall, brown, angular man

A boar's tooth stuck out of his mouth, which he used to sharpen on the bristly hairs of his little beard

— , exchanged his field cap for a velvet beret before each battle, such as the Urpachantes and the Wandervogel wear. For even in the glittering days before the war this gaunt man found the only form that suited him in the ranks of those youth who could not breathe in the mild air of frozen demands, who dreamed of a breakthrough and of a storm that was to break through the gloomy rooms. And if there was anything in Hamburg that could be called discipline, then it came from the scent of this man's nature and his happiness. Thus the Hamburgers, with whom I joined, represented a special class of warriors in the midst of the hosts of the Baltic War. There were many companies in the Baltics, ordered formations under secure leaders, enlisted and marching by imperative orders. There were crowds of troubled adventurers who sought war and with it the booty and freedom. There were patriotic corps that could not get over the collapse of their homeland and wanted to protect the frontier from the surging red tide. And there was the Baltische Landeswehr, formed from the lords of this country, who, with their seven hundred year old tradition, with their superior, strong filigree culture, with their easternmost bulwark

There were German battalions made up of peasants who wanted to settle, who hungered for land, who smelled the soil and groped for the strength that this harsh soil offered them. Troops that wanted to fight for the order had none. And the multitude of slogans gave them security, they were all given a little bit, a little bit of reward and hope and an enticing goal. But the same people separated themselves from the crowd, which the collapsed western front swept eastward. We found each other as if by a secret sign. We found ourselves far removed from the world of bourgeois norms, conscious of no reward, no goal. We were broken more than the assets we all held in our hands. We, too, broke the crust that held us captive. The bond broke, we were free. And our blood also ripped, suddenly hissing, intoxicated and adventurous, our blood drove us into expanses and danger, it also drove towards each other what recognized each other as deeply related. A band of warriors we were, imbued with all the passion in the world, mad at desire, rejoicing at no and yes. What we wanted we didn't know, and what we knew we didn't want. War and adventure, turmoil and destruction, and an unknown, tormenting urge whipping from every corner of our hearts! Pushing open a gate through the clasping wall of the world, marching across glowing fields, stomping on rubble and scattering

Ashes, chasing through tangled forest, over waving heather, eating into it, pushing, conquering to the east, into the white, hot, dark, cold land that stretched between us and Asia—did we want that?

I don't know if we wanted it, we did it. And the question of why faded under the shadows of constant fighting. The sky was still glowing over Tetelminde. The tangle of branches stood out darkly. Did the Bolshevik really suspect nothing? For the past few days there has been unrest on the German front. The formations were just about to break loose on their own, daring to storm Riga, when the German government had mischievously informed the supreme commander at his urging that they could not prevent the Baltische Landeswehr conquering Riga, the German troops could then take their own secure lines. In the evening, when the order to advance was read out, the men felt a jolt. And while the heaps were scattering to pack and arm themselves, the deserted houses were already blazing up at every end. The officers ran back and forth cursing, but the red tongues crackled from more and more roofs, illuminated the rigid edge of the forest, colored the dark sky from afar with a ghostly glow. The whole of Tetelminde burned, a grandiose torch, lit by the primal urge of the possessed, in whom suddenly man's first desire, destruction, throbbed and cried out for their rights.

The dial of the watch lights up. Half past one. I look across at Lieutenant Wuth, who is standing not far behind a tree and is staring through the glass ahead. Now he makes a move. He half bends down and inserts a flare cartridge into the barrel of the pistol. He adjusts the barrel, it cracks.

A rooster crows over in the farmstead. It's like the whole front is holding its breath. A noise goes through the forest. Countless left legs pull themselves to the body. It begins to get dark in the east. Suddenly, Lieutenant Wuth raises his arm and blows the signal high in the air.

The front roars. I twist around and push the lever. Already I can no longer hear the rattle of the rifle. The armored train is there, reaching forward, arms flashing. All guns spew, and there's man to man, gun to gun, machine gun to machine gun. Everything drowns in a mad roar. The steam wafts through the bushes in thick clouds and gets caught in fluttering rags on the tangled branches. Over there, a wall of dust swallows up the homestead. I hold the lever, trembling. The belt is through. I mechanically pull up the lever and propose the crank. My gaze dances across the visor towards an uncertain goal. There are rigid, black trees in the field and then collapse again and get up again somewhere else. I see Hoffmann, he's half hanging over his gun. He pulls the trigger with one hand and roars his lust, far

bent over, clawing eyes from the heart. The whole edge of the forest is now a taut string of intoxicated bodies. We fire whatever wants out of the barrels. The field in front of us is being shaved clean, it's as if all confusion, all long-restrained rage twitched from the fingertips and turned into metal and flame. Out with it, out with fire, iron, steam and scream. It is redeeming through the forest, the thunder of unspeakable lust throws the field in front of us to pieces. In the pale gray of the morning, beneath the drifting, milky flags of the mist, broad patches of brown earth appear. There I hold out the spouting muzzle. The pioneers throw boards over the water; the armored train advances panting. The edge of the forest comes alive, all the bushes swarm forward. The Eckau ripples reluctantly, throwing rings, like the people of Hamburg jumping into the shallow water, wading with guns raised high, nimbly climbing the bank edge. No sooner have we crossed the narrow river than fire hisses around our legs in disgust from those earthen structures. We, with the roar of the fire wave in our ears and excitedly breathing the damp haze of the powder gases, advance. Clumsily at first, then faster and faster, we stagger, jump over steam-filled funnels, stumble over furrows, and the quickening of the step pulls us into the spraying, increases the unrestrained exasperation with the run, lets the resistance appear to us as brazen mockery, which in great rush to break only

goal of the moment is The hamburgers are coming. I see how the balls of the hand grenades fly at the ditch, how figures detach themselves from the ground and rush backwards. I yank the carbine down and keep emptying a frame. The twitching bands of barbed wire tug at my legs. That at this moment marksman three falls with a shot in the head, letting the unwieldy rifle fall on him, I feel with boiling rage as an act of revenge done to me personally. "Leave it alone," I yell at the two riflemen, who immediately let go of the spurs on the sled so that the gun rumbles down. We jump into the ditch. A shapeless brown body lies across the sole, I step on an outstretched hand, I break into a wood-panelled cave, groaning comes at me, pale as earth, dull faces with tangled hair lie embedded in slippery clay, one crouches half erect among the dead, stretching out his bleeding arm to me. I must go; behind the ramparts the detonations of the hand grenades cracked dull. I run like mad. The ditch opens. Three or four hamburgers slip out of smoking shelters. We climb over fallen Spanish horsemen, emerge from the saps, get into the sparse undergrowth that spreads between birch trees. A machine gun fires from a nearby bush. The hamburgers break through the branches. A clearing opens up, and suddenly, unreal, ten or twelve earth-brown, ragged figures are standing in front of us, throwing away their rifles with a clatter, pushing I must go; behind the ramparts the detonations of the hand grenades cracked dull. I run like mad. The ditch opens. Three or four hamburgers slip out of smoking shelters. We climb over fallen Spanish horsemen, emerge from the saps, get into the sparse undergrowth that spreads between birch trees. A machine gun fires from a nearby bush. The hamburgers break through the branches. A clearing opens up, and suddenly, unreal, ten or twelve earth-brown, ragged figures are standing in front of us, throwing away their rifles with a clatter, pushing I must go; behind the ramparts the detonations of the hand grenades cracked dull. I run like mad. The ditch opens. Three or four hamburgers slip out of smoking shelters. We climb over fallen Spanish horsemen, emerge from the saps, get into the sparse undergrowth that spreads between birch trees. A machine gun fires from a nearby bush. The hamburgers break through the branches. A clearing opens up, and suddenly, unreal, ten or twelve earthbrown, ragged figures are standing in front of us, throwing away their rifles with a clatter, pushing get into sparse undergrowth that spreads between birch trees. A machine gun fires from a nearby bush. The hamburgers break through the branches. A clearing opens up, and suddenly, unreal, ten or twelve earthbrown, ragged figures are standing in front of us, throwing away their rifles with a clatter, pushing get into sparse undergrowth that spreads between birch trees. A machine gun fires from a nearby bush. The hamburgers break through the branches. A clearing opens up, and suddenly, unreal, ten or twelve earthbrown, ragged figures are standing in front of us, throwing away their rifles with a clatter, pushing

raise their arms and approach us hesitantly. But the Hamburgers, with their guns outstretched, leap forward, blindly banging into the group, scarcely pausing. The group stands, a few figures break away from it, sink to their knees, fall, one collapses with a high, drawn-out scream. Murawski, second archer, jumps forward, his butt shoots in a steep arc, so I pull up the carbine and shoot too. I drive through the last standing of the group, cracking through the undergrowth, towards the sound of the pounding machine gun. In the middle of the forest, nestled in a narrow clearing, a servant crouches. That's where the fire comes from. We hasten through the forest, filled with no other urge than to quench the cravings of our blood in a lightning-fast leap for the squat. Beside me, Hoffmann is panting with his rifle. The wheel of the mine launcher creaks on a forest path. Murawski runs back to get our rifle. We gather through the call of the bumblebee what hamburgers are nearby. We throw ourselves down at the edge of the forest. A group starts to attack from the flank. Angry, machine gun fire from the homestead hit her first jump. But while they are getting ready for the second jump, while the belt is rattling through Hoffmann's rifle, the first mine leaves the short barrel with a shriek. Before the beams and rafters sprayed up come down again, three grow,

send. I can already see the dark spots of the Hamburgers scurrying around the servants. We let down the rifle and run. The bright day is here. We're already at the first fences when someone comes running out of the yard. "We have prisoners!" he screams, and he screams: "There in the bushes Kleinschroth is supposed to be lying!"

Kleinschroth had not returned from a patrol two days ago. I run towards the bushes, then Hoffmann cracks through the bushes, and there lies Kleinschroth. Is that Kleinschroth? That blood-red bundle there? What, was that a human? On a brown floor a mixture of clods of earth, blood, bones, intestines, scraps of clothing. The head alone, cut off so that the throat reaches up to the sky; a thin thread of blood, from mouth to chin, dried; the eyes open so that only the whites stare, that's how the head lies. And the ground around the poor body trampled, trampled, churned up—and little white, granular, almost blown heaps between blood and mucus—what is that? Salt! "Prisoners, you say?" I ask the man, "Prisoners?" Hoffmann is already gone. I race towards the house. There are prisoners, and one has a blue German hussar uniform and a red sash around his waist. — «What, Germans?» Hoffmann rushes towards him, "What, Germans?" he rattles and jumps at him and hammers his fist in his face. But he drives back, he staggers, pulls himself up. Now he hits again I think; it's as if something unnamable were pulling him together, the cheek

muscles tighten and he turns pale, as pale as I've ever seen anyone. Two people cling to Hoffmann, who is frantically striving to get to the man and his "What, Germans?" hisses. "Yes," says the prisoner suddenly, biting the words through his teeth, "yes, I am German," he says, and there is immeasurable hatred in his words, "we are a great many Germans over there," he gasps he, and he suddenly roars: "We will never rest until this cursed Germany has been exterminated"... There are eight prisoners in all, three of whom are Latvians, two Czechs, one Pole, one Volgarus, one Ukrainian and then the German. But the German was a prisoner of war in Siberia, had joined the Red troops and now belongs to the Liebknecht regiment, which is mostly made up of German and Austro-Hungarian prisoners of war. He comes from the province of Saxony and used to be a fitter. No, he says in a short interrogation, he has no relatives in Germany. Yes, he is a communist. He was in command of garrisoning the stormed servants. Kleinschroth was shot and fell into their hands and was killed on his orders. He doesn't care what happens to him now. Hoffmann is already digging at Kleinschroth's grave in furious haste. The prisoners are led to the barn wall. You step calmly in front of the guns. The Latvians and the Czechs go to their places almost in a hurry, staring down at the muzzles with a fixed, gloomy, and tormented look. The Russian and the

Ukrainians, both peasants with completely tattered uniforms and overgrown blond beards, take off their caps as if they wanted to cross themselves. But you don't. The Pole trembles and begins to cry softly. The German pushes himself indifferently. Lieutenant Kay, who had found his way to the homestead during the storm, suddenly turned and walked away. I look at Hoffmann, who is digging at Kleinschroth's grave. I hesitate to go to him. Then the salvo cracks. Then we march on. Pushing through the wide, dense forest belt, we come to the road where we gather. The columns are already crowding there. The broad avenue is crowded with troops and vehicles all pushing forward. We join in and march with them. Just before Thorensberg we learn that Riga has fallen. On the street was the detachment v. Medem of the Baltic state army, with the Baltic shock troop, leader Lieutenant Baron Hans v. Manteuffel, and the German assault battery, leader Lieutenant Albert Leo Schlageter, broke through at the first attempt. The detachment had advanced at insane speed, ignored the confused, forlorn hordes of Bolsheviks on either side of the road, sped in the karracho past occupied and fortified positions, overran the barricades, stormed dead straight towards Riga. Behind the detachment the battle broke up again, but the German battalions pressing after them

shattered the breaking structure of the red front with short thrusts. The Balts meanwhile rushed through the surprised masses, undeterred, untameable, rumbled through the first streets of the Riga suburb of Thorensberg, chased doggedly through the city with rattling lungs and faces crusted with dirt, sweat and blood, advanced to the bridge and broke the brief resistance with rapidly turning guns, occupied the bridgehead, withstood a furious counter-storm, sent a column across the sluggish Dvina into Riga, held the only bridge firmly in hand. The raiding party smothered flaring resistance in Riga with furious anger, slammed through the seething city to the citadel and, feverish, howling, managed with the last tense strength to free the hostages already crammed into the death cellar. on the 22nd At four o'clock in the afternoon of May 1919, Riga was in German hands. lieutenant v Manteuffel, the Baltic national hero, was shot in the head in front of the bridge at the moment of his greatest triumph. We found this out on the street. We learned this and more. Because while we scream crazy words of joy in our ears about the fall of Riga, rumors of bitter fighting in the south-east, near Bauske, flutter. There should Captain v. Brandis and his corps carried the uncovered right wing of the German front forward. But it was there that the Bolshevik launched his offensive for the day. At Bauske the Red Army wanted to push through to the Mitau-Schaulen railway

Lifeline of the German front. There the red regiments mounted the storm and thrust into the midst of the German advance. Brandis and his men were lying in front of Bauske in an open, uncovered field, and the storm waves of the Red Army were pounding incessantly along the thin line.

The order reached us at the first houses in the suburb of Thorensberg. We'll be taken out of the attack and turned to the southeast. Our battalion was to advance via Bad Baidon and Neuguth to Friedrichstadt and grab the Bolsheviks on the flank to give Brandi some breathing room.

Lieutenant Wuth woke me early in the morning. A patrol should be sent to Neuguth, a group of Hamburgers and my gun. The company immediately moved up in panje wagons, which were requisitioned that night. It was three o'clock in the morning and already daylight when we stepped into the yard and got into the three panje wagons that were parked there. The group of Hamburgers drove ahead. I still had to pack up the ammunition and then trotted after them. At the lookout tower in Bad Baidon, someone called down to me that Neuguth had probably already been evacuated. From the top of the tower you can clearly see the town with its bullet-riddled church.

We sat a bit dull and careless, without belts, on our carts. The panjegaul staggered merrily under his high robe. The small wooded hills of Bad Baldon lay fresh and graceful in the waking day. It was nice to drive into the morning, into this one

wonderful, peaceful landscape. The tension of the advance days had eased pleasantly. Everything was very natural. Behind me, at the back of the cart, Bestmann and Gohlke, two men with my rifle, were talking about the war in a hushed, soporific way. Both were old soldiers, had been in the West throughout the war. Familiar names flew to my sleepy ear as if from far away. One spoke of Douaumont—that's right, Captain von. Brandis, who was lying back there with his corps alone in the battle, and of whom it was said that one only saw him in two different states, either fighting or drunk, he had been one of the well-known strikers of Douaumont. I closed my eyes and happily let the monotonous speeches splash into my ears. All the names that fell like clumsy stones in a sluggish lake, Flanders and Verdun, Somme and Chemin des Dames, all those dreadful names full of blood and iron, now uttered indifferently by men who associated with them an experience of which I could only form a distant, dim idea, all these names stood now almost detached from any reality in this sun-drenched, mutedly shimmering landscape, making the image of a deep, saturated calm appear all the more haunting. Bestmann and Gohlke chatted as if to erase dark shadows from their souls, but gradually became more and more monosyllabic, and finally Gohlke finally said with a small sigh: "This here, this isn't a war at all." They were silent for a while. A lark climbed out of the field. Over a gentle ridge was straight All these terrible, bloody and iron-rich names, now uttered indifferently by men who associated an experience with them, of which I could only form a distant, dim idea, all these names now stood almost detached from any reality in this sun-drenched, muted, flickering landscape, making the image of a deep, saturated calm appear all the more haunting. Bestmann and Gohlke chatted as if to erase dark shadows from their souls, but gradually became more and more monosyllabic, and finally Gohlke finally said with a small sigh: "This here, this isn't a war at all." They were silent for a while. A lark climbed out of the field. Over a gentle ridge was straight All these terrible, bloody and iron-rich names, now uttered indifferently by men who associated an experience with them, of which I could only form a distant, dim idea, all these names now stood almost detached from any reality in this sun-drenched, muted, flickering landscape, making the image of a deep, saturated calm appear all the more haunting. Bestmann and Gohlke chatted as if to erase dark shadows from their souls, but gradually became more and more monosyllabic, and finally Gohlke finally said with a small sigh: "This here, this isn't a war at all." They were silent for a while. A lark climbed out of the field. Over a gentle ridge was straight who connected with them an experience of which I could only form a distant, vague idea, all these names now stood almost detached from any reality in this sun-drenched, muted shimmering landscape and thus made the image of a deep, saturated calm appear all the more insistent . Bestmann and Gohlke chatted as if to erase dark shadows from their souls, but gradually became more and more monosyllabic, and finally Gohlke finally said with a small sigh: "This here, this isn't a war at all." They were silent for a while. A lark climbed out of the field. Over a gentle ridge was straight who connected with them an experience of which I could only form a distant, vague idea, all these names now stood almost detached from any reality in this sun-drenched, muted shimmering landscape and thus made the image of a deep, saturated calm appear all the more insistent . Bestmann and Gohlke chatted as if to erase dark shadows from their

souls, but gradually became more and more monosyllabic, and finally Gohlke finally said with a small sigh: "This here, this isn't a war at all." They were sile

you can still see the top of the Neuguth church tower.

"If there is no war here, why are you here?" I asked lazily over my shoulder. "Oh, you don't understand that," said Bestmann with the superiority of an old soldier, "that's a transition here. The war is far from over. The war never ends. At least we don't experience it." "You're right there," emphasized Gohlke, "just what are we supposed to do in Germany? No, we don't fit in there anymore. They think the war was over. Yes, Scheibe, as long as we've lost, the war ain't over." — "God rule that," said Bestmann, "and now I'll gasp a little more," and leaned his head on an ammunition case and closed his eyes. The other said nothing. The wheels turned lazily in the sand. In front of me the other two panje wagons trundled along. After a long while the front ones stopped. Sergeant Ebelt from the Hamburgers came up to me and said we must now get off the wagon and stalk Neuguth. 'Oh,' I growled, 'there's nothing going on. We'll find out when we get haze." Ebelt laughed: "So let's continue." We drove on, a little more carefully than before. Nothing stirred in Neuguth. The first houses appeared on the way. We trotted off happily. Some chickens fluttered over the fence. "Hey, Panje," Ebelt shouted, cracking his whip. A disheveled peasant came out of the door of the first house and disappeared as soon as he saw us. Ebelt laughed and we drove

further. We were soon in town. Nobody was to be seen. Yes, in one of the houses near the market a girl was standing at the window; Ebelt called her and she came out immediately. It was a very pretty girl, dressed in city clothes, not a Latvian peasant. We all widened our eyes. And the girl spoke German! Jesus, did she have a ringing voice! No, the Bolsheviks were gone, thank God, last night. Maybe at the back of the Vorwerke, there could be a few more. She is a refugee. Live with the pharmacist. No, she is Russian, but the pharmacist is Balt. The Reds would have lived badly in the place. "But you're here now," she laughed. Ebelt grunted in satisfaction. We still wanted to go through to the Vorwerk to have a look. Then we would come back. 'Until then then — » She nodded and waved after us as we trotted on. We saw few people, Latvians. They didn't understand us or didn't want to understand us. "Bolshevik nothing," they said. We believed them and drove to the Vorwerk. There were no Bolsheviks there either. Ebelt didn't want to go back the same way. First he wanted to walk down Kastanienallee to the church and sniff out Red Guards there. There must still be a way from there to the market. A narrow street led off close to the pharmacy. He should just go to church, I said hastily, yes, he probably had to go there first. I would wait for him at the pharmacy. Ebelt seemed to hesitate. Then he grinned, nodded and turned off. I turned the cart around and drove back.

God, the world is really beautiful.

I sat at the very front on the ledge of the cart. The others crouched deep inside and let their legs dangle comfortably. The pharmacy was already in sight. I rattled toward the house over the poor pavement.

Then a bang cut all the threads. From close range, close to the ear, it pulled us up. The panjegaul rose suddenly, then rushed forward with a leap. I flew off the wagon, stumbled, fell in the dirt, and found myself dancing, surrounded by ragged Red Guards brandishing their rifles and standing, firing shots at the speeding wagon. Three or four jumped at me, beat me up and dragged me away. i was trapped I hardly knew what had happened. One would hit me across the face with a whip or a stick and ask me what. I didn't understand him, I didn't understand anything at all, it just rushed through my brain: "I'm trapped, that's impossible, I'm trapped." They yelled at me; I was being dragged back and forth and suddenly I was against a wall. She was white and the sun shimmered on her. "What am I supposed to do on the wall?" I thought, I didn't understand what I was supposed to do on the wall. I turned and looked into the muzzles of the guns. Then I knew what I was supposed to do on the wall. The mouths stand in front of me, small round black holes. There is nothing in the world but these estuaries. Nonsense. There is nothing in the world but me. But the black holes are getting bigger

bigger and bigger, now they start to circle, become round, black discs. But the discs turn red, no yellow, and white and blue and green. They suddenly divide and everything slowly starts to turn. That rises on one side and there's nothing underneath and then the whole world just flips around with one big gesture of kindness. And I'm terribly lonely. It's so cold for me. I'm really all alone. Nothing has ever been outside of me, I should have seen it if anything outside of me had ever been. I want to open my eyes, but then I realize that I haven't closed them at all. Only, my stomach is a glass ball. If you tap on it, then it's the end of the world. Then the stomach must burst, like a soap bubble. And that's impossible. I do not understand at all, that I have ever lived. That was all nonsense. Of course I only imagined that I lived. life is nonsense. And of course there is no death. If only it weren't so blazing hot inside and so cold outside. There must be water somewhere on me. Or ice cream. I don't know. It's all the same. It's actually quite nice to know that you're all alone in the world and that basically there is no world at all. Now I know what color everything is. Purple. Simply purple. It's just stupid that you can't move a limb at all. I think, oh of course, I don't have any limbs either. This is over now. what is over What?... If only it weren't so blazing hot inside and so cold outside. There must be water somewhere on me. Or ice cream. I don't know. It's all the same. It's actually quite nice to know that you're all alone in the world and that basically there is no world at all. Now I know what color everything is. Purple. Simply purple. It's just stupid that you can't move a limb at all. I think, oh of course, I don't have any limbs either. This is over now. what is over What?... If only it weren't so blazing hot inside and so cold outside. There must be water somewhere on me. Or ice cream. I don't know. It's all the same. It's actually quite nice to know that you're all alone in the world and that basically there is no world at all. Now I know what color everything is. Purple. Simply purple. It's just stupid that you can't move a limb at all. I think, oh of course, I don't have any limbs either. This is over now. what is over What?... I think, oh of course, I don't have any limbs either. This is over now. what is over What?... I think, oh of course, I don't have any limbs either. This is over now. what is over What?...

The? ... Shots, shots, shots... roar in the air.

Suddenly the current rushes into my veins, grabs me, shakes, opens all pores.

The Hamburgers are here - here is their flag! Before me lies a dark heap, a dead Bolshevik. And Ebelt sweeps past and says: "You've had a lot of fun there again!" I lie down very gently on the ground. A small beetle, golden brown, eagerly climbs over funny dry crumbs, disappears into a crack in the white wall. And a little blue berry is there. The round berry is blank, and I see the whole world painted in its tiny glow.

turn For four weeks we marched aimlessly back and forth. We marched in the scorching June heat through the vast forests, over the fragrant heaths, on the hazy swamps of this wondrous country, bathed in the Aa, in the Eckau, in the Düna, pushed from Friedrichstadt far into Latgale and from Bauske as far as Lithuania. We traveled the whole country in the tiny, always trotting Panje wagons, visited the dull Lithuanian villages, the lonely Kurland servants, the simply clean Baltic mansions, asked and talked, searched and groped, but those scattered Red Army soldiers from

Neuguth, who had me before their cold runs, were the last Bolsheviks we saw. We did not learn what became of the Red Army, nor did we learn what was happening in Germany meanwhile, but confused rumors reached us about what was happening up in Northern Livonia and in Riga, and it was true hard enough to believe these rumors. But we didn't come to Riga. When the first rumors of the unfortunate battle at Wenden reached the troops, the people of Hamburg were almost satisfied that the cocky Balts had been given a smack on the roof, and with the pride that befits old warriors they heard of the order that summoned the battalion towards the end of June 1919 after the newly formed front at Jägelsee. The following had happened: the German advance on Riga had forced Moscow to withdraw the wing of the Red Army fighting against the White Guard army of Yudenich on Lake Peipus. This relieved the Estonian army, which was fighting in Yudenich's formation. But Yudenich and the Estonians had the support of the English. The support of the English also had earlier, through a coup by Baron Manteuffel in Libau on 16.April 1919 deposed Latvian Prime Minister Ulmanis. The Germans and Balts and Pastor Needra, the proGerman Prime Minister of Latvia, did not have the friendship of the English. Nothing less than that. For England had interests in the Baltics.

And where England has interests, she values the balance of non-British forces. This balance was disturbed by the German victory. And Ulmanis allied with the Estonians against the government of Needra, which was supported by the Baltic troops. Ulmanis found help from the Latvian colonel Semitan, who commanded Latvian troops in northern Livonia. The Estonians accused the Latvian government of Needra of violating the border as the Balts advanced towards Wenden. And in Wenden, small Baltic detachments of Estonians and Semitan Latvians were disarmed. The Landeswehr rushed to the aid of their comrades, German battalions joined the Balts. Ulmanis organized an Estonian-Latvian army, and this army had English equipment, had English arms, English officers and English money. English warships were suddenly cruising in the Bay of Riga, and English commissions were sitting around in Riga. The "civil war" was here. The Landeswehr and large parts of the Iron Division, the Baden Assault Battalion and the Michael department advanced to Wenden. They took turns, the opponent dodged. He dodged here and there, he couldn't be caught anywhere, no one knew how strong he was, where he stood, who he was. And suddenly Wenden was fenced off. Suddenly artillery was there, left, right, in front and behind, suddenly there was a crash between carelessly moving German columns, suddenly the Baden Assault Battalion was surrounded, surprised and attacked by

Troops who wore German steel helmets and spoke German and came from Germany and yet weren't German, nor Latvians, Estonians, or Englishmen, but soldiers of Lieutenant Goldfeld, who mutinied with his troops in the Baltic States and then defected to the Latvians. Suddenly the Landeswehr was under attack, stood in mad crossfire in the open field, lost its columns, barely survived a panic and had to retreat. On the Livonian Aa, on the lakes just outside the city of Riga, the new German front was formed, and all available battalions were deployed on this front. — Lieutenant Wuth sharpened his tooth and said: "Gentlemen, listen up: we're supposed to go to the Jaegel front now. It's thick air. The Estonian attacked. I don't know how he got there. How does spinach get on the roof? The Englishman is probably behind it. In any case, the German government has forbidden — shut up behind you — has forbidden German troops to enter Riga. That is why we are now Latvian citizens. Hence the name Civil War. — Ebelt, don't keep chattering in between; if you have something to report, report it to Berlin. — Well, according to higher orders, we are now Latvian citizens. Nobody will ask you about it. On the march through Riga we have to make an impeccable impression. There is no rubbing. Rather, I ask for discipline. Only decent songs are sung. With groups right pans march. Off for it." The discipline of the Hamburgers was impeccable. She

was only of a special kind. For nothing else happened except that as they marched through the austere city they sang the beautiful song about the sailor who wakes up in the whorehouse, whereby I only cherished the hope that the Baltic girls would wear light-colored clothes , who waved to us on Alexander Boulevard, did not understand the rough lyrics of the song.

At the Aa crossing between the lakes we moved into a poorly prepared position. Retreating detachments shouted at us, the Estonians pushed after us with all their might. We dug in, occupied the forest and the bank, and fortified the shot-up sugar factory as best we could in the dark.

The next morning, early in the morning, the Estonians were there. A light rain fluffed. I was lying in my trough with the tent sheet covering me. Bestman was on guard. Angry cracking woke me up. I sat up and stuck my head over the cover. Immediately machine gun fire spattered the sand. We lay flat in the hollow and Bestmann calmly began to dig deeper. Four vicious, crashing impacts thirty meters in front of us in the damp meadow slope to the Aa showered us with clattering boulders and whirring splinters, without prior warning through the howling of the trajectory. "What is that?" I asked. "Ratscher," said Bestmann laconically. I cautiously raised my eyes above the cover. It was already throwing me back. It burst four times behind us. You could hear the launch and the impact almost simultaneously. «The next salvo hits! » said Bestmann and snuggled close to the cover. That started out nice, I thought,

and suddenly I was terrified. The next volley... I thought and pressed myself trembling to the ground. There... "Too far," Gohlke determined, but something whistled and darted gloping into the ground right in front of my head, and it was as if a gigantic, ghostly hand had thrown a ball of compressed air into my small of the back. I was here for the first time in shell fire. So, was that it? There, again... My God! "They have to be there, behind the corner of the forest," said Bestmann, peering cautiously. "It's just a battery." That word calmed me down a bit, but I had the vague feeling that I had to show some special courage in front of the old front-line soldiers with my rifle. So I lifted my head and said: "They can't do anything." — "Bang it off, man," Bestmann roared, "are you totally crazy? You mean we wanted to get rid of everyone's haze?' And this was his last word. Yes, because suddenly the earth opened up, it tore apart in front of us with a brutal jerk that threw me aside, the jet of flame from the blast cracked deafeningly, iron, bang and howl and bursting of all veins, a hammer blow from the shattering sky, stinking smoke , stone, steel and embers. My head hit the ground and everything was black and red. Someone shook me. But all my bones seemed to have snapped out of their joints. I lifted my dull head from my pressed shoulder and felt myself. The earth in front of me was covered with a strange, greenish tinge, the machinery

Weir lay overturned and pelted with dirt, the whole floor was rumpled up. Then one moved and one lay on his back. I crawled there. Gohlke fingered the lying figure, half raised. There lay Bestman. Red spurted out of his chest, and he weakly raised his hand. The soiled face was greenish-pale, and blistered red foam pressed over the narrow blue lips. My hand fell back again and I laid my head on the ground, feeling ashamed at once, but Gohlke silently tried to raise the gun again and I had to help him. But now a chain of dull explosions came from behind. It hissed and gurgled overhead, making the air roar angrily, then slashed at the edge of the forest ahead. Six tulips rose with a muffled boom, mixing their smoke into a huge dark cloud that rolled slowly and heavily on the ground. Gohlke yelled for the paramedic. Our machine guns began to rattle left and right, and our artillery fired shot after shot into the forest opposite. So Bestmann was dead? I looked at him shyly. The rain had gradually gotten down to my skin, and my clothes hung around my body like wet rags. But my skin also seemed disgustingly wrinkled and soft, and surely it was just the dampness that made my teeth suddenly chatter. Gohlke covered the dead man with a tent and I lay down behind the rifle. I ducked my head quickly as over there again launches

roared, but the Estonian groped for our battery now, and the missiles howled over us.

We lay like that all day. Now and then we got artillery fire, and sometimes a nasty salvo of machine guns splattered around our ears. Hardly anything was to be seen of the Estonians; Only once did I see plate-shaped helmets through the telescopic sight at the edge of the forest on the other side behind narrow strips of earth. Towards evening the fire increased on both sides. The sugar factory burst into flames, illuminating the apron. We worked diligently to expand our machine gun nests.

The Essen fetchers came, snuck from nest to nest and reported that the Estonians had stormed the Riga water works and cut off the water for the city. It started raining again. Sergeant Schmitz came over to me; he was a miner from the Ruhr area, we smoked and talked. After a while Lieutenant Kay came too. He said the company had seven dead so far. Unrest is feared in Riga. We were now at the most exposed point of the front, between two lakes, at the bridge that gave the Estonians the easiest direct access to the city. There were no reserves behind us, only artillery. We huddled in our hole, mud-spattered and soaked, staring ahead. Lieutenant Kay said, 'Here we are, in a thin line, crammed together in this damn corner of the world. This is the last stretch of the German front, which was once so long that it fenced in all of Central Europe and a little more

more, which once began at the canal in Flanders and extended to Switzerland, and went from Switzerland over the Alps, to northern Italy, and from there over the Karst to Greece and from there to the Black Sea to the Crimea, to the Caucasus and across Russia up to Reval. Not counting the scattered fronts on all continents, and we here are the rest." He was silent and we were silent. Lieutenant Kay said: 'Riga is over there now. A German city after all, founded and built up and inhabited by Germans. Too bad you didn't see the House of the Blackheads and St. Peter's Church. The bridge over the Düna is called the Lübeck Bridge and was built by engineers from the 8th Army. After all, a German city, but never belonged to the German Empire. Now it belongs to the German Reich? No, now it is the capital of Latvia and we are Latvian citizens, if you please. That means we are actually German soldiers, soldiers of the German Republic. In other words, the German Republic doesn't actually exist yet; they aren't finished in Weimar, and the peace treaty isn't finished either. That means he's probably already done. The basics were probably already finished in 1914. Only we have nothing to say about it. And the German Republic will also look like this, so that everyone will notice how little we had to say about it. Anyway, here we are, the last stretch of German front that the world would enjoy seeing if it were a pleasure to see. We are German soldiers who are not nominally German soldiers, protecting a German city that and we are Latvian citizens, if you please. That means we are actually German soldiers, soldiers of the German Republic. In other words, the German Republic doesn't actually exist yet; they aren't finished in Weimar, and the peace treaty isn't finished either. That means he's probably already done. The basics were probably already finished in 1914. Only we have nothing to say about it. And the German Republic will also look like this, so that everyone will notice how little we had to say about it. Anyway, here we are, the last stretch of German front that the world would enjoy seeing if it were a pleasure to see. We are German soldiers who are not nominally German soldiers, protecting a German city that and we are Latvian citizens, if you please. That means we are actually German soldiers, soldiers of the German Republic. In other words, the German Republic doesn't actually exist yet; they aren't finished in Weimar, and the peace treaty isn't finished either. That means he's probably already done. The basics were probably already finished in 1914. Only we have nothing to say about it. And the German Republic will also look like this, so that everyone will notice how little we had to say about it. Anyway, here we are, the last stretch of German front that the world would enjoy seeing if it were a pleasure to see. We are German soldiers who are not nominally German soldiers, protecting a German city that actually we are German soldiers, soldiers of the German Republic. In other words, the German Republic doesn't actually exist yet; they aren't finished in Weimar, and the peace treaty isn't finished either. That means he's probably already done. The basics were probably already finished in 1914. Only we have nothing to say about it. And the German Republic will also look like this, so that everyone will notice how little we had to say about it. Anyway, here we are, the last stretch of German front that the world would enjoy seeing if it were a pleasure to see. We are German soldiers who are not nominally German soldiers, protecting a German city that actually we are German soldiers, soldiers of the German Republic. In other words, the German Republic doesn't actually exist yet; they aren't finished in Weimar, and the peace treaty isn't finished either. That means he's probably already done. The basics were

probably already finished in 1914. Only we have nothing to say about it. And the German Republic will also look like this, so that everyone will notice how

is not nominally a German city. And over there there are Latvians and Estonians and Englishmen and Bolsheviks — by the way, the Bolsheviks are my favorite of the whole bunch — and further south, there are the Poles and Czechs, and then further — oh, you know probably know. In Weimar they are currently discussing a match tax or whether they want to fly black, red and gold flags in the future or the glorious old colors, as I was told, I don't know exactly, it really doesn't matter. Well, so we hold the fort. We probably won't be able to keep them for long. Do you have a cigarette for me, ensign? Thanks." Lieutenant Kay cleaned his monocle, which was heavily sprayed with the thin rain. Schmitz smoked his pipe imperturbably and said: "They can't get through here." Gohlke suddenly shot off a flare. We stared fixedly over the edge of the ditch. The hollow lay in a magical, eerily twitching glow, in which each shadow was constantly changing. Apparently the battery behind had taken the flare as a signal, because after a few seconds six shots sounded; the projectiles hissed over our heads and hit the forest in quick succession. Machine gun fire immediately rattled. Rifle Hoffmann answered. Then the mortars fired from behind the ruins of the factory. The fire from the other side became livelier, our battery fired again. But now the ratters also answered. However, the sound of their launches came from a different place than before. The whole front became lively. Flares went off everywhere. Suddenly an ear

deafening crash the belching of the small calibers, then it rose behind us ringing and howling in the air, rolled forward over our heads with infernal screeches that we ducked involuntarily under the weight of a terrible devilish power, and then it slashed in over there so that the ground rolled and twitched and moaned as if tormented. The Estonian cracked, splintered and echoed; the forest seemed to shake for a second and carried the mighty blow from tree to tree into the distance. Then there was utter silence, as if our twenty-one, unwilling to have his night's sleep disturbed, had put a thick, categorical dot after that night's fireworks display. Schmitz sucked on his arrows and said: "They won't get through here. And I want to tell you something, Herr Leutnant, even if we had to give up the front here, which I don't believe, or if we had to leave the city, which I don't believe either, then we're still here. We're still here, Lieutenant, and we always will be. That's pretty much where we stand after all. It's also possible that we'll have to leave Kurland one day, I don't believe it, but it's possible, and it's also possible that the Hamburg company will split up one day. That's why we're still here. They can discuss as much as they want in Paris, and what they gossip about in Weimar should concern us even less. Anyway, we're still here, all of us, and as long as we're here, we won't rest. Then the fight will continue elsewhere. It doesn't look like

whether we would not be needed in the years to come. And I'll tell you that, Herr Leutnant, if we don't achieve anything here, or we come to Germany and don't achieve anything there either, and it should always go on like this and the gentlemen who had big bellies before the war at our expense and during the war fat bellies at the expense of our blood, and after the war fat bellies as good as before—do you remember, Lieutenant, in Weimar? - so if the Burschuasie and the big gentlemen continue to believe that they can do good business with our skin - and they don't give a damn about Germany, no, they don't - then I know for my part what I'm doing, and I do I think you, Herr Lieutenant, and the ensign know that too." "Schmitz, you're a Spartacist," said Lieutenant Kay. And Schmitz said calmly: I turned around a little startled, but the others lay in their holes and slept. Only Gohlke stood guard, and that's right, he turned around and said to Kay: "Anyway, for peace and order, don't go to the Lamäng"; grinned and looked ahead again. Kay said dejectedly, "I can understand that. But that doesn't help us either. You're a miner, Schmitz, well, I used to be a student. Why am I here? I could also think about my career and my advancement and my well-being. Why the hell am I sitting here? Because I don't care, because it pisses me off, because I feel, in three

Deibel's name that this is more important than figuring out paragraphs and initiating divorces and admonishing people who can't pay their dental bills. Because I know, heaven and earth and cloudburst, that the real decision of the war hasn't been made yet, can't have been made yet, and because I know that I can't be worse than the four thousand dead in my former regiment, and because I know - oh, children, I know nothing at all, only that we have to be buttered in too, and that that is our destiny, and that I am ready to fulfill it." "Yes, let's go with the story," said Schmitz, and then we were silent. — We lay in this position on the Jägelsee for four days. During these four days we were heavily shelled, more and more each day. The forest ahead seemed filled to the brim with troops; we gradually noticed twelve batteries radioing over to us. We had built an excellent machine gun stand for ourselves, but we often had to pick up spades again and mend the damage done by the fire. The food fetchers came forward only at night, and the company had killed twelve in those four days. The slope down to the creek was riddled with funnels, and in the mornings the strange perennials that the incessant fire created bloomed there. But the forest on the other side of the lowland was slowly becoming tattered. Sometimes strange hollow and flaring explosions mingled with the crashing impacts, then someone would usually shout: "Gas—"; but it was quite unnecessary for there to be shouting, for we saw that this was gas, and we had no gas masks; we dived them

handkerchiefs in the water boxes and tied them in front of their mouths and noses.

On the evening of the fourth day we were relieved by a company made up of what was left of Michael's detachment. But we came to rest in a forest only a few hundred yards behind the position we had just left. We heard, just like at the front, how the fire increased more and more to a fury like we hadn't known before. So we lay ready for action throughout the night. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Wuth told us what had happened in Riga. Two days earlier the Latvians had suddenly armed themselves in the Latvian suburbs. Patrols of the pro-government Ballod Latvians, named after their leader, Colonel Ballod, busily roamed the troubled city. In the afternoon a shot was fired from the Latvian guard on Gertrudenstrasse, killing a German soldier from the police company. That shot was like a signal to revolt. The uprising immediately simmered throughout the city, almost devoid of German troops. There was a bang on every street corner; the Ballod Latvians made common cause with the suburban mob; Shops were looted, Balts killed, and German patrols shot at. The old calls "Road clear" and "Window closed" made here,

As the armored cars raced through the streets and flares fired in the Latvian guard stations

fired, the Ballod Latvians kindly explained that the whole thing was just a misunderstanding. But the uprising was crushed under the determined threat of German guns. Two days later, however, heavy projectiles fell on the tested city. The Estonians threw in the layers of their long-range batteries into Riga at regular intervals. Although our twentyone men were temporarily able to knock down the enemy guns, the town was gripped by unrest, an unrest that escalated to panic when suddenly the bridge over the Düna was also under heavy fire. Then it appeared that the fire came from the sea. It turned out that English warships were shelling Riga. Had the Latvian government declared war on Needra England? Had the German government resumed hostilities? Had German or Latvian or Baltic fishing boats tried to hijack the English fleet? None of that. England only had interests and knew how to defend them. Fires were raging in many parts of the open city. The waterworks were owned by Estonians; it could not be deleted. The bombardment of the city continued throughout the night. At the front, the fire died down during the night. We could clearly hear the thunder of the impacts in Riga and saw the red glow of the fire. Before us lay the Estonians, behind us a shelled, rebellious city; the Düna Bridge, our only artery of retreat, was under English fire. 'By the way,' said Lieutenant Wuth, 'don't forget, the German government has asked the Baltic troops to go to Germany at once

to return, if not—yes, damn it, I believe loss of citizenship, barring of wages and borders, and imprisonment, I believe, who solicits the Baltics in word or in writing. Would anyone like to go back to Germany?" — "Does it have to be the same?" asked a voice out of the darkness. At dawn things got very restless at the front. It bubbled incessantly; the fire hit the forest, up to us. We lay weary and shivering under the trees and listened ahead. Lieutenant Wuth put on his beret. The fire increased. We pressed ourselves to the ground when the layers smashed into the earth close in front of us, splintering entire trees and taking them with them. I lay with my rifle on the right wing of the company. Lieutenant Kay lay next to me with a group of hamburgers. After two and a half hours of shelling, there was suddenly silence. Lieutenant Kay said loudly, 'These are beginners. They haven't heard anything about barrage, fire rollers and similar jokes." Some laughed. We knew that they were now attacking ahead. Our artillery was also silent. But suddenly shots rang out through the forest. "To lie down!" shouted Fury. There was a confused noise on the street halfway to our left. "They're coming, they're coming..." — "Quiet, stay where you are!" Wuth suddenly stood next to me. 'Ensign, as soon as we move forward, swipe your gun half right to the forest outcrop by the river and aim your gun at the bridge, understood! The boys have to cross the bridge after all

Translated from German to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.com

return!" A few stragglers hurried back. "All broken, all broken," shouted one. Lieutenant Wuth raised his carbine and stalked out onto the road on long legs. The Hamburgers got up slowly, murmured "Hummel, Hummel" and disappeared into the bushes. I pulled the gun up and we, four men, stumbled across the forest towards the designated spot. On the left was a great roar and rattle from many guns. We rushed forward, panting. The forest opened up, there lay the position. We stooped to the forest nose, reached it without being seen, and camouflaged ourselves in the bushes. The bridge was now sharply to our left and could be covered along its entire length. I set up the rifle, tightened all the levers, got all the ammo ready, and then we waited. There was no one to be seen on the bridge and on the stretch of road that lay within our range. We listened to the noise of battle on the road, in the forest. We weren't very comfortable. What if the Hamburgers didn't succeed in pushing back the Estonians? Gohlke seemed to have thought the same thing, for he said: "Helmet off for prayer." — «Isn't this still a war?» I asked him. "Not yet," he said, "but there may be another." "Thank you," said a third, "we've rarely had as much tinder in Russia as we have today." We heard "Hummel, Hummel" and "Slah doot." It sounded muffled, caught by the forest, and seemed full of a dull and dangerous rage. Didn't it come closer? Gohlke, isn't it getting any closer?

Damn it's getting closer! There, there they came! First a few, then more and more; the edge of the forest moved from those hurrying back, on the road they came in thick lumps. Now the machine guns rattled in the forest, there was a tumult on the road, we clearly saw people scurrying about, throwing themselves down, jumping up again, running back. Now came confused heaps. I crouched by my rifle, my hands clammy and flapping. The tension of the hunter raced within us; ha, there we finally had them in front of the gun, and how did we have them. Rest, rest, wait, that's not enough. Still not enough. Wait, wait, now they are at the bridge. Heck, the whole street was teeming. Now it's enough! I pushed the lever. The rifle trembled between my knees like an animal. On the bridge they tumbled, fell, splashed into the water. Thick, tight heaps spattered apart, collapsed, were pushed from behind. Yes, they had to go through, they all had to go through; there the sheaf was fixed with levers, and the water boiled in the barrel. Wasn't it like feeling the twitching metal parts of the rifle as the fire slammed into warm, living human bodies? Satanic lust, eh, am I not one with the gun? Am I not a machine—cold metal? In, into the tangled heaps; a gate has been erected here, whoever crosses it has mercy. When was ever such a target presented to a rifle? And then the belt was gone and a new one flew into the feeder, but Gohlke fired now and I lay exhausted and shivering on the ground and couldn't see

up once more. — Later we were in position. The Hamburgers didn't come right away, they had first caught loot in the forest. Fifteen prisoners were brought in; four of them were English and three Latvians. The Hamburgers had two dead—no one bothered to count how many the Estonians had. By the bridge alone there were so many that you could hardly see the white dust of the road. And not a single shot came from the Estonian front all day. Yes, the whole front seemed frozen, and we were surprised that no one was firing any more. We were no longer surprised when Lieutenant Kay came and said it was an armistice. The company was the only one still ahead. But the armistice read like this: The Germans had to go back to the Olai position. The Estonians had to go back to the Estonian-Latvian border. The Ulmanis Latvians occupied Riga, the city; Pastor Needra was charged with treason, and England had gotten everything she wanted. And we marched back. We marched through the city, as the last German company, and the people of Hamburg sang the pirate song.

mutiny Probably before the war Olai was a complex

used by servants who were not spread too far, perhaps a border station several centuries ago. Because the point marked "Olai" on the map is on the Misse, a small river that runs dry in summer and meanders between the Mitau crown forest and the Tirul swamp, and on the bridge over the dead straight road between Mitau and Riga there is a clumsy one Obelisk with the coats of arms of the Duchies of Courland and Livonia. But surely this point was of no importance to Olai until that day, when he received a little flag as an adornment on many a German and Russian General Staff card. For here the German position cut the road, exactly bisecting the distance between the capitals of both Baltic provinces, and so was Olai until 1917, when the German advance began, again become a border town, without much remaining of the place itself. And now, two years later, German soldiers nested in the deserted position again and stared across the apron at Riga, the city that lay 22 kilometers behind the eternal haze of the Tirul swamp. Again a border was drawn here, guards stood at the bridge and asked for the passport of everyone who passed by, and 6 kilometers further towards Riga, close to the village of Katherinenhof, was the Latvian position, and this was formerly, until 1917, flat been the Russian line. Between them spread the swamp, a wide, harsh area with a few disheveled cuddly beds and many ditches and swarms German soldiers nested in the deserted position again and stared across the apron at Riga, the city that lay 22 kilometers behind the eternal haze of the Tirul swamp. Again a border was drawn here, guards stood at the bridge and asked for the passport of everyone who passed by, and 6 kilometers further towards Riga, close to the village of Katherinenhof, was the Latvian position, and this was formerly, until 1917, flat been the Russian line. Between them spread the swamp, a wide, harsh area with a few disheveled cuddly beds and many ditches and swarms German soldiers nested in the deserted position again and stared across the apron at Riga, the city that lay 22 kilometers behind the eternal haze of the Tirul swamp. Again a border was drawn here, guards stood at the bridge and asked for the passport of everyone who passed by, and 6 kilometers further towards Riga, close to the village of Katherinenhof, was the Latvian position, and this was formerly, until 1917, flat been the Russian line. Between them spread the swamp, a wide, harsh area with a few disheveled cuddly beds and many ditches and swarms sentries stood at the bridge and asked for the passport of every passer-by, and 6 kilometers further towards Riga, just before the village of Katherinenhof, was the Latvian position, and earlier, up to 1917, this had been the Russian line. Between them spread the swamp, a wide, harsh area with a few disheveled cuddly beds and many ditches and swarms sentries stood at the bridge and asked for the passport of every passer-by, and 6 kilometers further towards Riga, just before the village of Katherinenhof, was the Latvian position, and earlier, up to 1917, this had been the Russian line. Between them spread the swamp, a wide, harsh area with a few disheveled cuddly beds and many ditches and swarms

from mosquitoes of the most unpleasant kind. The railway embankment ran parallel to the road, sometimes cutting through it when the ground conditions were unfavorable and changing to the other side.

The shelters were still well preserved, solidly built, with proper trunks, and large, not even low, rooms. But the dugouts were not designed to be particularly bombproof, and the trenches seemed to have been built with the love and thoughtfulness with which good citizens in primitive circumstances tend to create a comfortable home. This part of the front up to the year 17 cannot have been breathtakingly exciting. There were only a few graves at the edge of the forest, nicely decorated with now weathered birch wood. In the shelters, between the overgrown grass, the wire mesh bedsteads were still visible and easy to use. Through the terribly dense and tangled forest with swampy ground went billet dams; suddenly the foot stepped on rusted tin cans, for forgotten equipment; but sometimes we also found the remains of the corpses of the Bolsheviks who died in May.

The Hamburg residents lived here for three months, the months of July, August and September of the year 1919. They stood guard, they lay in the stable dugouts, they hunted fleas and set fire to huge piles of wood every evening to drive away the mosquitoes and to bonfires, singing and playing. They rarely got leave to Mitau because they rarely handed in the leave. She

roamed through the forest, visited the neighboring companies and now and then made a strictly forbidden patrol in the foreland in order to keep the Latvian guards from sleeping with various and strange noises. If the Latvian sentries fired, then this was a flagrant breach of the armistice, reported as quickly as possible to Mitau, and of course could mean nothing other than preparations for a criminal, insidious, and treacherous attack. Lieutenant Wuth had quartered himself in a tiny log cabin that may have once been the home of a gentleman on the staff of the Rhenish Jager Battalion. This must have been a very patriotic gentleman. Because above the entrance to the hut hung a wooden, now somewhat weathered sign with the urgent request: "Subscribe to war bonds!" The pressing force that drove us into this country, into this war, into these distant regions, over whose now frozen battlefields only lost shots echoed, glowed in us from the beginning, while we were still under radiant laws, while we were still bound to the values that seemed sacred to us, that determined the way in a cherished tradition, since we still believed and in the consciousness of this belief were sure of strict happiness. We didn't have any problems. The world seemed simple and lay open before us, our fathers had worked and shaped it and found their proud content in it. We should take up a rich inheritance,

grow into this firmly established form and continue what was entrusted to us in trust. We had learned to do our duty. We had learned to respect our rights. We spared no trial, and the race that went to war in the roaring days of 1914 believed to see the cleansing power dawning in the coming thunderstorms, a sanctified destiny out of gray clouds, the caring wisdom of historical destiny sent to us of our inner value, of becoming fully aware of the unchanging substance of German. There was hardly a secret in our victories, everything was intoxication, splendor and heroism, and the whole people followed our flag waves in broad, indomitable waves.

And suddenly none of this was true anymore. Suddenly dark, secret spirits were pounding on the walls of the shining realm, and in some places it sounded hollow, and there were some places where the deceptive whitewash fell off, and in some places the brittle stone broke. The fronts froze, they sank into dirt, mud and fire, a ghostly finger drew bloody lines around the empire. The war we intended to wage led us. He grew up before us, coming out of the deepest crevices of the earth, like a mist, like a gray ghost, and shook the bastions bristling with weapons, he suddenly grabbed us with a red-hot fist and threw the regiments together and threw them

apart again and rushed them through the thundering fields. He came through the jingling wires and overnight took the reins from the frightened hands of the generals and tangled them and tugged here and there until the front became brittle and then went on and strode into the country and ripped the flags from the windows and spat three times. And the saliva was poison, and where it fell, hunger and need and renunciation grew. And the war went on, it was everywhere, it threw its torch into all parts of the world, it tracked down the most secret desires and threw on them resplendent cloaks and dyed the cloaks red. He dug the iron out of broken earth and threw it into space, dropping it to the ground, shattering. The war came like a giant over the land and there was nothing to hide from it. He came like a wolf and chased us with tearing teeth up to the highest slopes and through the deepest gorges, he rammed youth into the mud with one mad blow and hurled life into the fire and set matter against spirit. Then the fighters crept into the dark earth in front of him. But he trampled the landscape with a taunting cry and created a wasteland, created a unique world with unique laws, a kingdom in which all the passions of the Stone Age people found their place from roaring fears to shrill triumphs, a kingdom in which the roaring hurray to rattled from exhausted and possessed bodies, became a terrible howling of animated elements. And as war created its landscape, so it created its army. Then he threw he rammed youth into the mud with one mad blow and hurled life into the fire and set matter against spirit. Then the fighters crept into the dark earth in front of him. But he trampled the landscape with a taunting cry and created a wasteland, created a unique world with unique laws, a kingdom in which all the passions of the Stone Age people found their place from roaring fears to shrill triumphs, a kingdom in which the roaring hurray to rattled from exhausted and possessed bodies, became a terrible howling of animated elements. And as war created its landscape, so it created its army. Then he threw he rammed youth into the mud with one mad blow and hurled life into the fire and set matter against spirit. Then the fighters crept into the dark earth in front of him. But he trampled the landscape with a taunting cry and created a wasteland, created a unique world with unique laws, a kingdom in which all the passions of the Stone Age people found their place from roaring fears to shrill triumphs, a kingdom in which the roaring hurray to rattled from exhausted and possessed bodies, became a terrible howling of animated elements. And as war created its landscape, so it created its army. Then he threw Then the fighters crept into the dark earth in front of him. But he trampled the landscape with a taunting cry and created a wasteland, created a unique world with unique laws, a kingdom in which all the passions of the Stone Age people found their place from roaring fears to shrill triumphs, a kingdom in which the roaring hurray to rattled from exhausted and possessed bodies, became a terrible howling of animated elements. And as war created its landscape, so it created its army. Then he threw Then the fighters crept into the dark earth in front of him. But he trampled the landscape with a taunting cry and created a wasteland, created a unique world with unique laws, a kingdom in which all the passions of the Stone Age people found their place from roaring fears to shrill triumphs, a kingdom in which the roaring hurray to rattled from exhausted and possessed bodies, became a terrible howling of animated elements. And as war created its landscape, so it created its

army. Then he threw in which the roaring hurrah became a red primal scream, rattled from exhausted and possessed bodies, a terrible howl of animated

down what didn't exist, he singled them out with a hard blow and pulled the darlings to his chest, the ecstatics of war, the individuals who jumped out of the trenches and shouted their "yes" to the turning of the world. And he pressed the faithful into dense heaps, into which he drove again and again smashing, and painted for them the great why in the glowing sky, parched their veins and burned his mark in their terrified brains, knowing they will never escape it. He adorned the meager daring of his kingdom with red scars, he chiseled the angular faces under gloomy helmets, the sharp, narrow lines around the mouth, around the jagged chin and fixed, spying, grasping eyes. He separated the homeland from the front and the nation from the fatherland. But his hot breath went into every corner. Then the nailed-on jewelry flaked, the fake metal melted, the crust became brittle, the vapor of decay swept through the empire, and every proud bond frayed and broke. He tore the masks off his face, and those who were lying stood naked and bare in lies, and those who were searching groped in empty space. So raged the war, and the hours smacked hearts scorching, and the days became smoking red with blood, the years ran relentlessly sucking, pulling the last marrow out of rotten bones, demanding victims of utter exhaustion. Then it smoldered in the house, all the pillars became brittle, the beams cracked. Weapons sprang from clenched hands, what was still gripped by the war sank, the empire fell apart. The last ones felt as if a voice called out to them: "You don't shy away from a rehearsal? the crust became brittle, the vapor of decay swept through the kingdom, and every proud bond frayed and broke. He tore the masks off his face, and those who were lying stood naked and bare in lies, and those who were searching groped in empty space. So raged the war, and the hours smacked hearts scorching, and the days became smoking red with blood, the years ran relentlessly sucking, pulling the last marrow out of rotten bones, demanding victims of utter exhaustion. Then it smoldered in the house, all the pillars became brittle, the beams cracked. Weapons sprang from clenched hands, what was still gripped by the war sank, the empire fell apart. The last ones felt as if a voice called out to them: "You don't shy away from a rehearsal? the crust became brittle, the vapor of decay swept through the kingdom, and every proud bond frayed and broke. He tore the masks off his face, and those who were lying stood naked and bare in lies, and those who were searching groped in empty space. So raged the war, and the hours smacked hearts scorching, and the days became smoking red with blood, the years ran relentlessly sucking, pulling the last marrow out of rotten bones, demanding victims of utter exhaustion. Then it smoldered in the house, all the pillars became brittle, the beams cracked. Weapons sprang from clenched hands, what was still gripped by the war sank, the empire fell apart. The last ones felt as if a voice called out to them: "You don't shy away from a rehearsal? and every proud bond frayed and broke. He tore the masks off his face, and those who were lying stood naked and bare in lies, and those who were searching groped in empty space. So raged the war, and the hours smacked hearts scorching, and the days became smoking red with blood, the years ran relentlessly sucking, pulling the last marrow out of rotten bones, demanding victims of utter exhaustion. Then it smoldered in the house, all the pillars became brittle, the beams cracked. Weapons sprang from clenched hands, what was still gripped by the war sank, the empire fell apart. The last ones felt as if a voice called out

to them: "You don't shy away from a rehearsal? and every proud bond frayed and broke. He tore the masks off his face, and those who were lying stood n

- Here! — Passes it!» The men who climbed out of the trenches in 1918 sensed that we had to lose the war to win the nation. They had experienced the great transformation themselves, they saw that there was no form whatsoever and that any form was possible. They came - still under the spell of their landscape - and found the Reich like an open wound, the edges of which brutal fists pressed so that blood and liters spurted out. They stood in front of the heap of rubble and listened with incredulous amazement to the slogans and programs that were blatantly offered to them as the values of the future and as the wisdom and truth of the hour. And since, under the constant threat of death, they had learned to distinguish the true from the false, it became easy for them to be incorruptible. They silently went about what had to be done. There were many among them

There were others whom the war had not yet released from its clutches. They saw renunciation everywhere and believed that they had to save, that they had to march in unconditional fulfillment of their duty that would keep them going

awarded. And among these were some who felt that there had to be a mission and that this mission had been placed in their hands. No one knew what the broadcast was, and everyone listened to the demands of the day. But the demands were many. The struggle for the kingdom began. Blood had not yet married knowledge. So we were ready to act at the call of our blood. And it wasn't important that what we did turned out to be right, but rather that action was taken at all during these open-minded days. For the decision about Germany was now placed in each individual's hands, and each individual was thus tied to German fate for irreplaceable moments of grace. And we marched. It was fun there, always off with "windows closed" and "road clear"—. The most active part of the German front marched because it had learned to march, strode through the towns under arms, with a dull anger, charged with a leaping, aimless rage, knowing that it was time to fight, fight at all costs. The most active part of the front marched, right and left. But we, who fought under old flags, we saved the fatherland from chaos - God forgive us, that was our sin against the spirit. We thought we were saving the bourgeois, and we were saving the bourgeois. Chaos is more favorable to the developing than order. Renunciation is the enemy of any movement. Since we saved the Fatherland from chaos, made

we closed the windows to what was in the making and gave way to the street for renunciation.

Anyone who recognized this was looking for a higher meaning of the struggle. Wherever men were found who did not want to give up after the collapse, a vague hope for the East was awakened. The first who dared to think about the coming Reich had a living instinct that the outcome of the war would have to severely destroy all ties with the West. To tie them together again meant submission, that meant submitting to the cold rhythm that gave the West its tremendous power over this globe. That meant falsifying the sense of the German war that was suddenly recognized in the inexorability of the funnel fields.

The war left our borders open to the east. Among the mass of fighters of the German postwar only a small part went to the frontiers, and from this part only a small number went to the Baltic States. What made our struggle in Courland possible was the West's fear of Bolshevism. We made not one move that was not approved by the body of those men who recognized Germany as the government. The government did not issue a valid order that was not seen and approved by the Allied cabinets. Until the Red Army burst under our hard blows, we were England's mercenaries, the West's protective wall against the mysterious awakening of a people who, like us, were fighting for their freedom. This was our second sin

against the spirit.

We went out to protect the border and conquered a province. We thought Germany must reach as far as its strength. We were determined to hold the province, to fulfill the obligation darkly claimed by the blood of our fallen. The Baltic was now a German possibility, since it was becoming dangerous for the victors. We wanted to use them. The Entente ordered the evacuation of the Baltic States. We heard about it and we laughed. Then the Reich government ordered the removal of some troops. We took it for a trick by Noske, who wanted to deceive the Allies, or who was trying to use a clever maneuver to render harmless the demands of the independents in the National Assembly who were fighting. Then we learned that parts of the Guards Reserve Division and the Freikorps Pfeffer had been pulled out of the Estonian front and taken away by order of the government, allegedly because these troops were needed for border protection and were needed there more than before Riga. We did not doubt that this measure was only temporary and that the troops would soon return to the Baltic States. Then it was said that these formations were not even used for border protection,

We were convinced that wasn't true; then,

if it had to be disbanded, then it was the turn of the useless garrisons. Then it was said that the government categorically demanded our return to Germany and was threatening to withdraw our pay. We thought that couldn't be, because the government had recognized and favored our demands on Latvia and on settlement. Finally it was said that Germany must give in to the wishes of the Entente at any price. But all the rumors that reached us from the Reich confirmed that Germany would never sign the peace treaty. In those dull summer days in Olai—days that stand between two times and between two orders—we suddenly felt no longer on the fringes of German fate, we were entangled in a tangle of inescapable questions. One day, at the beginning of the armistice, we were sitting in Lieutenant Wuth's cabin. Schlageter came to visit, we discussed the possibilities of a settlement in this country. Wuth wanted to buy a farm and a sawmill near Bad Baidon—the Latvians were still there. Then Lieutenant Kay came into the room and said hastily through the tobacco smoke: "Germany has signed the peace treaty!" Everything was quiet for a moment, so quiet that the room was almost booming when Schlageter got up. He held the handle in his hand and murmured: "Soso, Germany has signed...", he paused, stared straight ahead and then said, and suddenly had a

angry tone in his voice: "I mean, after all, what's that got to do with us?" And slammed the door so that the whole room shook, and was outside. We were shocked. We listened to this and were shocked at how little it actually affected us. We were startled with that ice-cold, sobering tingling in our brains that always sets in when the heart doesn't startle. Didn't the message sound as if it was from a far-off, foreign land, simmering in a haze of hunger, lies and violence against the inexorable? The country beyond, gray and weary and doomed to slumber away forever beneath the cold, damp veil of November days, a country like a blank spot on a map in which the topographer's hand hesitated to draw towns and villages and rivers and borders, a clumsy, passive country, a country without reality - what? What have we to do with this country? We looked at each other shivering. We suddenly felt the coldness of an unspeakable loneliness. We had believed that the land would never let us go, that it bound us with an indestructible stream, that it fed our secret desires and justified our actions. Now it was all over. The signature released us.

At the train station in Mitau, soldiers of the 1st Kurland Infantry Regiment stood around sullenly. It was August 24, 1919. The first transport was to go to the Reich after reluctantly accepting orders

come off The officers paced back and forth, pale, grimly answering people's pressing questions. The train slowly filled up. There was still time. As if for a miracle, everything waited for the redeeming word. Suddenly there was movement at the barrier. A tall, tanned officer stepped onto the platform. The Pour le Mérite flashed on his neck. It was the leader of the Iron Division, Major Bischoff. He looked at the train, the soldiers crowded around him, driven by dull hope. Officers came. The Major raised his hand. "I hereby forbid the removal of the Iron Division!" This was mutiny. Perhaps at that moment the name of Yorck flashed in this man's mind. We brought him a torchlight procession in the evening. At that time, the soldiers in the Baltic States sang a marching song, the first verse of which began: "We are the last Germans who remained on the enemy." Now we felt like the last Germans at all. We were almost grateful to the government for excluding us from the Reich. Because if the bond was officially broken, then our actions could not burden us with the concerns of the Reich. As we acted, we would have acted in any case. We could not feel obliged to the fatherland because we thought we could no longer respect it. We could not respect the fatherland because we loved the nation. An order no longer held us together, we were no longer bound by pay and bread and the warm scent of home. Us

was driven by a compulsion only dimly sensed, a law whipped us, of which we only saw the shadow. Now we stood in the mad whirl of danger. Now we held a new force field, a plane of hope, free from the ballast of miserable exigencies that a people of starving millions had to weave into intricately intricate nets day after day, step by step. The scattered, the outcasts, the homeless brutes held up their torches. We were insane. And we knew we were. We knew that we were being cut down by the combined fury of all the peoples who surged around our daring host. But if ever madness had a method, this was it. We, governors of this province for the yet unborn nation, we did not want to renounce - at a time when renunciation was the demand of the day. We said 'no' to the kingdom of those days because we already had a 'yes' on the tip of our tongues to what was to come. Such was our madness defiance. We wanted to bear the consequences of this defiance. A man can do no more.

Each of us was asked whether we wanted to stay or follow the government's orders. The first to break away from us were the patriotic corps. For their old-Prussian-minded officers, mutiny was mutiny. Then the marauders followed, all sorts of armed rabble of dubious origin who had gathered, spying on rubles until the last moment, but afraid of being dragged along in the hard final battle. The stage formations disappeared

Police companies, the Feldgendarmen. Few paymasters didn't go through with the cash register.

Then the Baltic State Army said goodbye to us. She came under the command of an English officer and was deployed to the newly formed Latvian Bolshevik Front The Balts were concerned with the last. They only had one will: to preserve their existence and not to have to share the fate of the Russian emigrants. Many of us went to greet the Balts again. There stood in rank and file whatever was left of the men of this German tribe and could carry weapons. There stood boys with their Lyceum belts still around their narrow waists and almost succumbing to the weight of their luggage, and next to them stood old men, land marshals, noblemen — children's eyes under German steel helmets and wrinkled, gaunt faces. They stood silent and with unbroken pride, and by their bitter resolve saved the meager prospect of life under the banner of their former servants. A Russian colonel, Prince Awaloff-Bermondt, was about this time assembling Russian soldiers, mostly released prisoners of war, to raise a White Guard army and lead it against the Bolsheviks. He came to the Baltic States, not particularly liked by the English and respected by us for that very reason. He had fantastic plans under his Circassian fur hat and was inclined to turn to the Baltics for support. For England wanted the troubled man under the supervision of the

General Judenich, loyal to England, and Bermondt, denying his command, felt safe only under the protection of the Baltic guns. But we were ready to ally ourselves with the devil himself if we could annoy the English and stay in Courland. Negotiations went back and forth, and eventually a West Russian government was formed, based in Courland and with a West Russian army, the tribe of which would be the Baltics. The German commander-in-chief, General Graf von der Goltz, followed the call of the Reich government, but resigned and went back to his troops as a private citizen. But now Bermondt was nominally the leader. Latvia was asked to at least remain neutral in the event of a western Russian attack against the common enemy, Bolshevism. Bermondt wanted to advance through Dünaburg, into Russia, as far as Moscow, please! Nothing more and nothing less than that. But Latvia demanded that the Germans march out. And so Bermondt decided to begin his crusade by conquering Riga. And we agreed with that. We pinned the Russian cockade to our caps, not without mischievously attaching the German one over it. Cheerfully, we took the paper money that Bermondt had printed without further ado—cover: the army material that we were about to capture—; we drank Russian schnapps with fury and learned to swear in Russian. So, since we were no longer supposed to be Germans, we had become Russians.

The slogan "fight against Bolshevism" took

we not serious. We had had plenty of opportunity to find out who benefited from this struggle. We won the first fight for England. In the second we wanted to cheat the Brit for the price of the first. We debated our options. We crouched around the fire that the people of Hamburg let blaze at the edge of the forest, and many voices buzzed in confusion. And even more merrily than the flames were the wild games of our imagination, now that we scented battles. Lieutenant Kay had already learned a Russian song and sang: "Where are you going, little apple?" Yes, where are you rolling, little apple? «To Riga!» shouted a hamburger.

"To moskau!" roared Lieutenant Wuth and laughed.

"To Berlin!" Kay's shrill voice sank into the jubilant roar of the Hamburgers. "To Warsaw?" Schlageter asked, and although he spoke softly, everyone understood him and it was suddenly quiet.

Then Lieutenant Wuth threw up a coin and called out: "Head or eagle — mission or adventure?" — The eagle fell upwards.

In the first days of October the news came that the Latvians were preparing for an offensive. That didn't surprise us, because we were also arming. In order to forestall the enemy, the attack was scheduled for October 8th. Storm

Again rose from the earth that strange astringent smell that I had had since May, when I first

walked this path, was always remembered. At that time, of course, the stinging smoke of the burning beams mingled with the haze, and the disgusting stench of the corpses of Bolsheviks lying everywhere, rotting in the glowing May sun, took the scent of the breaking earth considerably from its freshness. But this time there was fog over the dewy ground, and it couldn't be the sun, which was shining red and dim on the edge of the forest, making the field sweat. I remembered exactly how that smell seemed to me to unite everything that moved me in Courland in terms of hope and danger. I was attracted by the dangerous strangeness of this country, to which I had a peculiar relationship. The feeling of actually always standing on swaying swampy ground in the midst of this lovely landscape, which incessantly threw its bubbles, but had given the war up here the turbulent, constantly changing character, which perhaps already conveyed to the German knights that wandering unrest which drove them again and again from their strongholds to bold journeys. I had come here for the sake of the war, and this war gives me a stronger moment of rootedness than the hard-to-acquire peasant property could possibly have been for the settlers. The wide plain into which we now marched, breaking away from the edge of the forest, on the narrow, earthy road, breathed out a different mist than we knew from the battlefields of the great war. The landscape of gentle and insidious loveliness spread given a constantly changing character, which perhaps already conveyed to the German knights that wandering unrest which drove them again and again from their strongholds to bold journeys. I had come here for the sake of the war, and this war gives me a stronger moment of rootedness than the hardto-acquire peasant property could possibly have been for the settlers. The wide plain into which we now marched, breaking away from the edge of the forest, on the narrow, earthy road, breathed out a different mist than we knew from the battlefields of the great war. The landscape of gentle and insidious loveliness spread given a constantly changing character, which perhaps already conveyed to the German knights that wandering unrest which drove them again and again from their strongholds to bold journeys. I had come here for the sake of the war, and this war gives me a stronger moment of rootedness than the hard-to-acquire peasant property could possibly have been for the settlers. The wide plain into which we now marched, breaking away from the edge of the forest, on the narrow, earthy road, breathed out a different mist than we knew from the battlefields of the great war. The landscape of gentle and insidious loveliness spread I had come here for the sake of the war, and this war gives me a stronger moment of rootedness than the hard-to-acquire peasant property could possibly have been for the settlers. The wide plain into which we now marched, breaking away from the edge of the forest, on the narrow, earthy road, breathed out a different mist than we knew from the battlefields of the great war. The landscape of gentle and insidious loveliness spread I had come here for the sake of the war, and this war gives me a stronger moment of rootedness than the hard-to-acquire peasant property could possibly have been for the settlers. The wide plain into which we now marched, breaking away from the edge of the forest, on the narrow, earthy road, breathed out a different mist than we knew from the battlefields of the great war. The landscape of gentle and insidious loveliness spread when we knew him from the battlefields of the great war. The landscape of gentle and insidious loveliness spread when we knew him from the battlefields of the great war. The landscape of gentle and insidious loveliness spread

cautiously and yet hinted that behind many a bush lurked tongues of hostility. Far behind on the horizon, however, lay the dark line of the enemy's position, which was to be conquered today. And from there it rumbled in isolated dull bursts, so that our eyes involuntarily scanned the sky to see where a thunderstorm was coming from. Lieutenant Kay, beside whose horse I was marching, scanned the horizon with his binoculars, then he pointed to the grey-white band emerging from the forest towards the enemy position. There were a few dark spots and isolated, faintly moving dots. Kay said that must be the first battalion to attack on the road. But I saw a huge flag over the heap, and knowing that the Russians, proud of their tsarist standard and ready to stifle their hermaphrodite insecurity with the rattling cloth and the bright colors, always carried the flag with them and on occasions which for a long time had not given us Germans the character of heroic specialness, I concluded that the attack must have faltered, for the Russians formed the reserve, and before them we should have been on the enemy. Since we were a bit ahead of the company, the lieutenant sent me back to urge the men to hurry up. The engineer company was just turning into the street. In front the tree-length sergeant carried the triangular pennant with the Bundschuh, the company's standard, on a slender pole. Behind him a pioneer swung the accordion, den

playing the Prussian army march, as on every one of the long and tiring marches we've made in this country. And then, to the right and left of the street, in a long column, one behind the other, the company marched along, each one carrying his gun as he pleased, with sticks in his hands and short whistles under his nose. And between the rows rattled the panje wagons loaded with machine guns and ammunition. Of course, the marching column was not a radiant military sight, especially since the ragged coats of all branches of service and the bearded faces under slate caps showed clearly enough that in this campaign it was not so much military personnel that counted as warriors. The machine-gun platoon also attached little importance to outward appearances, but the guns were freshly oiled and carefully packed on the panje wagon. I went to my rifle and was told that I was assigned to the engineer company for the duration of the battle. The first lieutenant from the engineers came up, slapped his badly wound gaiters with his tattered driver's whip and said, without letting his heavy whistle out of his teeth, that today the machine gunners had an opportunity to show that they could do more than alone rub and rob. I was annoyed and said nothing, but Sergeant Schmitz, striding alongside the car and moving an ammunition box with casual indifference, said that if he remembers correctly, it must have been the engineers who were too late to attack at Baidon because they had stumbled across a wine cellar. The First Lieutenant that I was assigned to the engineer company for the duration of the battle. The first lieutenant from the engineers came up, slapped his badly wound gaiters with his tattered driver's whip and said, without letting his heavy whistle out of his teeth, that today the machine gunners had an opportunity to show that they could do more than alone rub and rob. I was annoyed and said nothing, but Sergeant Schmitz, striding alongside the car and moving an ammunition box with casual indifference, said that if he remembers correctly, it must have been the engineers who were too late to attack at Baidon because they had stumbled across a wine cellar. The First Lieutenant that I was assigned to the engineer company for the duration of the battle. The first lieutenant from the engineers came up, slapped his badly wound gaiters with his tattered driver's whip and said, without letting his heavy whistle out of his teeth, that today the machine gunners had an opportunity to show that they could do more than alone rub and rob. I was annoyed and said nothing, but Sergeant Schmitz, striding alongside the car and moving an ammunition box with casual indifference, said that if he remembers correctly, it must have been the engineers who were too late to attack at Baidon because they had stumbled across a wine cellar. The First Lieutenant slapped his badly wound gaiters with his tattered driver's whip and said, without letting his heavy whistle stick out of his teeth, that today the machine gunners had an opportunity to show that they could do more than rub and rob alone. I was annoyed and said nothing, but Sergeant Schmitz, striding alongside the car and moving an ammunition box with casual indifference, said that if he remembers correctly, it must have been the engineers who were too late to attack at Baidon because they had stumbled across a wine cellar. The First Lieutenant slapped his badly wound gaiters with his tattered driver's whip and said, without letting his heavy whistle stick out of his teeth, that today the machine gunners had an opportunity to show that they could do more than rub and rob alone. I was annoyed and said nothing, but Sergeant Schmitz, striding alongside the car and moving an ammunition box with casual indifference, said that if he remembers correctly, it

growled something and then went forward to his company with narrowed eyes behind the glasses. It had gradually gotten very cold. We stood undecidedly on the street, stamped our feet warm and listened to the roar at the front with sparse words.

The companies lined up. The noise of distant battle grew louder. We marched past the Russians who were encamped in the ditches and who watched our march with dull and embarrassed grins. We patronizingly threw them the few scraps of Russian that field soldiers had learned during the war, and the obscene meaning of these words was happily accepted by the Russians because of the condescension. An armored car was parked at the railroad crossing. The steel walls showed various bullet holes. The crew worked the wagon, some standing smudged and with blood spattered on their leather jackets around a canvas stretched out in the street, beneath which the shapes of a crooked body were outlined. We marched past without doing a question. The two infantry companies turned left down a narrow swamp path. Gradually the street became busier. In the field to the right the yellow envelope of a half-inflated captive balloon swelled. A heavy battery fired behind the signalman's cottage. A single infantry shell shattered on the railroad tracks with a clear ring.

We stopped and unloaded the guns. Since the enemy still seemed far away, I disassembled my MG and hoisted the sled onto my back. The

Upholstery had been torn off, and the two water tanks that I was still hanging on the spurs pressed painfully into my shoulder with the sharp-edged iron. We fanned out on the road to the left, scaled the ditch, and entered the swamp. It was around noon. We hadn't enjoyed anything since morning coffee. The swamp floor swayed with every step. A glassy, thin crust of ice had formed over the swamp. The foot splintered into it, the water immediately welled up into the shoes and bubbled over the edges of the round steps. The whole swamp area was strewn with low bushes. Graywhite wisps of cloud were chasing across the sky, the wind chillingly blew through our thin clothes. Neither of us had a coat.

When we got into the swamp about 500 meters from the road, we got the first fire. The invisible opponent rained down a sheaf of rain that hit the ground right in front of us with a strange chirping sound and, like a sudden shower of rain, caused small fountains to spurt out everywhere. We threw ourselves down. I stumbled and fell. The water tanks clattered down, the rifle carriage dug into the dirt, its edges digging into my chest. My elbows, my knees went deep into the muddy ground. The ice-cold water penetrated the clothes immediately. Beside me the infantry groups started firing. The Schmitz rifle also fired. Before I could begin, my gun

to assemble, the command to jump came. The damp clothes clung to the body and formed uncomfortable crusts of ice in the folds. The hand grenades danced on my belt and prevented me from running. The enemy accompanied our jump with erratic fire. It started raining. Cold shivers lashed his face. Heavy, dark clouds hung over the enemy line. There was a fire in three or four places around the horizon. Often we threw ourselves down. Latvian riflemen were squatting all over the swamp. Above our heads the heavy projectiles hissed and gurgled from behind, pounding on the position with dull cracks. Finally we were closer. Between the position and us there was an open field, a soft green, level meadow, sloping slightly towards us, which was partially under water. It was four o'clock in the afternoon. We were behind a small bump that promised some protection. Feet were deep in the mud. In front, the gray stripe of the position stood out clearly. Strongly developed bastions could apparently be seen at individual points. We were happy about every projectile that rumbled into it. The Latvian shot with all calibres. The projectiles fell into the meadow and conjured up strange trees made of mud and pieces of grass. From the muffled roar of the battle, the raging crackle of the automatic rifles rose again and again. We had no connection on the right, and troops had to lie close to the road again. The Latvian had finally sighted us. He set us a layer of Ratscher

right in front of our noses, spraying us with mud. Apparently the Latvians still had nests in advance, because machine gun fire scattered into our line. I had my sled set up in front of me and tried to get some sleep under its protection. From the line of fire yelled: "Paramedics!" — We all raised our heads. A pioneer crawled backwards with difficulty. The paramedic rushed over. Through the line went the talk of a leg shot. Then the second one was already screaming, just after another situation had struck. We lay completely idle and waited. Heads kept jerking up, peering at the straw stack to see if the lieutenant wasn't finally giving the order to advance. Furious firing began on our line. We were still a good two thousand yards from the enemy position and watched the weary battle without firing a shot. This whole day was spent in the agonizing preparation for a decision, and so far nothing had happened to give us a boost. It seemed to us that we had been lying in this swamp for a hopeless eternity and that there was never any prospect of getting out of it. There was nothing exciting about the monotonous simmering of the battle, and much more unpleasant than the impact of the shells was the queasy feeling in the stomach and the wet and sore clothes and shoes. This day consisted of nothing but little pieces of a mosaic which, clumsily put together, gave a horribly tensionless picture. We were used to other battles in Courland.

The fact that the war began in this way after a long armistice seemed to us a depressing sign.

The pioneer pennant stood erect on the straw rick, and the pennant hung from the pole like a wet towel. The wind blew black soot flakes at us. Now, as far as the eye could see, there wasn't a house that wasn't on fire. It was getting darker. The rain was interspersed with hailstorms. The position slowly blurred, indicated only by a constant flashing. Suddenly our firing noise increased behind us. Whole volleys hissed over our heads, hit over there. The fire got bigger and bigger. The lieutenant blew up a red flare. Seconds later the bursts of our battery hit the meadow in front of us, throwing up the mud and forming a narrow strip of forest that slowly rolled forward. A line of skirmishes approached from behind. The men strutted along, hunched over at wide intervals. The gun lay across the knapsacks, which were packed high. We recognized Bavaria by the cockades. It was the Berthold Battalion. No sooner had they reached our line than the lieutenant pointed ahead with his whip and jumped up. We struggled to our feet and, with cramped, rusty limbs, we trudged along with the Bavarians.

My rifle sledge smashed a pole into my small with every step. I called in shooter two who was carrying the rifle and was about to mount at the earliest opportunity. But steadily the line advanced, not very fast. our feet

splashed into the water. The Bavarian next to me sagged as if his knapsack had crushed him. The lieutenant, who suddenly ran in front of me, took the whip in his right hand. A trickle of blood formed on his left. The march quickened. A pioneer broke down howling like a dog. Schmitz ran half-right ahead with his rifle, swinging the water box. I looked down at the swaying ground below and, panting, leaped forward to catch up with the line. A Bavarian lost his knapsack and ran on without looking back. Another suddenly stopped and looked sadly at the ground. Then he sank gently to his knees. I heard nothing more of the roar that was beating around my ears. The ground rose and became firmer. It was dark, but the burning houses cast flickering lights. The people around me scurried around like black shadows. There was a wire entanglement in front of me. His feet tore furiously at the tangle that coiled around his ankles like a springy coil of snakes. I cried out as if disgusted with worms. One fell against my shoulder so that I staggered. An embankment rose steeply. I had long since lost the water boxes. Hands free, loathsomely hampered by the sledge, I hauled myself up on tufts of grass that jutted out of the glaring sand. The foot slipped. One grabbed my frame and pulled. I rolled up, lay panting on the embankment. Crowds in front of me. To the left a dark barricade drew,

opened Suddenly Schmitz was next to me with his rifle. I threw off my sled and crawled to him. He had already aimed his rifle and stamped the spur with his heel. The shooter behind the trigger grabbed his forehead and then slowly tumbled down the slope. I threw myself behind the gun and tightened the levers. I pushed - all the dullness of the day went away. The gun reared and snapped like a fish, I held it tightly and tenderly in my hand, I clutched its trembling flanks between my knees and threw through a strap, the second one too, one after the other. The steam hissed out of the pipe. I saw nothing, but Schmitz jumped dancing, screaming, hooting on the embankment, pushed me aside and climbed in my place. I grabbed the hand grenade and ran forward. We jumped into a ditch. I stepped on soft bodies that gave way strangely, past dark caves covered by scraps of cloth; Rifles, tangled in heaps, crossed the narrow path. Screams came towards us, behind earthen walls the muffled detonation of hand grenades resounded. Suddenly Schmitz was on top of me, threw his rifle across the ditch like a bridge and jumped over. I balanced the gun after him and climbed up the ditch wall. There lay the gap of the Verhaus in front of me. We stumbled over dead bodies. I kicked one on the head. Behind the barricade was the second position, a little higher and concrete. The silhouettes of a group of houses stood by the way, dark and massive. It flashed from them. I threw myself against a door, attached the hand grenade

the latch and pulled away. The bang made the walls tremble. A sapper fired a flare into the dark opening. Almost immediately the house burst into flames. A young fellow rushes out of the corridor, screaming, his hands bleeding, and hits him hard. The flame licks at him, blowing out a glowing vapor at us. Another tumbles out of the house, taking smoke and spray with it. A troop rushes off the street. We take hold—one of the Latvians, pulled up, is grabbed, thrown, whirls backwards, falls into the embers, screams once, the flames die down. The second scoots to his knees, but as they approach he jumps up, throws his arms around his head, and throws himself into the fire. The lieutenant races past me. I can still see how a thousand fine reddish splashes have smeared his face. The houses flicker as bright as day, A dull crash tears one apart. A confused rattling comes from the embers, the beams fly across the path. The lieutenant is circling the whip over his head and shouting for his company. I race back to find my MG. Guys crawl out of shelters, one brandishing a glowing cookware. I break into a dugout and push a sapper aside. A bunch of wonderful English rubber tents catches my eye. I take one, spread it happily in the meager glow of the fire, it's brand new, can also serve as a cloak. The pioneer slowly takes off the shoes of a corpse. «Collect on the street!» someone shouts, I keep running. Overall

marauding groups. One stuffs liquor bottles into his bread bag. Another reaches into a pot of yellow jam with all his blood-encrusted fingers and licks his paws greedily, splattering his face. Gradually we come to the road. It's a wild mess. The roads are clogged with columns. Field kitchens are stormed. Artillery slowly advances. We push our way through the heaps. Everywhere the company commanders shout their recognition call. The first lieutenant stands on a still smoldering heap of rubble at the side of the street and has everyone line up. My rifle is all there. It is counted. Report to the group leaders. The lieutenant counted the exits under his breath. He has a handkerchief wrapped around his left hand. He no longer has the pipe in his mouth. A quarter of his company is missing. Two men are missing from the Schmitz rifle. Meanwhile, behind our front, the Berthold Battalion is marching in columns into the black night, to the front, says the lieutenant, the performance of the machine-gun platoon was excellent, During the whole of his campaign he had not experienced that the heavy machine-guns not only did not stay behind under such difficult conditions, but even penetrated the position before the infantry. Schmitz mumbles something about a packet of tobacco, which he would prefer.

Then we swung in and slowly pushed past the columns, leaving the blazing houses behind us. The forest took us in. He crowded close to the road, the first tribes

stretched their roots into the ditch. And dense bushes lined the edge of the forest. The night was black. Two columns marched side by side on the street, in the middle machine-gun wagons bored laboriously forward. The lieutenant swore at a column leader. I marched alongside a massive horse that blew its nostrils into my side. I had the gun on the sled, it was carried by the waiter. I don't know why I chose the SMK ammunition to carry when I left the position. I also had a flare gun on my belt. The boxes were heavy, I didn't have a carrying strap. So I put one box on the shaft of the horse trudging next to me. I almost nodded off as I walked. The aching feet hardly wanted to lift themselves. I had a nasty taste in my mouth, my clothes stuck to my body, the boxes were heavy on my arms. We all groped our way blindly. Almost all speech had stopped. Only the wheels creaked and the muffled sound of many footsteps lulled us. We fell into absolute darkness. We went straight to the black gate, which suddenly opened its jaws and fire banged at us from spouting pipes. The horse next to me crashes up, the box falls, the drawbar crunches and breaks, I am thrown aside, fall, roll into the ditch We went straight to the black gate, which suddenly opened its jaws and fire banged at us from spouting pipes. The horse next to me crashes up, the box falls, the drawbar crunches and breaks, I am thrown aside, fall, roll into the ditch We went straight to the black gate, which suddenly opened its jaws and fire banged at us from spouting pipes. The horse next to me crashes up, the box falls, the drawbar crunches and breaks, I am thrown aside, fall, roll into the ditch

— what is it, what's going on — ambush? The horses roar back, snorting, with roaring screams. Bodies roll about in the street, a glowing, twitching snake tongues forward—a line of flickering ones stretches through the blackness

Dashes — ah, I think, flares, two, three, four such snakes, high up they chirp over us, it rattles nervously. "I'm w-u-undet," a long, drawn-out moan next to me, I bump against a soft mass; — there is my gun, I still have the box in my hand. One grabs, we heave the rifle up, push it onto the edge of the ditch. There stands the dark beast, a black monster, right in front of us it sprays fiery red and rattling — we're in the blind spot, I'm happy in a flash, we've got SMK ammunition, put the belt in, the barrel flies around, I press let's go, there's a bang - there's the target, into the dark mass - already it's quiet, the cattle; now I see that it was Schmitz who helped me, he's pushing me away. I understand him immediately, he will cover me with the rifle. Immediately the monster starts firing again. I crawl a bit to the right, bump into a guy who, understanding, almost precedes me. Schmitz bangs away, we jump up, one, two, three steps forward—trigger, away with it, trigger, number two, it rumbles, rolls, prances, hits hard iron—I yank out the flare gun, rocket out of my trouser pocket, he Run snaps, arm forward, go — it hisses — away, back, a metal bursting, the guy falls on me, hits the ditch — it sprays up dazzling white. In no time a volcano opens up, snow-white balls of smoke erupt from the earth, a white-hot wall builds up, a heat wave takes our breath away, the armored car burns. A mad, gurgling scream, two staggering figures, burning, hitting with waving arms, tumbling in the I crawl a bit to the right, bump into a guy who, understanding, almost precedes me. Schmitz bangs away, we jump up, one, two, three steps forward—trigger, away with it, trigger, number two, it rumbles, rolls, prances, hits hard iron—I yank out the flare gun, rocket out of my trouser pocket, he Run snaps, arm forward, go — it hisses — away, back, a metal bursting, the guy falls on me, hits the ditch — it sprays up dazzling white. In no time a volcano opens up, snow-white balls of smoke erupt from the earth, a white-hot wall builds up, a heat wave takes our breath away, the armored car burns. A mad, gurgling scream, two staggering figures, burning, hitting with waving arms, tumbling in the I crawl a bit to the right, bump into a guy who, understanding, almost precedes me. Schmitz bangs away, we jump up, one, two, three steps forward—trigger, away with it, trigger, number two, it rumbles, rolls, prances, hits hard iron—I yank out the flare gun, rocket out of my trouser pocket, he Run snaps, arm forward, go — it hisses — away, back, a metal bursting, the guy falls on me, hits the ditch — it sprays up dazzling white. In no time a volcano opens up, snow-white balls of smoke erupt from the earth, a white-hot wall builds up, a heat wave takes our breath away, the armored car burns. A mad, gurgling scream, two staggering figures, burning, hitting with waving arms, tumbling in the Schmitz bangs away, we jump up, one, two, three steps forward—trigger, away with it, trigger, number two, it rumbles, rolls, prances, hits hard iron—I yank out the flare gun, rocket out of my trouser pocket, he Run snaps, arm forward, go — it hisses — away, back, a metal bursting, the guy falls on me, hits the ditch — it sprays up dazzling white. In no time a volcano opens up, snow-white balls of smoke erupt from the earth, a white-hot wall builds up, a heat wave takes our breath away, the armored car burns. A mad, gurgling scream, two staggering figures, burning, hitting with waving arms, tumbling in the Schmitz bangs away, we jump up, one, two, three steps forward—trigger, away with it, trigger, number two, it rumbles, rolls, prances, hits hard iron—I yank out the flare gun, rocket out of my trouser pocket, he Run snaps, arm forward, go — it

hisses — away, back, a metal bursting, the guy falls on me, hits the ditch — it sprays up dazzling white. In no time a volcano opens up, snow-white balls of

Dig. It's daylight. It's dead quiet. The glowing wall stands ghostly alone. I lie at the edge of the ditch and dig my head into the wet ground. Almost as if all my tendons had been severed. I would have preferred to sleep. But Schmitz bent over me and asked if I had a cigar for the two Englishmen who had escaped from the burning armored car. They stand, tattered and bloody and burned, staring straight ahead with dead, red-rimmed eyes. The street comes alive. We go back, the English between us. I only miss my rubber cape just before the stormed position. And I didn't want to be cheated of the only material gain of the day. The cloak was my prey. The thing must still be on the armored car. The company is to remain in readiness at the cemetery. I set up my rifle between the crosses on the graves, and the people, completely exhausted, threw themselves down between the ruined graves. I shake the growling Schmitz's arm and let him know. Then I trudge down the dark road to the glowing point. The rubber cloak took up all the space in my mind. A dream of well-being and comfort was condensed in him. His velvety inner skin, which at times caressed my bare neck, made me excitedly happy. I thought with pleasure that he was pliable, that being wrapped in him must be like the embrace of a well-groomed woman. The knowledge that he came from England immediately gave me the vision of the

the peachy skin of an English actress I had seen in Germany as a child. Surely the cloak had belonged to an officer. The shelter he was in had been quite roomy. Perhaps English officers had lived in it. The English provided a large number of guides for the Latvians. How Tommy from the armored car had looked at me so dead and empty! Hell, that must have been an embarrassing feeling in the muffled steel chambers of the tank as the story blazed red hot. There the monster lay before me again, its walls still glowing faintly. What an idea, all alone, trying to stop the nightly German advance! I approached the ungainly, square box, for a long way around it stank of burned paint and charred flesh. I grabbed a rifle from the ditch that was leaning there and bumped the barrel gently against the steaming wall. I walked around the car, and on the other side the armored door was open, hanging on bent hinges. I looked in cautiously. A jumble of rods and iron parts. A blackish, crusty, charred mass on the floor. This was probably a human. I poked in with the barrel of the gun with unspeakable curiosity. Something hissed, the outer skin broke, the rifle went deep in—it was as if the lump was moving. My stomach immediately clenched. I recoiled from the rank stench, plague and decay, and staggered away.

I set out to find my cloak. There are footsteps coming out of the dark from behind. A group of scattered Bavarians stops in the dim light. They're looking for their battalion. That's the only one far ahead. One says they were told to advance to the gatekeeper's cottage, parts of the battalion must be stationed there. Where is that? No one would find their way in this goddamn darkness. I knew the terrain from the May advance on Riga. I tried to describe where the spot I was looking for was. Bayern stand around undecided. Is it still far away? And if I couldn't go along to lead her. I think. It couldn't be very far away. The Bavarians will certainly get lost in this barbaric darkness and end up running into the fingers of the Latvians. The forest between the road and the railway embankment is very confusing. But maybe it's enough to get to the railway and then walk along the track. I want to bring Bayern to the train station. I can probably get the cloak on the way back or early in the morning. One offers me liquor. The burning hot stuff gurgles down my throat. I'm fresh again for the moment. So I'll go with you. The forest was full of mysteries. We were terribly lonely, and it almost felt like a relief when we suddenly heard shots, down the road or on the railway embankment, where the Bavarian battalion was supposed to be. There was something agitated, strangely vibrating about the noise of those gunshots. We all did one immediately and without command

sharp left and ran towards the noise as if magnetically drawn. Twice I hit my head on trees, I stumbled over roots and branches, from time to time I only heard the noise from the others, with which they cracked like me through the thicket. Soon it was rattling continuously in five or six different places. A few projectiles whistled past and smashed into the trunks. The battalion in front must be in heavy action. We could clearly distinguish between enemy and German kills. The battalion was apparently fighting against an immense superiority. We ran forward as if rushed. We must have gone off to the right, because suddenly the low embankment of the railway embankment appeared next to me. Three, four men and I climbed up and then raced on between the rails while the others ran along the embankment. In the foreground on the left, the wild noise increased, individual long-drawn-out screams sounded. I saw the flash of shots. There was a path that led across the railway, there was the gatekeeper's cottage. We ran towards it. The bullets whistled around our ears. As we tumbled tumbling into the small yard, we received a sharp shout. A small group of Bavarians lay here, firing from behind a pile of railroad ties. There was also a light machine gun. Three wounded men were lying against the wall of the house, one of them called me, told me confusedly and hesitantly about the attack and heavy losses. One came darting around the corner and yelled, panting, that we should advance further along the railway embankment, there should be about 300 while the others ran along the embankment. In the foreground on the left, the wild noise increased, individual long-drawn-out screams sounded. I saw the flash of shots. There was a path that led across the railway, there was the gatekeeper's cottage. We ran towards it. The bullets whistled around our ears. As we tumbled tumbling into the small yard, we received a sharp shout. A small group of Bavarians lay here, firing from behind a pile of railroad ties. There was also a light machine gun. Three wounded men were lying against the wall of the house, one of them called me, told me confusedly and hesitantly about the attack and heavy losses. One came darting around the corner and yelled, panting, that we should advance further along the railway embankment, there should be about 300 while the others ran along the embankment. In the foreground on the left, the wild noise increased, individual long-drawn-out screams sounded. I saw the flash of shots. There was a path that led across the railway, there was the gatekeeper's cottage. We ran towards it. The bullets whistled around our ears. As we tumbled tumbling into the small yard, we received a sharp shout. A small group of Bavarians lay here, firing from behind a pile of railroad ties. There was also a light machine gun. Three wounded men were lying against the wall of the house, one of them called me, told me confusedly and hesitantly about the attack and heavy losses. One came darting around the corner and yelled, panting, that we should advance further along the railway embankment, there should be about 300 I saw the flash of shots. There was a path that led across the railway, there was the gatekeeper's cottage. We ran towards it. The bullets whistled around our ears. As we tumbled tumbling into the small yard, we received a sharp shout. A small group of Bavarians lay here, firing from behind a pile of railroad ties. There was also a light machine gun. Three wounded men were lying against the wall of the house, one of them called me, told me confusedly and hesitantly about the attack and heavy losses. One came darting around the corner and yelled, panting, that we should

advance further along the railway embankment, there should be about 300 I saw the flash of shots. There was a path that led across the railway, there wa

There was another house meters away, we were supposed to occupy it and grab the Latvians in the flank so that the battalion on the street could get some breathing room.

I started running right away, my Bayern group following after a quick communication. The track soon made a gentle left turn; I knew that she would cross the road a little further ahead, where the nocturnal fighting was loudest. I stood still for a while, undecided, while shots rang out in the forest. Then someone saw a light halfway to the right in front. That must be the house; we crept towards it, across a clearing, through a sparse row of trees, across an open field. A ring of glowing blue dots showed roughly where the enemy was to be found. The edge of the forest was probably partly occupied by our people. We crept towards the dark mass, out of which a reddish lighted window looked out into the night, deserted and forlorn. At the wayside we darted apart to a short skirmish line and then ran, bumped into a courtyard wall, found a gate; I banged my heels against the wood. In a breathless pause lasting a few seconds we heard hurrying footsteps going away, a weak voice called. We yelled, "Open up!" but nothing stirred except the voice moaning "Help." Then someone threw himself against the gate, someone cut down an unwieldy lock with a spade until the wood splintered. With guns drawn, we forced our way into the yard.

On a dung heap, hit by the faint light from the window, lay a soldier with his coat open and soaked in blood. He babbled with a groan and waved his hand weakly. The whole house seemed

to be filled with dull, trembling sounds. I suddenly became dead tired and knew with icy clarity that something terrible must have happened at this place. I felt very strongly the paralyzing and deafening haze that, at the beginning of the day, had seemed to me to be the breath of this landscape and this war. But now it was mixed with a sweet putrid smell of blood. I leaned on my rifle and felt as if I couldn't wake up to any more movement. I heard the roar of one Bavarian, who suddenly ran past me with a whistling voice towards the front door. "Pigs," he gasped, "pigs, those pigs," and threw himself against the door, which gave way immediately. His screams—a wild, drawn-out gurgle from an almost violently constricted throat—sounded from the house, banging and shoving as if he were staggering about. And then another scream, which spiraled up excitingly from the muffled depths to the highest treble and set the dark heap in front of the door in confused motion. I felt a vein burst in my temple, my blood suddenly boiled. We stormed in the door, a disgusting fume of gas hit us and wrapped our lungs like in a damp rag. It was as if a fist thrust into my wide open mouth wrenched my stomach to my throat. There was a body in the hallway, and I tripped over a pair of boots and dropped my knees onto it. Then the outstretched hand groped in a tangle of damp, sticky, slippery intestines. I drove back in horror. But the surge of blood that now wet my hand beat

like a wave over me and wiped away all inhibitions. I raced toward a sudden gleam of light. There they lay—yes, there I saw what I knew, there they lay, on stinking, blood-spattered straw, with dismembered skulls, from which glassy, rolled eyes stared, with tattered, blackish-red clothes, with slashed bellies, twisted, twisted limbs—here lay a head alone, from whose single, disk-shaped wound a black trickle created a gorged, spongy mass; there gray brain, criss-crossed by fine little red veins, stuck in thick splashes to the walls. The blood dripped from the open gullet into the throat, and that gave a snoring sound to the silence, to the deadly silence in which we stood frozen. We stood and watched, staring at the corpses with hard, fascinated eyes,

All this, this and infinitely more, concentrated in a single image, forced itself into a second, hammered into my brain in one fell swoop for all eternity. And now we all screamed. I saw through red veils how one grabbed a blacksmith's sledgehammer that was lying bloodied in the corner, rushed at the door, screaming, we turned out, we squeezed ourselves into the door, shied away into the yard. Outside, the battle was still raging in the night. But we didn't bother about it, we didn't post any posts, we didn't take cover, we forgot assignments and orders,

we ran through the yard, digging into every corner, smashing through every room of the house, sweeping through the stable and barn, ready to murder anything we could get our hands on alive, to smash anything in sight. Then they dragged a fellow out from under the junk of the wagon, a long, old, whimpering Panje, and before he could stand unsteadily on both feet, the sledgehammer smashed into his head so that he collapsed like a rag. Then the cow fell in the stable after a pointless shot, then a butt hit the little, shaggy dog and crushed him to a bloody pulp — pictures rattled from the walls, a mirror fell, the pots clattered on the stone, the doors of the Chests of drawers burst, causing stuff and junk to spill out. The chairs splintered as did the table. Only when the noise of the night-time battle rang louder again amidst the clanging of the destruction, only when the red frenzy had subsided in the rain of fluff in the yard, did we occupy the wall, feverish, hoarse, with beating pulses, and hunted senselessly, only for our wild ones To release the tension, shot after shot into the night, to where the rattling wouldn't stop, where the enemy had to be. It was not until the morning hours that I returned to the graveyard position with the remains of the Berthold battalion that had been shot down. I had stopped looking for my rubber cape. I lay down on a grave and slept until the noise of the counterattack woke me up.

final fight About 500 meters from the cemetery, a long, narrow lake stretched parallel to the position, close to the road where the burned-out armored car was parked. About 3000 meters away there were a few farmsteads to the right and left of the road. That's where the Latvian had to be. To the right of the road to the railway embankment, a strip of forest stretched as far as the farmsteads. The area to the left of the road was covered with bushes like a torn carpet.

Lieutenant Kay was given the task of occupying the narrow valley between the lake and the armored car with a group of Hamburgers and two rifles. We were on our way. The dense bushes made it very difficult for us to carry the heavy guns, and we made slow progress. That's why I thought, against express orders, to climb onto the street and march on from there. So I waved to the waiter and turned right. At the Chausseegraben I turned around, ready to help the rifle bearers; there stood marksman three, Gohlke, with his mouth wide open and staring ahead along the ditch. I jerked my head around and a lump of ice ran slowly from my head to my soles; because 30 meters in front of us the bushes were alive and in the ditch the Latvians were advancing in an unforeseeable line. I screamed

Gohlke threw down the gun, in the blink of an eye the belt was in the feeder and I was just able to jump aside in front of the muzzle when Gohlke started rattling on. And in front, Kay threw a hand grenade, and in an instant there was a crackling flash on both sides. We were caught in the middle of the counterattack. The seconds that followed revealed, despite indescribable confusion, that the Latvians had already advanced beyond the point we were supposed to occupy and were now lying tightly packed in the bush of the narrow hollow. It whipped through the bushes with a disgusting and unnerving sound, small branches and leaves darted around our ears, and the sand splashed to the right, left and everywhere. Gohlke went through one strap after the other; fortunately we had taken plenty of ammunition with us. Now the hill behind came alive too. We heard a line of the dark mines being fired, and our battery laid down a lay exactly 30 yards in front of us. Now the graveyard's machine guns rattled too, but they didn't fire enough, and we were now happily caught in two fires. I screamed and waved backwards like crazy, but now it got even better. Apparently the cemetery crew thought the waving man was Latvian; it crackled around us; from our waving the Latvians recognized exactly where we were lying, and now the air seemed to have been cut into little snippets, which rained down on us incessantly. From behind came suppression and destruction fire from all barrels and barrels. We saw them in the bush

heavy bales of impacts lined up closely together. We heard shrieks mixed with the crash. We felt fluttering movement coming up in front. But the Latvian did not go back; he pushed forward. Finally they saw where we were lying in the cemetery and set the fire to the front. I didn't bring a gun. Nothing is more grueling than being inactive in such a situation. Rifleman Murawski was lying next to me, but he didn't shoot, the fellow; he had his rifle lying next to me, his head pressed into the ground, and didn't fire. I punched him, he looked up. "What don't you shoot?" I yelled at him. He yelled back, pale—I had trouble hearing him—: "I must have eaten something harmful!" and looked at me reproachfully. I had to laugh and calmed down a little while laughing and demanded his rifle and ammunition. I shot now, relaxed, and when I looked at Murawski in a few minutes, he was dead. Gradually the enemy's fire seemed to become uncertain. It was high time, because our ammunition was running out. Kay, who was lying in the bush a few yards ahead close to the lake—I could just see a bit of his light-colored coat—suddenly got up and lunged forward, brandishing a hand grenade. A few of the Hamburgers followed him.

I heard the detonations in the fading mortar and artillery fire. We left the rifle in the ditch and ran after Lieutenant Kay. Reinforcements came from behind. We threw up flares and the impacts traveled ahead of us. After a few steps we came across the first

Kill. And after a few more steps it was difficult to hurry without stepping on bodies that were still warm. In the narrow line from the lake to the armored car I counted over twenty dead Latvians alone. Wounded groaned everywhere. On the northern edge of the dip we received machine-gun fire and the Kay group retreated, leaving the reinforcements to follow up. We had four dead. Kay's coat had seven bullet holes. The Schmitz rifle was demolished, Schmitz himself had scalded his hand in the hot, bubbling water from his own rifle. Of the hamburgers only one was completely unwounded. The dead and captured Latvians were all in new clothes, had English rifles and English harness. Among the prisoners was one officer, a former Latvian schoolteacher. He was wounded and in nervous shock. When asked, he wanted to provide information, but a Latvian soldier with a bleeding arm stump yelled at him menacingly, and he fell silent. The Latvian counterattack collapsed completely. Wii roamed the grounds all afternoon without firing a shot. We didn't understand why we shouldn't push into Riga immediately. But fierce fighting was still going on in the south-east and we heard bubbling gunfire. Word came from the north. There the Russians had advanced on the coast to the Düna after countless small skirmishes in the tangle of dunes. At Bolderaa they saw the English fleet in Riga Bay with their broadsides raised menacingly

and they saw four Latvian steamers hurrying back and forth across the Duna to cross the defeated Latvian detachments. The Russians immediately fired on these steamers. Then the Union Jack fell from the masts of the ships and the Latvian flag was raised. Then the Russians were covered with steel, fire and sand by the salvos of the English naval guns England protected her loyal servant. In the following night, the German Legion stormed the Rigasche suburb of Thorensberg from the south and blocked the bridges. Beyond Baldon, our battalion was to clear and hold the whole width of the Düna arc near Üxküll.

The Below-Höhe is the last crest of the Baldoner ridge that rises quite abruptly, named after General v. Below, who in 1917, not far from the hill, forced the crossing of the Daugava to attack Riga. On the slopes of the heights lies a series of war cemeteries, amid firs and birches. The road to Bad Baidon meanders around the wooded knoll, in a ravine flanked by rather high-lying farmsteads. These farmsteads and the slopes of the hill were occupied by a Latvian battalion when Liebermann's detachment, coming from Baidon, marched up the road about three o'clock in the morning to occupy the bend of the Dvina. The night was very dark, but windless and full of pleasant air. It was a night that makes you want to hum a song to yourself. The hamburgers at the

Marching at the head of the procession did the same. They sang, not loudly, but with subdued intensity, as if to hide the amazement that soldiers often feel when they suddenly find themselves in places without really understanding how they got there. As the first groups stepped onto the bridge over a poor stream, the soldiers amused themselves with the hollow, rhythmic thud of the planks, and they stepped out vigorously to the beat of the song of the Courland Girl. Then they marched calmly into the ravine. They did see the shadows of buildings up on the near slope, but the land lay in silent comfort. I walked beside Lieutenant Wuth, who was sitting on his horse and talking to me in a low voice. In front of us the carriage of the mortar platoon creaked, behind which Sergeant Schmitz swayed asleep next to a mortar who was tied to the carriage with a rope. And then all hell broke loose. The first thing I saw was Lieutenant Wuth falling off his horse and into the ditch. The horse threw himself about and then lay down. I jumped into the ditch to Wuth and asked if he was wounded. But he sat upright on the bank and carefully swapped his forage cap for the velvet beret, saying he supposed there was going to be a fight. The second thing I saw was Sergeant Schmitz ripping the bayonet out of its scabbard and with a single mighty blow severing the rope that tied the launcher to the car. Then he threw a mine box

off the car, and I rushed over and yanked it open and grabbed a mine, which he released and immediately blew up somewhere. The third thing I saw was the column scrambling in complete panic. Lieutenant Wuth ran down the street cursing and lashing out with his riding crop, but to the front and yelled, 'Lay down! Shoot!" When the first mine cracked, there was total silence for a moment, and I had the feeling that everyone was thinking— what? our mortar is firing, so it can't be that bad. But Schmitz fired shot after shot, and then the Hoffmann rifle fired, and then the Hamburgers lay in the ditch, behind the wagons and dead horses, shooting, and the noise of our fire immediately stifled the panic. My rifle lay well packed in a wagon, but I could only grab a hand grenade box that was on top, so I stuffed my belt tightly with hand grenades. And then I looked around to see where I might be able to use those things. It flashed most frequently from the steep slope in front of the houses. We were wedged between two firing semicircles and we got haze from all sides except from the front, that is, except from where the road continued. Turning back was quite impossible, for the bridge must be under furious fire, judging by the screams that came from there. Schmitz systematically scattered the houses and the slopes with his thrower—the other two throwers had meanwhile also started to work. I stuck Sergeant Ebelt, who was crouching behind a car with some hamburgers, and

shot a couple of hand grenades in silence, and he and his group immediately followed me as I ran down the street to the front. We soon met Wuth and Kay, both of whom were working on one of the Hamburg-based LMGs. Wuth looked up in surprise as we ran past him and shouted, "We're going to make war for ourselves now!" It was day very slowly. We walked a little along the road, then climbed up the bluff and immediately saw the Latvians' firing line, on the left wing of which we were standing. No one suspected us and saw us coming. And now we rolled up the line with hand grenades.

I couldn't see much, I couldn't hear much either, all I knew was that my body was hunching backwards and then jerking forward again and then an explosive charge erupted from my fist and the force of the throw jerked me forward a few steps, straight as much as is needed to make the next throw. That happened automatically, exactly according to the instructions, that was often practiced. I felt the elasticity of my body with a strange rapture, and when something banged painfully against my shin, I had no doubt that I could not be hurt or killed. When one of the houses went up in flames and lit up the twilight brightly, the last of the Latvians disappeared into the woods. The companies that had swarmed out had scarcely returned when we were again heavily fired at. The fire came from a wooded area behind the hill.

I was standing behind the field kitchen with Ebelt and cutting through the shot through and bleeding gaiter on the right leg to check on the wound when this second fire attack happened. Ebelt suddenly said: "I've lost one!", looked at me in bewilderment, turned around, dropped his rifle, slowly fell to his knees, supported himself with his hands again and looked sadly at the ground. Then he lay down.

The Hamburgers went first, the fire stopped immediately, and only three dead Latvians were found in the forest. When I returned, the battalion doctor was kneeling by Ebelt and diagnosed a shot in the heart. I said that was impossible and told what I had seen. But the doctor shrugged and said I was delirious and examined my shin wound. It was just hand grenade shrapnel, I probably ran into my own litter. The Hamburgers had four dead, they were buried in the war cemeteries of the year 17. A new series of graves began with Ebelt. In the following weeks we had to start a new row of graves three more times. We cleaned the Duna bend. We had to take homestead by homestead and search bush by bush over the whole wide expanse of land. And when we got as far as the river, we had to go back and storm the servants who had stormed a few days before. Because the battalion had to hold a 12-kilometer sector of the front, and the Latvians could get through everywhere. We lay in

shelled houses and derelict barns, we patrolled day after day, we stood guard night after night. We lost the sparse connection to the right and left. We had no rear communications, we received neither provisions nor pay nor ammunition, and our messenger riders had to be escorted by strong patrols to Baidon. We've been attacked seventeen times in four weeks. We stood by the Dvina and saw the smoke of the trains rolling incessantly from Friedrichstadt to Riga and back, full of troops, on the opposite bank. We saw the enemy rear fill with troops, we saw the quarters of the Latvians and the battery positions and we could count them and we knew there were five times as many over there as there are here. We went back and forth with our mortars and threw a few shots here and a few there and sent flares flying in droves and rattled our guns and mimed mighty power. But for every shot we fired, the Latvian sent twenty, and he also sent patrols of equal company strength; he put them across at night and we had to throw them back in the morning. We were armed to the teeth and armed to the heart, one machine gun for every three men and one mortar for every twenty men. But that's why the whole battalion was only 160 strong. And the cooks and the clerks and the drivers and the paramedics and the staff gentlemen, they were all at the front and were on guard duty and went on patrol. But that's why she stayed

Combat strength only one hundred and sixty men. We were hung with carbines and pistols and hand grenades and flare guns. But very few of us had a coat for that, and if we had one, it used to belong to a Latvian. We attacked the enemy where we met them, no matter how hard they came across the Daugava. But the piece of land we were defending soon had no more chickens for us, not to mention other meat, and nothing came up from behind. The first days of November brought with it a biting cold and flurries of snow. We wrapped old rags around our bodies and wrapped our legs and necks in tattered scarves and got more lice than we ever had. We trudged through snow-blown hollows and crawled through white, deep, silent forests. We swept along the Duna and we hid in crumbling burrows. We had nothing to cook; the sparse, frozen potatoes were only edible when roasted. Our wounded caught the fire and died. We did have a doctor, but he was involved in the battle and we had neither bandages nor medication. Over there they had everything. At night we lay in a hedgehog position around some farmstead. Each company in a separate position and the companies three kilometers apart. If one company was attacked, half of the others came to their aid, but usually two companies were attacked, often all three. We didn't have a single night's rest. The horses became emaciated, for where should we get fodder from; the

Kitchen horses died first, heavy Belgian horses, then the horses of the baggage wagons. Only the Panjegäule remained cheerful. The Latvian peasants starved and froze like us, but most of the homesteads were uninhabited.

We would have killed anyone for treason who asked us to return to Germany in accordance with the Reich Government's orders. Towards the middle of November, the Duna began to freeze over. Only the Latvians crossed the river unhindered. Now we heard scant but bad news. At Bolderaa the Latvians crossed under the protection of the English ship's guns and threw back the Russians. The German Legion was attacked near Friedrichstadt, fought hard for days and then gave way step by step. A Latvian attack on Thorensberg from Riga failed without the subsequent ones being abandoned.

We held the Duna arc. We stood with numb limbs while the biting east wind chilled our bones. For our part we now made advances across the Dvina, attacked Latvian field guards and advanced to the railway line, which we blew up. The next day the trains ran over there again. The Latvian was with us the next day and took revenge and covered the pioneer company with all calibers. We crept like beaten dogs, wrapped up, torn to pieces, starving, frozen, lice infested, from field station to field station, we listened to the dull rumbling in the north and south, we saw the red over the sky at night, there, behind

that ridge, we stood on the bank and stared at Riga, the city, with burning eyes. The order came that we had to go back. The evening before, the Hamburgers had been surrounded and attacked, and the Latvian had suffered heavy losses. But in the morning the order came and we marched off to Eckau. What happened? we asked. Our officers couldn't tell us. The riders couldn't tell us. The Latvian prisoners who made the hamburgers last night told us so. The Latvians had broken through just north and just south of Thorensberg and surrounded the town, where the weak garrison was fighting for their lives on all sides. The Latvians had pushed the German line far back at Bolderaa, and were well advanced at Friedrichstadt. The Estonians had sent reinforcements to the Latvians. The Bolsheviks had promised a brief armistice. The Lithuanians had declared war on the Russian western government, that is to say on us, and unexpectedly attacked the weak railway protection of our only artery of retreat; and England's money rolled among the Latvians and Estonians and Lithuanians. Then came Rossbach. Our call reached him at the border guard on the Vistula. He renounced his obedience to the government and set off for the Baltic States with his Freikorps. A detachment of Reichswehr chasseurs confronted him on Noske's orders. But the hunters joined Roßbach. The Roßbacher marched through East Prussia, they came

to the border. They took the border guards by surprise and marched into Lithuania. Lithuanian detachments blocked their way; they cleared them away in swift skirmishes. They reached the railway and repaired it. They drove to Mitau and heard about the defeat in Thorensberg. They lined up from the train and rushed forward in a fast march. They picked up the retreating detachments and, after a mad march, came across the Latvian just before the town. And they developed from the marching column into a storm, and for the first time in the Baltics the horns sounded and cheered the infantry signal to advance. Rossbach stormed. Roßbach drove into the victory-drunk Latvians and raced into the city and threw fire into the houses and crashed into concentrated columns and broke them up and cut out the desperately fighting surrounded people and led them back. But Thorensberg was and remained lost.

The German government solicitously sent a general to bring the Baltics back to the maternal bosom of their homeland. Hand grenades flew under his saloon car. The Latvians followed us immediately. We had hardly left a forest when the snow-dusting branches of the trees moved behind us and our legs rattled. We cut to the right and to the left, we stopped at every corner, at every piece of forest, at every stream. At the Eckau we crept into blackened ruins and turned all guns on the Latvians who were pushing after us. And it snowed, snowed, snowed.

We made the last push. Yes, we rose again and rushed forward in full breadth. Once again we tore the last man out of cover and pushed into the forest. We ran across the snowfields and broke into the forest. We banged into surprised mobs and rampaged and shot and hit and hunted. How the Latvians drove like rabbits across the field and threw fire in every house and powdered every bridge to dust and snapped every telegraph pole. We dumped the bodies in the wells and threw hand grenades after them. We killed what we could get our hands on, we burned what was combustible. We saw red, we no longer had any human feelings in our hearts. Where we had lived, the ground groaned with destruction. Where we had stormed, there was rubble where houses used to be, Ash and smoldering beams, like purulent boils in the bare field. A huge plume of smoke marked our way. We had lit a pyre, more than dead material was burning, our hopes were burning, our longings were burning, the bourgeois plaques were burning, the laws and values of the civilized world were burning, everything we still knew of the vocabulary and belief in things was burning and ideas of the time that left us dragged with us like dusty junk. We retreated, boasting, intoxicated, laden with booty. The Latvian had not stood firm anywhere. But the next morning he was back. The Russians in the north were soft and gave way. In the south the German Legion, which had to cover a huge area

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had left gaps into which the Latvian felt his way. An enormous pincer threatened Mitau. The order came that we had to go back.

The wagons were no longer enough. The horses died. We had the choice of carrying our luggage or the mortar ammunition. We threw all the luggage in a heap, knapsacks and office stuff, equipment and loot. We lit the heap, put the mines on the wagons and drove off. The remains of the companies spread out along the Aa. I got a field guard at a homestead at a bend in the frozen creek. We were ten men, three panje wagons, two machine guns, one mortar. In front of us the forest, all around us open fields, to the north-west Mitau lay like a wide, blurred, faded ink stain on white blotting paper. During the night the field guard to our right was attacked. We radioed the attacker's flank and he had to retreat. In the early morning the Latvian was ahead of us in the forest. We slept huddled around a meager little fire, which laid soot and smoke on our dirty faces and brought tears to our red-rimmed eyes. The pattering against the thin walls of the house woke us up. We lay behind snow hills and fired. We chewed iced bread and shot. We received fire from three directions, from all calibers down to the 18 cm Russian slugs. We lost contact with the other field guards. We saw how things took off in Mitau, like a

light veil formed over the city, how the veil thickened into heavy smoke, how the smoke got a red nucleus, many red nuclei, how the nuclei merged into a single red sea. And we lay and shot all day. The first to fall was Gohlke. He lay behind his rifle and was shot in the head, ripping out his entire skull. Then a hamburger fell; a rattle tore his stomach. As evening fell, the third, a mortar, was badly wounded in the leg and bled to death, groaning for a long time, as no one could help him. We ran out of first-aid kits a long time ago, and everyone was needed at the gun. And Mitau burned. And the Latvian chased shot after shot towards us. But he no longer fired a shot at Mitau. Then we knew that Mitau had been taken from Latvia. We lay alone in the field and shot. It didn't get dark, for the Mitau torch colored the now churned snow with a rosy glow. The mortar fired steadily. About twelve mines were still lying in the shelter of the bank of the Aa, where the horse-drawn wagons were parked. Then Lieutenant Kay came rushing up on his horse. He fell into the yard while the roof of the house burst into flames and the wall crumbled. He yelled at us: «Back at once! Mitau is occupied by the Latvians! We can still break through at the station and reach the road to Schaulen. The battalion is long gone

moved away!» — the messenger who was supposed to fetch us hadn't arrived.

We didn't go until the last mine was down. We dragged the launcher onto the ice of the river, and while the guns and ammunition boxes were thrown onto the wagons, the launcher fired in all directions. I made sure not a button was left unturned. We loaded the dead onto a wagon. The wounded, four in number, sat down beside them. We pushed the gliding horses and sliding carts laboriously across the ice, almost lifting them to the far bank. We were five intact fighters with Kay. The missiles whipped the ice with a sickening whistle. As the last mine smashed triumphantly into the edge of the forest, I stuck a hand grenade down the barrel and fired. Then I ran. The launcher burst with a howling bang. We took the wagon with the wounded in the middle. A machine gun lay ready to fire on the linkage at the front and rear. So we broke away from the enemy. The hissing of the projectiles followed us until shortly before Mitau. Then we bumped into town in silence. The first houses were soon reached. Nobody was on the street; we rattled eerily across the pavement. The hollow noise from downtown caught the narrow line and bounced off every corner. Suddenly the front car pulled away. Individual Latvians came out of a side street, their shadows twitching in the flickering light of burning houses. We sped past them in the Karracho. They scattered in surprise and peppered us shimmering

shots after. And there was the train station, and that's where the road goes. Kay on his horse raised his arm as if commanding a battery to trot, we whipped the horses and looked neither to the right nor to the left. But there were Latvians at the station, screaming and hooting and probably drunk. We race past.

Just before we reached the highway, I fell off the car. I pulled myself up with difficulty and desperately ran after the others. The street was empty. The darkness swallowed us. I was probably the last German soldier to leave Mitau.

threat The same peculiarly clear and cheerful lightness of feeling that suddenly lifts the consciousness of weakness and tiredness of the limbs in the fighter after severe blood loss through the great enjoyment of an impersonal view of the environment, as it were, left us immediately after crossing the border in Germany as if through smooth see glass. The strangeness of this earth and these people immediately dampened the reality of our decisions, just as the tangled branches of events we had just experienced pushed them into a shadowy background. So we pushed into an empty space with our determined desire for revenge and lost the hot breath of our blind lusts in

the thin and cool air of the realm before we even saw the enemy we were looking for and had to hit. Whenever we, ragged and lost, felt proud and confident on our return march through the vast snowfields of Lithuania, it was because we were aware that in this small and hardened community the fate of the front army of 1918 was repeating itself. However, according to our will, the sudden shattering of the concentrated force should not be repeated in the face of the multitude of confusing phenomena.

We expected to see the empire in ferment, to feel the trembling in cities, the growing urgency, the certainty of an imminent transformation. But the kingdom seemed calm, a thin skin had grown over the wound. On the quiet Elbe dykes of the Land of Kehdingen, where the zealous order of the Reich government directed us, our expectations trickled away like the water in the sluggish marching ditches. The peasants walked across the fields in heavy boots, the cattle stood wide in the stalls, we crouched in the bare rooms of our quarters and helped with the work and submitted to this warm equanimity of unshakable work. In the evening I often stood on the dike and looked down the river. The girl told me that before the war the lights of the steamers would have twinkled like a shimmering chain across the water, but now the wide expanse was empty, the harbor was dead, the river a broad, monotonous, shimmering blackness. 'They had,' said the girl, 'have to hand over all the ships! We all stood on the dike when

they drove down the Elbe for the last time, and that's when we really believed that we had lost the war." We talked much on the windswept dike; in his grandiose loneliness he was like a bridge that could lead to the new reality, we talked about this and that, but the whispered secrets always ended with war and revolution, and finally she shook herself and said: "Oh, me cold, come on, we have to go home." And I was angry that I had been talking to the girl about these things all the time, but it was like that this time and almost every time. Because we couldn't get rid of what had grabbed us. We couldn't get away from it in the stuffy grog bars, not in the dance halls that filled up Saturday after Saturday with girls and boys and soldiers, not in the stately streets and bars of Stade, not in the quiet courtyards of the march. Something drove us about, and it wasn't uncertainty about what was going to happen to us, it wasn't the senselessness of our actions; we didn't know what it was. We caroused through the night, and when we weren't carousing we were in the girls' chambers, and when we weren't there we were gambling away our money. We waited and we didn't really know what for. We kept our guns and didn't know when we would need them again. We lived a remote life, we met walls everywhere, we didn't belong anywhere, we were strangers in the kingdom. We felt that justification was being demanded of us, but

there was nobody to ask us where we were responsible, and so we closed ourselves off and lived in silence, with all the burden of the unresolved, knowing that we had given ourselves to fate as a stone, but the stone had been rejected. There was talk that we should be used in riots. But we didn't want to fight for peace and order anymore. And near Bromberg, on the journey from Memel to Stade, we jumped off the train when we found out that this city was to become Polish, and we wanted to defend Bromberg or the border, but we weren't allowed and we shouldn't, and we knew we were distrusted, and rightly so. One day a Reichswehr commission came, gentlemen who looked around in astonishment when no honors were shown to them, and we laughed when these gentlemen demanded orders from the government that we should surrender all weapons and all equipment and the wagons and horses. So we went into the stables at night and fetched the horses - because they were our horses, we had captured them all with enough difficulty, there wasn't one that the government gave us—and the horses disappeared and the carriages too and were never seen again. The next day the spit paid each man a few hundred marks—from a patron, as he put it. But the weapons had also suddenly disappeared, only this time we knew where they were. And when the Reichswehr commission came, they couldn't take anything with them except a sack full of horseshoe nails.

When the Hamburgers went to the Baltic, they were a battalion of six hundred men. When they marched into Kehdingen, the company consisted of one lieutenant and twenty-four men. Of the twenty-four men, however, there were still three who went from Weimar to the Baltic States at the time, Schmitz, Hoffmann and myself. And Lieutenant Kay was still there; but one day, in February 1920, he asked the three of us to go to Stade, and when we met there in a wine bar he told us that he now had to leave us. The townsfolk of Stade drank their sundowner and often looked disapprovingly at our table. Because we drank a lot and Lieutenant Kay had a shrill voice by nature. "We stand leaning against the tide of time," he said, "and we are the bloodthirsty military camarilla, who sucks honey from the marrow of the people's bones and then rubs this honey around the mouths of the people." And diligently spooned into his grog. «Following generations will ask us, what have you done? And then we will answer, we have touched blood. For the soul is the vapor of blood, and the blood boiled and the vapor rose, and we stirred. Then later generations will say: you did well, one up. But those citizens who are sitting there so fat and comfortable — cheers! — they will also be asked, and they will answer: we thickened the blood into a nice, wholesome black sour soup, and we liked it once. And later generations will say: Five, sit down! And again, on the Day of Judgment,' and he drank and refilled himself and ' And diligently spooned into his grog. «Following generations will ask us, what have you done? And then we will answer, we have touched blood. For the soul is the vapor of blood, and the blood boiled and the vapor rose, and we stirred. Then later generations will say: you did well, one up. But those citizens who are sitting there so fat and comfortable — cheers! — they will also be asked, and they will answer: we thickened the blood into a nice, wholesome black sour soup, and we liked it once. And later generations will say: Five, sit down! And again, on the Day of Judgment,' and he drank and refilled himself and ' And diligently spooned into his grog. «Following generations will ask us, what have you done? And then we will answer, we have touched blood. For the soul is the vapor of blood, and the blood boiled and the vapor rose, and we stirred. Then later generations will say: you did well, one up. But those citizens who are sitting there so fat and comfortable — cheers! — they will also be asked, and they will answer: we thickened the blood into a nice, wholesome black sour soup, and we liked it once. And later generations will say: Five, sit down! And again, on the Day of Judgment,' and he drank and refilled himself and For the soul is the vapor of blood, and the blood boiled and the vapor rose, and we stirred. Then later generations will say: you did well, one up. But those citizens who are sitting there so fat and comfortable — cheers! — they will also be asked, and they will answer: we thickened the blood into a nice, wholesome black sour soup, and we liked it once. And later generations will say: Five, sit down! And again, on the Day of Judgment,' and he drank and refilled himself and For the soul is the vapor of blood, and the blood boiled and the vapor rose, and we stirred. Then later generations will say: you did well, one up. But those citizens who are sitting there so fat and comfortable — cheers! — they will also be asked, and they will answer: we thickened the blood into a nice, wholesome black sour soup, and we liked it once. And later generations will say: Five, sit down! And again, on the Day of Judgment,' and he drank and refilled himself and and they will answer: we have thickened the blood into a nice,

wholesome black sour soup, and we actually liked it. And later generations will say: Five, sit down! And again, on the Day of Judgment,' and he drank and r

carefully crushed the sugar in the glass, "we'll collect our widely scattered bones and show them to roll-call, and then it will be called — turn right! But those dusty folders — cheers, Herr Magistrate, to your special — will dutifully bow and say: Pardon me, sir, we can't collect our bones because we never had any. And it will say: To the left, you goats, where you belong. And I tell you, it will be a clean divorce." And we drank and talked wisely, and the citizens now looked at us angrily and were very respectable. But Lieutenant Kay got the weeping misery and asked us whether he really had to go and whether he had to become a pervert of the law, and whether everything was really over now? I told him it wasn't over and stuck to it, but Lieutenant Kay didn't want to believe it and said it was all over and he was going to study and take his exams and everything was a big deal. And then he smashed some glasses and said vandalism, and then he smacked the outraged pharmacist on the chin and said assault, and then he went after the city cop the innkeeper had called and said defiance of state authority. We could only get him to move with difficulty, and he leaned far out of the window and waved for a long time. I never saw him again. He died a month later at Schöneberg town hall. His body was identified from the papers in the bag; for his head was trampled to a pulp. it was all over and he was now going to study and take exams, and everything was a big deal. And then he smashed some glasses and said vandalism, and then he smacked the outraged pharmacist on the chin and said assault, and then he went after the city cop the innkeeper had called and said defiance of state authority. We could only get him to move with difficulty, and he leaned far out of the window and waved for a long time. I never saw him again. He died a month later at Schöneberg town hall. His body was identified from the papers in the bag; for his head was trampled to a pulp. it was all over and he was now going to study and take exams, and everything was a big deal. And then he smashed some glasses and said vandalism, and then he smacked the outraged pharmacist on the chin and said assault, and then he went after the city cop the innkeeper had called and said defiance of state authority. We could only get him to move with difficulty, and he leaned far out of the window and waved for a long time. I never saw him again. He died a month later at Schöneberg town hall. His body was identified from the papers in the bag; for his head was trampled to a pulp. and then he went up against the city policeman whom the innkeeper had called and said: resistance to state authority. We could only get him to move with difficulty, and he leaned far out of the window and waved for a long time. I never saw him again. He died a month later at Schöneberg town hall. His body was identified from the papers in the bag; for his head was trampled to a pulp. and then he went up against the city policeman whom the innkeeper had called and said: resistance to state authority. We could only get him to move with difficulty, and he leaned far out of the window and waved for a long time. I never saw him again. He died a month later at Schöneberg town hall. His body was identified from the papers in the bag; for his head was trampled to a pulp.

A few days later Schmitz left too. I accompanied him to the train station and he said to me: 'I can tell you. I'm going to the Ruhr area, to the Red Army. It should be in the process of being set up." And I nodded and he said, 'Let's stir up some blood there,' and we both laughed at Kay's memory, and then I said, 'Anyway, goodbye, and if it's on the barricades, we can now make up, if it shouldn't be otherwise, then we just want to punch each other in the face in view of old friendship." But Schmitz laughed and said: "No, if so, then so. It really depends on who shoots faster!" So Schmitz was over me, and all I could say was that I was damn good at shooting.

I couldn't believe that life between men and guns was now over. The hamburgers were still stuck together. Lieutenant. Wuth was often out and about, and at first we suspected that he had a girl in Hamburg that he always visited; but one day, at the beginning of March, he called us together, and we learned why he traveled about the country so often. And it brought with it a fresh wind, raging vortices that brushed our foreheads and made us breathe hastily. It was as if he were opening a slit through which a ray of sunshine suddenly reached and made the motes dance.

Something was brewing in the kingdom. There was an army that had to be dismissed, the articles of the

According to the peace treaty, there was another secret army that was beginning to form. Commissions were in the country snooping around surrounded by servant gentlemen in frock coats. There was hunger and strikes and a rumbling in the streets, there were smugglers with thick briefcases and swelling chins driving in painted cars, there were refugees from all the robbed areas looking for meager housing, and foreigners bought up entire districts. Beneath the razor-thin surface, formed by industrious citizens of every stature industriously and anxiously in toil and bustle, whirled a witch's dance of unemployment and stock exchange transactions, of hunger riots and festival balls, of mass demonstrations and government conferences—and there was nothing that could escape the frenzy , and much that went down in him. Paper rustled over the land. Appeals and ultimatums, decrees and prohibitions, proclamations and protests fell like snowflakes across the land, feigning energies where there was no energies, raising hopes that despair followed. American bacon consoled him about the coal trains to be delivered, and nude photographs about the bread cards. There was much talk of rebuilding, but the material was shabby and the ground shook, and there was much talk of tearing it down, but the crumbling scaffolding held up. about the bread cards nude photographs. There was much talk of rebuilding, but the material was shabby and the ground shook, and there was much talk of tearing it down, but the crumbling scaffolding held up. about the bread cards nude photographs. There was much talk of rebuilding, but the material was shabby and the ground shook, and there was much talk of tearing it down, but the crumbling scaffolding held up.

But the borders were fluid. Armies formed the frontiers, rifles and artillery, but they gave way here and advanced there, and the lands flickered in

Unrest, dangerous areas where any falling rock could unleash catastrophes, and it mattered who dropped the rock. The frontiers were still fluid, but where they began to draw them safely, the country screamed, and the new lines were like knife cuts that drew their bloody furrows, and entire provinces fell like limbs amputated by a drunkard. Small, scattered bands fought at the frontiers, stood under the smoke plumes of the coalfield, lost themselves in the swamps and heaths and forests of almost forgotten plains, choked through the throng of cities threatened with rebellion, behind them a desperate, helpless country ready to give up, in front of you the greedy superiority and in you only the insane will to resist. But when these troops noticed that they had no hinterland, no central power core, so they turned to Berlin. The Ehrhardt brigade came from Upper Silesia, the Freikorps Aulock and Schmidt lurked, the outlawed Baltic came from the east and the Lützow and Pfeffer from the Rhineland and the Ruhr area. And they demanded clarity from Berlin—but Berlin could not give any clarity—and they stood gloomily and resolutely, guns in hand. The Entente persisted in their appearance. The Allied cabinets sent ultimatums and threatened invasion. The remnants of the German army were to be crushed. And the Reich government gave in. No one can say whether she did it because, conscious of a responsibility that was admittedly too great for her, she saw and could see no other way than

that of yielding, or because the wind brought her the scent of a danger emanating from the irritated soldiers, or because, if ever she was determined, then at any rate to protect the achievements of the revolution, which she herself documented as not wanting, against darkly felt monarchist urges . Indeed, behind the approach of the menacing troops she might suspect a party conspiracy, a conspiracy of reaction, but this was not what made the soldiers march, this was no more than any debatable, organized political opinion and power at all it wasn't, it was simply desperation, and it has never been articulated. But the men who were in despair were used to leaping at anything dangerous, seeing attack as the best defense.

We were suddenly flooded with a resilient, gripping, leaping power. Very light and cheerful and sweet in the responsibility, that's how it seemed to us: Power! We experienced a level of determination in ourselves that made things seem easy to us. We hadn't learned to deal with problems. So we thought that action had to be taken, because then we were stronger than things, and so things were stronger than us. The decision struggled through eight thousand men, there were no more, but the eight thousand might be enough, for they were the only ones who were prepared to fight a decision through to the last consequences. All that mattered was that he

fought through, we thought, and it would probably be a nasty fight. And because we knew there was going to be an evil fight, we prepared everything for the fight, not for what came after it, for the decision, not for what makes that decision worthwhile and valid. We believed that we must have power, none other than ourselves, for Germany's sake. Because we felt Germany ourselves. We felt so much Germany that when we said idea we meant Germany, when we said fight, commitment, life, sacrifice, duty, we always meant Germany. We believed we had a right to do so. Those in Berlin, we thought, had no right. Because what they did in Berlin, we thought, they didn't necessarily do that, Germany was not their central value, as it was for us, since we said we are Germany. There was a constitution and a treaty with the West. That was what had removed from the core value those we were determined to march against. When they said Germany, we thought, they meant a constitution, and when they said a constitution, they meant a peace treaty. The absolute was what we missed in Berlin, and that's why power seemed so graceful and easy to us. Did they hear our threatening murmurs? Did they hear it over the reading and writing of their stale programs and proclamations and debates and notes and newspaper articles? No, we thought, they won't hear it, well, that's how they'll feel it.

Captain Berthold, commander of the Bavarian battalion, pilot with 55 shot down opponents and the Order Pour le Mérite, a man who only held his shot-up body together with hinges and bandages, was the motor that kept us moving these days. He certainly had his Bavarian separate hatred of Berlin, but of all the Baltic officers in Kehdingen he was certainly the least reactionary. Meanwhile the companies began to fray. The cities lured and the girls in the cities. The Hamburgers remained intact and so did the Bavarians, despite their unemployment. But everyone knew; people stopped their officers and asked urgently when it was going to start; the officers ambushed the couriers who rushed from Berlin to Stade, and the couriers reported on stupid and dry negotiations between General Lüttwitz and Noske, on haggling over demands and promises and on well-acquired rights and similar dusty smut, and they reported on that evil mixture of opinions, interests and claims that sparked in between. Things didn't look good and we feared it would end in compromise - but then we were ready to march anyway, without Lüttwitz and Kapp. And maybe even — against them. The sharp and haughty decree of dissolution came just in time. Now the burghers and peasants had no obligation to continue to keep us quarters; the peasants would have been willing, but by no means the burghers. We won't let ourselves be dissolved, we said and

took the weapons out of the hiding places and assailed Wuth and Berthold; but they were at a loss at the moment and were waiting feverishly for news from Berlin. In the towns, the soldiers stood around in dense groups, armed and still undecided. But slowly, without any orders, the squads began to move toward Stade. When we arrived in the small, surly town, on March 13, 1920, at 2 o'clock in the afternoon, extra sheets were fluttering around and posters were pasted on the walls.

Early in the morning the 2nd Marine Brigade, led by Lieutenant Commander Ehrhardt, marched into Berlin and occupied the government district. At the Brandenburg Gate the soldiers met the morning stroller Ludendorff. The imperial government and the Prussian fled. General Lüttwitz and General Landscape Director Kapp had formed the new government and had a poster circulated with the headline: "The lie of the monarchist putsch!" Suddenly Stade was filled with troops. Detachments marched everywhere; heavily laden, individual, broken-up groups marched through the streets, cars sped along, couriers rode to the villages, crowded crowds of citizens, soldiers, workers, and peasants gathered on street corners, in front of posters that had been plastered on, and in front of the newspaper building.

Hoffmann and I spelled out one of the announcements over the heads of excitedly waving people. "Words," said a worker, "Words!" and spat scornfully, slipped away

but when he saw us. Hoffmann read and then said, grinning sideways at me: "Words!" and I assured him that we had to give these words some meaning. And we walked on and wondered where all of a sudden the black, white and red ribbons on the buttonholes of the citizens came from and the many little Iron Cross ribbons; these people had just given us notice of quarters?

Wuth came rushing and gathered his company; Berthold, he hastily reported to us, would be coming the next morning with his battalion. The Hamburg Schupo had declared themselves neutral, like the Berlin ones—salaries would be doubled, then they would join in—he didn’t know how the Reichswehr was doing, but there was no doubt about it, and then: “Gentlemen, listen up, the loitering is coming to an end but up. Officers will be saluted from now on, understood!' and at school he had made lodgings for tonight. After an agitated sleepless night, Berthold came. He stated that he had made himself available to the new government. The Hamburgers placed themselves under his command. Berthold wanted to go directly to Berlin via Hamburg, not waiting for orders. But the rest of the weapons had to be brought in. I was given the task of assembling and taking over as many usable ones as I could manage from six demolished machine guns that were still lying around in the villages along the march. I'll start riding right away. In the early afternoon I came back with four repaired rifles and three thousand rounds

belted ammunition. The battalion stood in the market square, ready to march. But when we got to the station, everything was dead and empty. A stoker came out of one of the sheds, saw us, grinned, spat his quid onto the rails, said, "General strike," and disappeared. We occupied the station, Berthold looked for experts, found two people in his battalion who were formerly railroad workers, and sent them to the locomotive boiler house. The machine that was found first had to be heated up, then a wild shunting began with lots of whistling and shouting and lots of laughter as the striking railroad workers bent over the bridge. Berthold paced nervously up and down the platform. He was wearing the blue peace overcoat, had unhooked the rattling saber and was dragging it provocatively. We assembled the guns and waited. All in all we were about four hundred men. I'd gotten a stack of newspapers and sat across from Wuth in the waiting room, reading. Wuth didn't know who Kapp was, but there were other names, Jagow and Wangenheim and Pastor Traub. A bit too many old gentlemen and old names, I said to Wuth. Lüttwitz is also an old general. In the end, I said, in the Baltic States the oldest bishop was a young major. I'm betting, I said to Wuth, on Ehrhardt, on nobody else. I had hardly heard of Ehrhardt up until then, but he was said to be a young captain. "It doesn't matter if there are old names," said Wuth, "that's a thing for young people." And thought and

said: «We have to undo the revolution.» "We must continue the revolution!" I said and looked at Wuth and thought how five years of age difference already drives a gap. Then the train was ready; we climbed into it with a rumble, manned the compartment doors and the machine with machine guns, and then drove singing into the twilight of the evening.

Coup I shall never forget how the shadows of that sinking day took all the harshness out of our march. All the sweetness in the world came from the round and soft glow of the forest, bursting from the opening buds of the birch trees that trembled against the embankment. The ground held its breath, the dark songs hummed into it and hovered in the bushes for a long time while the train stamped by. And everything in the world was illusion, yes, even the darkness that was now falling velvet was a deceptive veil that separated us from the hard day that made many of us dream for the last time of the promises of happiness. That kept us silent, put an anxious dignity over us, a presentiment of the compelling power into whose open clutches we were marching.

The train stopped on the open track. The black walls of upturned houses stood to the right and left of the railway embankment in a threatening steepness. Lieutenant Wuth came hastily along the train and told us we couldn't go any further because the line was closed at Harburg station. Then the order shrilled: “Everyone get out.” We should only take the weapons with us, leave the luggage on the train. The plan was to spend the night in Harburg, and to continue the journey early the next day, or, if the train still couldn't go via Harburg, to walk across the Eibbrücke to Hamburg. We carefully lifted the guns out of the compartments, climbed cursing and stumbling over the sharp gravel and treacherous railway sleepers and came to a barrier that closed off a wide street. Here we started. The meager lanterns threw a green, sallow glow over the dark mass, over which the guns formed a tangled tangle of shadows. Suddenly a few spooky civilians stepped into the cone of light from the lanterns, startled and disappeared again into the darkness like shadows. The entire, dark facade of the street showed only a single square light. It was floating very high and quite unreal, almost detached from any relation to earth, over our heads. Captain Berthold came by, saberclacking, all alone, and let himself be swallowed up again by the darkness. The march began. This city was hostile. We still had the quiet areas of the march in view, the wide one

Mirror of the river, the tranquility of a carefully laid out landscape. Here, in a confined space, thing bumped into thing, masses of black stone rose up from the pavement in front of us, street canyons cut dangerous holes in the rigidity, a secret lurked around every corner. We didn't have the impression of marching past the dwellings of the living, we thought we saw ruins, huge heaps of rubble with bare, smoke-blackened, sightless walls, spewing suffocating cold, piled stones behind a splintering facade of glass, iron and plaster. There seemed to be a nasty smell coming from the cellars, not a single star pierced the cracked sky of these streets. We rattled through a haze of smoke, fog and danger,

In front of the first groups a thin, hoarse singing rose. But immediately he fell silent again, for a window rattled open, and then a shrill, deadly laugh ripped through our column, a laugh like a sneer, like a sharp, poisoned dart whizzing through the tortured air and shattering invisible metal walls. That was a woman laughing like that, no, that was the city itself or the demon of that city. This laughter had to be smothered, it was unbearable to hear it any longer. We had to yell, sing so that our necks hurt, and we sang, all at once, and I had my hand on the belt, my fist enclosing one

hand grenade, and I found myself wanting almost indomitably to hurl the charge of explosives wildly into the open window. But now they were singing in time, and we turned a corner, into a street with trees, a wider street with front gardens and low houses. Here people emerged from the darkness. From an inn people crowded to the stock, a murmur greeted us, questions rushed into our ranks. I walked next to Hoffmann, and a gentleman suddenly stepped in front of us, so that we almost got a fright, but the gentleman raised his hands and asked in a voice that trembled with age, alcohol, and joy. "Boys, are you fetching our Kaiser again?" — Now Hoffmann was really frightened and could only answer when we were already ten paces further. "N-no, not that, not that..." he murmured, looking around as if waking up. I laughed softly, between stifled curses, but I was almost sorry that we couldn't say: yes, we'll get the Emperor back, for then what we were doing would at least have had some meaning—did our march have no meaning? What thought did I catch myself thinking? It was this cursed city that led to it, this damned sparkling darkness that robbed us of our security. What yesterday seemed clear and compelling to us vanished here in the satanic air of this city, in this poisonous mixture of fear and hate and the shadow of approaching danger. repeat the emperor? No. This was about more than the quiet man in Doorn. I tried to bring the words of the Kapp program to life. But here, right here in this poisonous mixture of fear and hate and shadow of approaching danger. repeat the emperor? No. This was about more than the quiet man in Doorn. I tried to bring the words of the Kapp program to life. But here, right here in this poisonous mixture of fear and hate and shadow of approaching danger. repeat the emperor? No. This was about more than the quiet man in Doorn. I tried to bring the words of the Kapp program to life. But here, right here

I had to feel the span gape. Didn't the preaching begin with a defense? Surely that didn't testify to a belief that was sure of its power. That wasn't enough for this fight, that faded at the first rehearsal, even if it were just a hasty march into the jaws of a city ready to pounce. That was not what dictated our path, not the words of the program. The point, the point? The sense was in the risk! The march into the unknown made sense enough for us; for he answered the demands of our blood. We don't know, but how else will we ever know? The fact that we didn't know showed that what we did might be a crime, but never a reaction. As soon as the dice fell, I thought they should fall, and we still hold them in our hands, examining and shaking them. The singing stopped whispers in ranks everywhere. The doubt did not hit me alone, falling from the stars grabbed the why. At an empty spot the command came: Stop! What are those armed civilians looking for? With white armbands? vigilante? And the ones with the red armbands? workers' militia? How important they are! And Berthold negotiates with them? Oh, because of the quarters! Off to the Heimfeld middle school! Is that the big building over there? Children, how tired I am! Right pans march. —

We put the guns in a corner, stack the ammo around it; a joker from Bavaria quickly paints a few caricatures of Berthold on the school blackboard, then we bang on the hard, narrow school desks and I get annoyed with him

Falling asleep that we've just caught a first graders' classroom; you can hardly move in the benches. — In the morning Hoffmann stood in front of me with a pale, tired face and said: "I don't like that!" - "What then?" "Come with me," said Hoffmann and dragged me up the stairs, past open classrooms in which the waking soldiers were lounging. He stopped at a corner window of the school. "There, you see, there are machine guns in the yard! There on the right between the barns they've been lugging boxes past, apparently ammunition, for half an hour now; women, children, men! The streets are teeming with armed workers. But the most beautiful thing is still back there, in the open field, take a close look, what is that? Trenches, real trenches! We are, quite simply put, locked in." "That's strange! Does Berthold know? And fury?" — «Both know! It's been going on for half an hour now with deputations and commissions and negotiations! Workers' militia and civil militia and Reichswehr...» "What, the Reichswehr is here?" — «A pioneer battalion. The 9th Pioneers are here, that's it; the bastards locked up their officers this morning, opened the magazines and distributed the weapons to the workers!» — That was lovely. "Man, how do you know all this?" — «Yes, I've been up all morning, I don't know, I've got a queasy feeling in my bellows. It drove me around all the time. The city

is very excited." We looked carefully out the window. A broad line of people, unarmed, lined the thin chain of pearls of the guards; the armed men stood behind them and ducked into the street corners. "We have to see Berthold," I said. Soldiers stood around in the corridors and stared in amazement through the windows. "I don't know what's the matter with me," Hoffmann murmured, "I think there's going to be a mess, and I... I don't know—"

— «What's the matter, man, are you ill? Here, have a sip of water!" The mug on the chain of the pipe rattled, I turned the crane, it gurgled and sprayed a bit, the water didn't run. 'That's a nice present, holla, the boys turned off the water! Now quickly to Berthold.” We ran down the stairs. "It comes from that," I said grimly. "What then?" asked Hoffman. "That aviators want to lead an infantry battalion in street fighting! Heck, we're sitting in a mousetrap here, all pretty in one place. Instead of immediately occupying all public buildings and keeping a strong, mobile reserve at hand...' I opened the door and heard Berthold say to some delegates from the population: 'Yes, gentlemen, you demand a deduction; I've already told you that I have no intention of staying here in Harburg, we want to continue this morning. What are we supposed to do in Harburg in Deibel's name? The flag? The flag will be lowered as soon as we march off, not before. We'll be marching off soon, the people are already packing. If you

If we hadn't stopped, we might already be gone. Now please go and calm down the population so that no mishap happens. But go now, gentlemen!' "Pack things?" I asked Hoffmann. He pointed silently through the window. The square was black with people. The sentries stood tightly packed, where the main street led to the square the sentry line was already dented considerably. "Well, my dear," I said, "we're not going to pack things now, we're actually going to position the machine guns, that seems more important to me." Hoffmann nodded and we got to work in haste. We mounted a gun on each front of the house, one went in the attic. Down by the main entrance, the Bavarians had two light rifles and one heavy rifle, but they didn't set it up yet, keeping it hidden in a classroom. The main entrance with the large stairwell did not face the square but a wide side street. The Hamburgers were standing at the window on the first floor. I passed around the MG's water tank and we filled it up in a very natural way, amid bad jokes. We put the MG on the benches so we could have it ready to fire at any moment. Below, the chain of posts had receded even further. All the windows of the square were now open, individual heads showed themselves furtively; the streets leading to the square were crowded with people as far as we could see. The masses whirled excitedly, many women and children could be seen. We heard the incessant

murmurs swelling wide and deafening. It seemed to be mostly workers standing there armed. Hoffmann and I stared at the square. "They're stupid," I said, "what do they actually want from us?" "Yes," said Hoffmann and looked at me palely, "yes, the workers are stupid. We were stupid too when we fought for law and order. Now they're stupid." Behind us stood Wuth. He had his beret on. So there was still haze today. Hoffmann said quietly and urgently: "Now the hour has come for the workers! Lieutenant, if you want to seize power, you have to know why. We don't know, I don't think that Kapp and the gentlemen in Berlin know why. If the workers are clever now, then they will go with us, then we will create free space for them, and they will show us what one can and should have power for today. If they are clever, Herr Leutnant, as clever as we are daring, "They're not smart," said Wuth. And I said: "Maybe there are too many old men in our action!" — Screams and whistles rang out in the square. We leaned out the window. Captain Berthold, bareheaded, the black part of his head gleaming, walked across the narrow clearing, which the guards had been able to protect up to now. He walked toward the crowd, passed through the line of posts, made his way through the crowd, and stopped only in the midst of the crowd. He raised his hand. All was quiet in one fell swoop. He began to speak. We could

up here don't understand what he said. We saw the crowds close together. At the back they climbed stairs and thresholds. Squads with red bandages punched through the crowds. Berthold spoke loudly and echoingly. You had to hear him from afar. But what were the armed men pushing like that back there? What the hell was that supposed to mean when the guns suddenly flew off their shoulders?

Bayern and Hamburg carefully picked up the guns. Now the magical lines of guns crossed over the plaza filled with teeming heads. And Berthold spoke and spoke. A wave of dull hatred rose up to us from the crowd, the hatred of two races, the blind disgust of one another, the painful disgust at each other's smells. We stared narrowly at the crowd, not at the armed opponents, who were far more dangerous. Gradually a hazy yellow dust settled over the sea of heads below. I felt a strange kind of pity for Berthold, who stood there in the midst of this sightless crowd, addressing them. The dust rose and seemed to widen the flickering lines of aimed, aim-seeking rifles, seemed to tug at them, tear at them, And then the shot fell that we had all been waiting for. A very faint bang, nothing more, but the bullet went through each of us, a handful of compressed air burst against the walls, it set off the whirling scream. All guns flew to the cheek, and then fire spurted out from every angle.

Hoffmann ran out of the room to his rifle. I dumped the gun on the windowsill and fired. I resisted the insane temptation to crash into the fleeing, screaming crowd, the deafening noise, the cracking splintering, the trembling of the walls clawed me to stony stillness. At the corner of the main street, into which the terrified masses were rolling, a group of red bands crouched, rifles drawn, waiting for the crowd to disperse. I knocked them down with the first stroke of my rattling run. The men, precisely hit, lay in a row in front of the threshold of a house, with fire lashing out at us from the open windows. I grit window after window, saw the panes splinter, saw the puffing clouds rising in the mortar and lime on the walls. The square was emptied of the living in a few frantic seconds. As the new belt rolled out of the box, I leaned forward, saw dark, pitiful little heaps as if sown on the square, men, women, children, the crackling air belied the tormented movement of the stretched out bodies, the bullets went through them. An insane pressure rose from my stomach to my throat, I screamed something hoarsely, I was pulled onto the bench, sticking half my body out of the window, I looked for a new destination. On the sharp left in a gloomy courtyard, behind blackened walls, men hurrying in confusion aimed a machine gun at us. My gun flew around, hanging askew, floating out the window; I braced my knee on the board, braced myself with raging nerves in the swaying sled, and fired. Da twitched As the new belt rolled out of the box, I leaned forward, saw dark, pitiful little heaps as if sown on the square, men, women, children, the crackling air belied the tormented movement of the stretched out bodies, the bullets went through them. An insane pressure rose from my stomach to my throat, I screamed something hoarsely, I was pulled onto the bench, sticking half my body out of the window, I looked for a new destination. On the sharp left in a gloomy courtyard, behind blackened walls, men hurrying in confusion aimed a machine gun at us. My gun flew around, hanging askew, floating out the window; I braced my knee on the board, braced myself with raging nerves in the swaying sled, and fired. Da twitched As the new belt rolled out of the box, I leaned forward, saw dark, pitiful little heaps as if sown on the square, men, women, children, the crackling air belied the tormented movement of the stretched out bodies, the bullets went through them. An insane pressure rose from my stomach to my throat, I screamed something hoarsely, I was pulled onto the bench, sticking half my body out of the window, I looked for a new destination. On the sharp left in a gloomy courtyard, behind blackened walls, men hurrying in confusion aimed a machine gun at us. My gun flew around, hanging askew, floating out the window; I braced my knee on the board, braced myself with raging nerves in the swaying sled, and fired. Da twitched pitiful heaps as if sown on the square, men, women, children, the crackling air deceived the tormented movement of the stretched out bodies, the bullets went through them. An insane pressure rose from my stomach to my throat, I screamed something hoarsely, I was pulled onto the bench, sticking half my body out of the window, I looked for a new destination. On the sharp left in a gloomy courtyard, behind blackened walls, men hurrying in confusion aimed a machine gun at us. My gun flew around, hanging askew, floating out the window; I braced my knee on the board, braced myself with raging nerves in the swaying sled, and fired. Da twitched pitiful heaps as if sown on the square, men, women, children, the crackling air deceived the tormented

movement of the stretched out bodies, the bullets went through them. An insane pressure rose from my stomach to my throat, I screamed something ho

the rifle suddenly reared up so that I almost fell out of the window, scorching hot water splashed in my eyes and face. A ripping blow threw me backwards, I fell into the classroom, hauling the gun at me, and crashed between the benches. My right arm groped for a hold, clutching in blood and dust; something moaned heavily. There lay the man from Hamburg who was holding my belt, his face mashed, mangled, flushed with red. The rifle had five shots in its coat, the deadly sheaf tore four men from their lives into oblivion and conjured up circular holes in Berthold's chalk caricatures on the splintering school blackboard. The whole house trembled in the raging fire that pounded the walls. Shards of glass flew into the room with the projectiles, splintering and hitting the floor, carving dead and living alike. The air exploded from the hard, popping impact of each of the shattering lead cores, the pictures on the walls danced eerily and rumbled in tatters to the floor. Stone and steel burst in the walls, throwing small jagged lumps, the lime trickled, dusted the room, covered people, corpses and things with whitish flour, turned the trickling blood into a sticky mush. Splinters of wood flew hissingly, the door gaped, the blackboard, the desk, the walls scarred, crumbled, innumerable small granular funnels the fire conjured up towards them. We lay pressed close to the front wall unable to shoot

The door flew open, Hoffmann entered, fell to the ground in a flash, and crawled over to me on all fours. Instantly, a sheaf thundered down the passage, and the door, moved by a mysterious hand, shook back and forth with a shudder. Hoffmann stared at me with a pale, dusty face, rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a small mirror, which he held up to me. I looked in and saw blood spattered on my face. It oozed dark from a tiny wound on his temple. I wiped with a dirty handkerchief that I spat on and got all smeared. "Rifle broken!" shouted Hoffman. I pointed questioningly at my MG, which was overturned on the ground. He nodded his thumb in the direction of the room he was coming from. Lieutenant Wuth stooped into the room. His beret let rags of velvet flutter. A thin trickle of blood flowed from his forehead to his chin. His gaze dragged us out of the room. We crawled on the floor to the door and then we dodged through into the hallway one by one. There we could stand upright, protected by the thick walls. "It's no good like this," Wuth shrieked. "Only one man should watch in each room, loopholes in the walls, everything else in the corridors. Save ammo!» — The corridors were full of dead and wounded. We also dragged the dead of our room into the corridor. A hamburger smashed a hole in the wall with an iron bar. Hoffmann and I dragged out the ammunition boxes. Then we rushed to Hoffmann's room to salvage the ammunition there as well. In the stairwell people squatted tightly packed. But there was nobody near the doors and windows, only

corpses lay there. I sought out each of my guns, tripping over the dead and dashing into the classrooms. But not a gun, not one of ours, was intact. Only the light one up in the attic was still shooting steadily. I carried a few cases of ammunition upstairs. The wounded moaned for water. The doctor and the paramedics bandaged bloody limbs, tore strips of cloth from the shirts of the living and the dead, for the bandages had all been used up. The doctor stopped me, pointing questioningly at the blood on my forehead, but I waved him off.

The school was fired upon from all sides. The surrounding houses and yards and fields were densely occupied. It rattled against our walls incessantly and evenly. The hatred of the whole city relentlessly sprayed the isolated stone. One of the Hamburgers came out of a schoolroom and said: "Now they're firing point machine guns from less than a hundred meters away! They shoot out every stone one by one!" The whole box crumbled. When one of the Bavarians fired at the main entrance, there was a thunderous echo throughout the building, as if a mine had been blown up.

The Bavarians lay silent on the flagstones of the corridors and on the landings. If a shot went through one of the doors, they bluntly drew together. Only the observation posts crouched in the classrooms. Hoffmann, Wuth and I lay down between the others. "Where's Berthold?" I asked. "At the main gate," Wuth murmured. A young Bavarian officer slowly walked over the

stretched out body, saw Wuth and said in a cracked voice: 'The train guard must hear what's going on? Surely news must have come to Stade? Balla and the other battalions must know we're under pressure?' — Wuth shook his head silently. The Bavarian said monotonously: "The Hamburg Schupo has to intervene, doesn't it? I don't understand, you can't just leave us sitting like that?" Wuth got up and took the officer by the arm and led him away. One came and said, "They're shooting in the city!" Half the people were on their feet immediately. The classrooms filled up again, everyone listened. "It's the train guard coming!" — «No, that comes from a different direction, these are hamburgers!» I strained my ears, but heard no deviation from the non-stop, pounding fire pounding on the school. One claimed to have heard a cheer. Wuth came and said: 'Gentlemen, don't get nervous. Everything in motion!» He looked at me and whispered, "Man, the train has stormed, they're waving our flag in the back of the field." "Couldn't that be ours?" "No, they're civilians!" The fire grew stronger. It swelled and rattled like a line of hail pounding on corrugated iron roofs amid downpours. The soldiers crawled closer and closer together. But now, as always, in the moments of greatest tension, the individuals separated. It didn't keep us in the thick of it. We got up and walked through the fired on

rooms, scurried through the corridors, climbed into the attic, rummaged in the basement, carried ammunition, always only a few men, about three or four out of a hundred. I stumbled through all the entrances with Hoffmann. There was a door that led to the schoolyard, and that door was in the blind spot. The yard was surrounded by a wooden fence. Couldn't you get to those houses unseen? The houses did not appear to be occupied. From there one could perhaps get to the open field? The trenches were further to the right. I motioned to Hoffmann, he pointed upwards; we climbed to the MG in the attic.

I went into a classroom and threw myself in front of the loophole. The Bavarian rolled silently to the side and tiredly laid his head on his arms. The fire came from all sides. The place was completely dead. I couldn't spot an opposing shooter. "Thirst," said the Bavarian. I shrugged. "You Bavarians are always thirsty." "Oh, don't babble." — I snaked my way out again. Hoffmann said: "The ammunition is running out." The rifle on the roof barely had a strap. I went down the stairs. A stair window was still intact. It faced the courtyard and was covered by the side wing of the house. Only a very narrow strip of field could be seen through this window.

We, Hoffmann and I, went to the window. Downstairs they shouted: "Ammunition!" "We'll be right there!" I screamed. Then there was a deafening crack and splintering, two arms reached into the air, the gun rumbled down the stairs. Something heavy hit me in the chest, my knees buckled, I fell—and looked up

my breast the gurgling head, the wound, the hellish chasm of blood, hair and brain — Hoffmann — Hoffman! — Hoffmann was dead. Paramedics... yes, he was dead. Hoffmann was dead. I put him down gently. Then I crouched on the landing and stared dullly into the abyss.

"When will the ammunition come?" echoed from below. Wuth passed like a ghost, hesitated for a moment, looked and murmured: "Ensign, the ammunition." Now there was a bang. The Bavarian LMG at the main entrance thundered some unspeakably echoing shots. I staggered down. "They're coming, they're coming!" — Anger threw me to the ground, to the other gun. I got it ready to fire, hands flapping. The Bavarians from the other waitresses shouted to us that they were coming out of the houses and were now stuck in the blind spot.

We lay to the right and left of the main entrance, on the first landing, about level with the skylight in the door. We could only just see the ground floor of the houses, and only a small section of the wide street. On the stairs in front of us lay an overturned SMG, totally shot up, next to it lay two dead people, both with horrible shots in the head, similar to Hoffmann's - "Silence," said Wuth, "Silence!" — We lay motionless behind the rifle. The other rifle fired. From outside, there was only a faint click against the steps. I couldn't see anything, the narrow strip of the road lay deserted. Then was

everything quiet. Only in the square did the fire roar monotonously against the house.

Fury was called upon above. He got up hesitantly, then hurriedly climbed the stairs. The Bavarians, there were three men, asked whether we had heard nothing from the train guards, or whether reinforcements or relief were coming from Stade or Hamburg. I shrugged. Wuth came and said: "Order Captain Berthold, only fire should be fired in extreme emergencies." He crouched on the stairs and stared straight ahead.

This shooting went on for five hours now. I strained to peer through the narrow gap in the door. Wasn't there a shadow? No, over there, in the houses, in the windows, things were stirring. I put my hand to the belt. "Don't shoot," Wuth said. — I clearly see a man with a gun at the window. He's looking at us intently. I point my MG right at him. Now he seems to see me—yes, he raises the rifle, yes, he aims... I throw myself to the side in a flash, and then there's a bang, splashing and flickering and hitting my arm. I'm startled to see the sleeve turning bloody. "Wounded?" asks Wuth and is next to me for the moment. "Danger!" I yell and yank him away with my left arm. — We examine the wound. Quite harmless, the bullet went into the stone pillar next to me, splintered and sent the small fragments into my right forearm. It was bleeding profusely. «Up, connect!» Fury commanded. The doctor hastily wrapped a strip of stuff around his arm. He chewed broken words through his teeth and

looked very tired. «Berthold wants to negotiate, negotiate, how is this supposed to go on...»

I went to the dead Hoffmann. He lay on his back, body stretched out peacefully. How is he moving? Wasn't he just wheezing? Hoffman? No, oh no, the blood dripped from his forehead and nose into his throat and made its way gurgling. The dead man snored like that for a long time, and each time I started again. I couldn't stay put, I had to keep going; I timidly touched Hoffmann's hand and left.

Berthold had a school board painted: "Armistice! We want to negotiate!" The panel was tied to ropes and then carefully hung out of a window. The fire was immediately concentrated on this spot, and within a few moments the panel was completely shredded. I am now roaming through the house with a tall young Bavarian. Up on the top floor, the two men from the LMG sit quietly and silently, peering out at the square. There are two Bavarians. One wears braids, is probably a flag cadet non-commissioned officer. I speak to him, he answers sparsely, yes, he is a student. I go down again with my companion. We come to a corridor in which shots keep ringing through the doors. The Bavarian has the ridiculous fun of jumping by while standing up, laughing and looking around triumphantly at his comrades. He jumps off again, but suddenly, with a strange spring, he snaps to the side in the middle of the jump and falls like a log, the rifle sweeping down the aisle with a crash. Dead.

There's the small, slim Bavarian officer again. "Relief has to come, doesn't it?" he says and looks at me imploringly. I want to pass him silently when someone shouts from the stairs: "Officers to Captain Berthold!" Anger meets me. I go with him to the room where Berthold is gathering the officers. It's a narrow room, close to the main entrance. Wuth goes in with the little Bavarian, at the moment I can see the little group of remaining officers standing close to the captain. Then the door closes. But I can't stay out here, I mustn't and I can't. I know with terrifying certainty that the handover is being discussed in there. And I pull myself together, open the door and step inside. "Captain!" I say hoarsely, the words choking dryly through my throat, "Captain," then I pull my bones together and say, "Please, come in." The officers turn around, Wuth comes up to me with quick movements, I take a step to the side and look at the captain. He says, his head half turned and very pale: "Yes, what is it?" I say: "Herr Hauptmann, I know how it was in Halle, we're not allowed to hand over..." — I start to stammer, pull myself together and say: "We can still make a sortie!" and continue quickly: "In the back, the door to the schoolyard is not visible, I scouted everything out, there is a wooden fence, no one can see us up to a group of houses in an open field. The trenches are far to the right, so we must be able to break through to the outside." The

Hauptmann raises his hand: "How much ammunition do we still have?" Wuth starts up: "All in all, about five hundred rounds left." The captain is silent. Everything is quiet for a few seconds, only the fire outside continues to ripple monotonously. Wuth says: "That's possible, Herr Hauptmann, but the failure would have to be covered up by a group that kept shooting in the building." I quickly say: "That's fine, we still have three intact machine guns, so we'll just stay there and fire..." — "And what happens to these people then?" the captain asks, snapping his head at me like a bird. "We can," I stutter, "Captain, just a couple of men, we might be able to get by later." The captain says calmly: «No. Gentlemen, if the sally is decided, then the officers will cover the sally. » The officers put their hands to their caps. I say: "Mr. Hauptmann, people don't go without you." Berthold stands up and says: "Then there's no sortie," thinks two deadly seconds and speaks hesitantly: "Anyone who wants to dare the sortie alone can do it. "It's fine, you can go." I pull myself up and stagger to the door and know with nagging pain that Berthold's decision is the only possible one for him. I find myself at the corpse of Hoffmann. It's getting dark quickly. I pull myself up and stagger to the door and know with nagging pain that Berthold's decision is the only possible one for him. I find myself at the corpse of Hoffmann. It's getting dark quickly. I pull myself up and stagger to the door and know with nagging pain that Berthold's decision is the only possible one for him. I find myself at the corpse of Hoffmann. It's getting dark quickly.

We have no ammunition, we have no water, we have so many dead that we count the living. We have no more hope either. Hoffmann snores periodically. It's all over. What do we care if the fire outside dies down? fury

comes and says that Berthold has contacted the besiegers. What do I care The little Bavarian officer comes up, he's like a limpet, he listens with his mouth open. I still have a few cartridges in my pocket. Things get lively down at the entrance. It's already very dark in the house. Suddenly two worker paramedics are standing in front of us, older people, calmly asking where the seriously wounded are. Someone with a red armband comes up behind them and says in a half voice: 'Free withdrawal without weapons assured. Please lay down your arms." He says "please". Wuth smiles fatalistically and unbuckles the belt from his coat and lets it fall to the ground. The little Bavarian says excitedly to Wuth: "But the paddock is my private property!" "Buckle it up, you bastard!" says Wuth rudely and turns around. The shooting has completely stopped. We slowly push our way towards the main entrance. Individual people are already on the square, I'm already standing on the stairs and looking over the black, moving mass of armed men, then there's a bang again. The ones in front sprayed back excitedly, they yelled "Treason," "Treason," and "The dogs are shooting again..." I race up to the roof to the last machine gun. As soon as I'm at the door, it starts rattling again. The fight begins again.

It doesn't take long. We crush the last cartridges. Two red bandages meet me in the hallway and say, "It's no use, folks, it's no use." "You bastards," I say, and feel myself turning pale. "So you keep the deal?" They are silent.

Heavy fumes of blood, sweat, dust and powder press on the lungs. Several red bandages climb over Hoffmann's corpse at gunpoint. I'm insanely angry. "The guns away!" they shout at me menacingly. I throw the gun aside and say, "I'm out of cartridges anyway." One says, a very young fellow: «You are the stupid ones, you are just seduced. But if we catch one of your officers!' Wuth is just turning the corner. I'll pull him back as soon as possible. "Epaulettes down!" I hiss at him. He looks at me in horror, I rip the things off his coat without further ado. "They're after the officers," I say; he shrugs. Then, slowly and with a deadly sad expression, he takes off his combat beret. He is wearing a simple coat. I put Hoffmann's bloody cap on his head. He jumps and says: "Quick to Berthold!" Downstairs there is a great mess in the dark stairwell. Red Bandages, civilians, ours and also a few Reichswehr men rummage through each other. There stands Berthold. His Pour le mérite shines for brief moments. Few people separate us from him. At that moment, a sergeant of the Reichswehr pioneers pulls up a coat, wraps it around Berthold and hisses: "Herr Hauptmann, flee, you are to be killed!" Berthold turns around, then calls out loud: "No, I'll stay with my people!" Then Wuth thrusts through the crowd like a wedge, he throws the people aside, runs at the captain,

punches him in the small of the back and hisses angrily: "Come on, Berthold, damn it, away!" The captain stumbles forward, Wuth chases after him, drives him with quick thrusts, suddenly I can't see either of them anymore.

A huge sailor rips open my skirt and reaches into my breast pocket. "Is that your custom?" I ask him. He silently pushes me back and pushes on. I'm finally at the door. The street is black with people. A narrow alley lined with gunmen opens up for the prisoners. Someone shoves me, I stagger forward, and immediately receive a hit on the head. I raise my arm to protect my face. The blows rain down on me, but I hardly feel anything, I just make sure that I get on. At the back there is a commotion in the crowd, I notice how the crowd pushes over there, letting go of me. A tall Bavarian is suddenly next to me, he whispers haltingly: "They're going to kill our officers!" More and more prisoners gather under the wild screams of the crowd. We stand there apathetically, my head is dazed, all I can see is a confused, unspeakably disgusting jumble of distorted grimaces. I can't think of anything, I don't want to think of anything. For a few minutes I'm completely stunned and just wish for a glass of water. Then I see Wuth, a few steps in front of me. He stands indifferent to the others. Thank God, I think and immediately think, oh, then Berthold didn't get through! But there is no sign of Berthold.

The doctor pushes his way through to us, accompanied by the huge sailor, sees me, rushes towards me, trembling: "Where's Lieutenant Wuth? Where is Lieutenant Wuth! I have to tell him that I'm supposed to bandage the injured people now. Where's Lieutenant Wuth?' The man from Hamburg starts up: "Shut up, you idiot! There are no officers here, you idiot!" Now the doctor finally understands, his face turns gray, his lower jaw drops wide. 'Yes, yes, yes, yes, of course, so just so you know, I'm bandaging the injured. Yes...' The sailor drags him away.

We're marching. The armed men walk close together to the right and left. My injured arm starts to hurt unbearably. All nerves focus on one point. We stumble along the fence, then turn right onto a quiet street. The last few minutes of faint light before nightfall shroud the houses in a blurring haze, making our march seem utterly unreal.

"Just!" screams a shrill voice. Stop the front groups. Suddenly an electric tremor runs through the rows, the red bandages abruptly turn their unlocked rifles towards us. I run up, frightened, to the man in front of me. What's going on, something terrible must have happened - "There's your captain, look at him -" -

What, what is he screaming at, the drunken dog? — The captain? The captain? — —

"The Captain!" shout the Bavarians, it goes through the column like a jolt; the Bavarians roar, suddenly push forward.

There lies the captain. There lies Berthold. In the gutter, in the gutter. What did they do to the captain—he's naked, where's his head? — A bloody, trampled, naked body, the throat cut, the arm torn from the torso, the body covered with red welts, and scar upon scar on that body. Is that really Berthold? There's his head! The captain! We'll take him with us! We'll take the captain with us. The Bavarians groan. We'll take him with us! And advance. Pistons drive in between. But the first groups are already approaching; single shots are fired. We'll take him with us! The red bandages are on the hunt. The Bavarians in the back are jerking after them. The first groups are carried away by the following comrades, the mass of prisoners rolls on to see the captain, but in these shimmering seconds of confusion the red bandages are already strengthened and push themselves between them; Piston blows crackle. we are over — A raging entourage of people accompanies us. Women scream at us, shaking their fists. Stones fly, pots, sticks. The security guards are hit and now call out angrily to the women. We are quickly herded into an inn, the crowd presses on, is held back by the armed men. We come into a dance hall lit with gas flames. Dusty, cheap suburban tinsel dangles from the walls, and paper garlands with colorful lanterns hang from the ceiling. We have to compete. The guards command

roam wild. Outside, the crowd roars and bangs on the door. It's all the same to me now. My arm hurts terribly, I half turn. We're a hundred men at most — out of four hundred — and Wuth is not among them.

One of the Red Bandages speaks. I'm seething with dull anger. What a big snout that guy has! He's still quite a young fellow, black, long, bushy hair, horn-rimmed glasses, very red lips, a dark Russian blouse. Ah, we know that guy. He seems the leader. He walks down our line and asks loudly: "Where's the man in the light-colored cap who operated the machine gun on the first floor at the very beginning?" He stops in front of me, hesitates, sees the better cut of my skirt, my breeches, says condescendingly: "What kind of a man is that? Are you commoner?" i see red I say, "Not mean like you!" and stealthily raise the leg to instantly kick him in the stomach if he so much as complains. But he moves on quickly. My bright cap, ah,

We lie down on the floor, exhausted. The crowd roars in front of the door. From time to time it roars and thunders at the gate. Then the security guards rush along importantly. Finally the big snout comes to us and of course has to give a speech again. He urges us to voluntarily organize a collection for the unfortunate survivors of our victims. A few of the prisoners tiredly reach into their pockets. But now I'm going upstairs. "Not a penny!"

I crunch to the prisoners. "We don't want to buy the dirty life like that after all!" and drive towards the big snout. "But if you don't do anything, the crowd will invade here, you must appease the agitated masses!" says the guy, stunned. I grab a chair and place him word for word in front of the recoiling face: "If the crowd comes in here, we'll fight back with chair legs, fists and teeth, and then you can count who's left of you." The big snout recedes. I assign sentries from us who have to keep watch for a few hours so that we are not surprised by the crowd that may be intruding. Then we'll hit the floorboards. I can't fall asleep for a long time, the injured arm is swollen, the blood has soaked through the bandage and turned it blackish. I finally fall into a kind of waking numbness. — In the early morning the door was suddenly flung open, the jeering of the crowd, who had already or still gathered in front of the house, roared in at us provokingly, and then a group of prisoners came hurrying from outside, Wuth among the first. Many were bleeding from the head, almost all had welts on their faces and tattered uniforms. The door was hastily closed, we had to line up. I edged up to Wuth and stood next to him. He was very pale, his face seemed frighteningly emaciated, his boar fangs poked white and bare into his tousled little beard. The soldiers, mainly from Hamburg, were crowded around

him around. They all knew him—when he entered the hall, the prisoners felt a breath of relief. Almost everyone was looking at him furtively now. The damned big snout in the Russian blouse was talking to a gigantic, armed worker wearing a thick red armband. His skirt was open, his bare brown chest was covered with blue and red tattoos. He had a square head, small for his body, from which, above a strong and bold nose, the eyes, strangely reddish and almost without eyelashes, surveyed the prisoners. Outside, the tumult of the crowd swelled. We heard the shrill screams of the women, stones pounded against the door. The fellow in the Russian blouse now turned to us and said: "We know that there are still officers among you. You allowed yourselves to be seduced by these pigs. Nothing will happen to you if you tell us which officers are still with you. If you name the officers, nothing will happen to you; he is immediately taken to Hamburg under safe protection and released. If you don't name the officers, well, you'll see what happens. Well, will it be soon?" I immediately grabbed Wuth's arm with my left hand and squeezed it tightly. I felt his muscles tighten, his bones tremble. I squeezed his wrist with an iron grip and pulled down with all my might. The whole, strong, tough man pushed forward. Did he want to force his way through the first rank, to announce himself, for our sake? Never? That must never happen. Our two

Fists wrung each other. I looked at him angrily; it was incredibly tense, the skin tightened over the skinny cheek muscles, but he had clenched his teeth tightly. "Shut up, Wuth!" I whispered. The other prisoners stood motionless and silent. There was unrest on the right wing. I looked excited. But Tietje from the Hamburgers had only playfully and apparently completely uninvolved reached for the back of a chair. "Well, don't," said the Russian blouse. The giant turned briefly, slammed the butt down with a rattling sound, and stomped out. The Russian blouse said: 'You will now be taken away. But we want to wait a while, there aren't enough people out there waiting for you." He grinned and scooted towards the entrance. Immediately there was a thick lump of prisoners around Wuth. Tietje said: "What do the brothers actually think we are?" and waved his chair. Anger hissed through his teeth: "Gentlemen, if they're beating outside, then beat them again. Don't take a hit. Always walk behind or next to the security guard so that he gets his share from his own people! Always stay close together. One to help the other. The largest in the first and last group, the wounded in the middle. Get hold of the sticks, but don't jump out of line. Take care, I'm going in the first group." After a short pause he asked: "How many hamburgers are actually left?" One said, "Twelve." We were silent.

The tattooed man came in, yelled, "Get in!" and then threw open the door. For a few seconds the only sound was the pounding of our hasty footsteps. Wuth was the first to go outside. I followed close behind him.

We ran, heads bowed, arms raised in defense, as if thrown into the dull heap. Immediately the crowd split; it was as if a wedge had been driven into her; a narrow alley tore itself into the core of the crowd, we pushed into it. We didn't know which way to go; we didn't know whether we were at the mercy of the crowd, whether a safe refuge beckoned somewhere; we only knew that we now had to defend ourselves; we knew that we now only had to stake everything on the little courage to live that made the world bearable for us by making a relentless, gasping, last leap. A shriek of stumbling feet was before my eyes, and the left fist slammed into a face and felt something gristly snap. A heavy blow rushed to my head, half caught by my arm. A Manchester velvet-covered belly jumped into view and bulged after a well-placed thrust. A stiff black hat fell; my foot stamped it, why did it give me such wild joy? What's on my mind? What's pounding my shoulder sore? There's a shin, down the nailed shoe! A blow twitches painfully on the right arm. An unequal game, each of them only gets a hit - but how many hits hit us?

The guy, the tattooed one, is trotting next to me now. He has the gun half raised, but he sees imperceptibly

straight ahead and lets the blows rain down on us. I see a coolie swinging a long hose down, I jump back immediately, the hose smacks down, whistling and winding around the tattooed guard. He roars and drives around and hits the coolie in the face. Now he's getting going, the security guard! Wuth boxes crookedly, three paces in front of me. Women press on him. The women, broad, in blue clothes, with wet aprons and tattered skirts, fiery red wrinkled faces under tangled hair, with sticks, stones, hoses and harnesses, they pound on us. They spit, squeal, screech—we're close, through now. Next to me, a little Bavarian, older, is wheezing, and as we approach the women, I hear one of them screeching: "Why are you hitting the young ones, you must beat the old goats!" Poor little Bavarian gets his share. There is one in the narrow street, a strong young fellow, who is very serious about his work. He chooses his people, examining and carefully looking down the line before he hits. But then he hits the chosen one with full force from below up with his whole fist from the chin on the nose, so that the red broth spurts out. He comes to anger; That was wrong, because Wuth ducked down at lightning speed, the boy staggered, and Wuth ran his knee, backing the force of his whole body, into his unarmored abdomen. He buckles, falls, but Wuth falls with him, both roll. I approach and grab Wuth by the collar and pull him up, we race on. Now I don't feel the pain of the arm, now I hit too

where no one threatens me The gunmen walk beside us. Shots rang out from behind, screams rang out, the masses moved. But a new group, mostly women, breaks out of a side street. The women are the worst. Men hit, women also spit and squabble, and you can't plant your fist in their grimaces like that. There stands, idyll in the tangle, an old woman and leans on the umbrella. The good old eyes, ah, under the little jet-embroidered cap! She can hardly stand, seriously she looks at us and lifts — and lifts the old umbrella with a trembling arm, and hits me, hits me! Saviour! Shots again. We run now harried, whipped by screams and blows. The crowds run behind us. A high, red wall is building up. A gate flies open. We speed through. We are now in the pioneer barracks. The red bandages gather at the gate and ward off those pushing behind the entrance. We stand panting, bleeding and battered in the yard. The Reichswehr men reprimand us and force us into the quarters. The riding hall, the whole floor thickly covered with gray pea straw, welcomes us. Seven of our men were shot and killed by the crowd during this assault. Wuth grated, thrown on the floor of the hall: "Next time, by God, we'll come over this city with a fifteen-gun long-barrel." But Tietje, incorrigible, claims: "Beating is always fine, even if you get hit yourself." — We were in the riding arena for three days. We lay in the crackling dusty straw, irritated, tired, spent,

full of a dull, consuming rage. Day after day, one of the Bavarians told the monotonous story of how Berthold died. The man had been with the captain to the end. Protected by his coat, Berthold had reached that side street. Then sailors and workers came towards him. One of them recognized him by the Pour le Mérite. They fell on him, he fought back, he threw himself about, a butt blow to his bare head made him fall. With difficulty he drew the saber that he was still wearing, but it was snatched from him. He was leaning half-body against a lamppost, fighting for the Order. They pulled him down, they trampled on his legs, they tore off his skirt, they broke his arm, which had been shot through several times. Berthold snatched the pistol from a sailor, shot him down, they threw themselves on him, a knife gleamed, cut his throat. He rattled off slowly, lonely, struggling, trampled in the dirt. His killers shared his money. The Bavarian lay in a hallway, wounded, guarded.

One of the train guards told how they were attacked and crushed, very few were still alive. The luggage was stolen. One of the Reichswehr pioneers told of the enormous losses that we inflicted on the Harburgs. We told this soldier what we thought of his excellent formation, and he retired, offended. But the sergeant who was in charge of our guard reported gleefully that the Berlin putsch had collapsed. We listened in amazement. Then Tietje said: 'Yes, that's right, we actually wanted to

make a coup. Well, Putsch is gone and Kapp is gone." And we left this heroic youth standing and hit the straw. Nobody knew what was to happen to us. We sat and waited and had a lot of time to think. The captain's sister came and brought us cigarettes. The Bavarians stood around them silently and with twitching faces. She was quiet and brave. On the evening of this visit, no one spoke a word in the riding arena. On the third evening I said to Wuth: 'The more I think about it, the more certain I know that our fight is not over. But I also know that we have had to fail up to now. We will never be deployed as a force again. Now each individual has to start his own fight. What are you going to do, Wuth?" He lay and looked at the ceiling of the hall with his arms crossed behind his head and said: "Settle! Yes, settle. We will, my last ten men and I, the last Hamburgers, we will get together and settle down. become a farmer. Somewhere, dammit, in the Lokstedt camp or in the Lüneburg Heath or in the Bremen Königsmoor, we will settle there, build houses, farmers and soldiers, that's a healthy mix." I said: «Yes, that is a piece of work. But no work for me. Because, you see, it's like a disease. I don't think I'll ever rest. What we have done up to now has not been in vain with God. Blood never flows in vain, it always reports

his claims, which will be met one day. But for this time and now, the gap between effort and success seems too big to me. I think that's because we were basically misfits — understand me correctly, although we were always the focus, we fought on a completely different level than it proved to be valid for the Reich. I mean, what was formed there, what held together even before our putsch, came about differently than we thought." Wuth sat up straight and looked at me. I went on eagerly, “I mean, it wasn't really movement, it was weight. What was the most passive prevailed, simply because the active parts ate each other up. After all, nothing new came about as a result of the November revolt. We haven't seen a shift, let alone a revolution. All the old values are back, they never disappeared, but now they show themselves without the bright paint that gave them validity before the war. Church, school, market, society, everything is still there, just as it used to be. Only the army is gone, and that was the best thing about the whole pre-war period. And the princes — well. Look at the names and the faces of the parliamentarians and ministers. We lost the war under the old class. Since the new one is the same as the old one, lives on the same vocabulary—they just played a little confuse the tree—is subject to the same conditions and obligations, this stratum cannot lose the war either

make up, it seems to me. I have reason to believe she doesn't even want that. It is true what the communists say, namely that the same bourgeoisie rules today in public that ruled under the surface until November 18. So we didn't have a revolution. So we cannot go against the revolution. And are we satisfied with what is today? Is there even a single tone, a single poor tone of this concert of ordinances and speeches and programs and files and newspapers that resonates in us? Is there only one name that we have faith in? Is there only one word we can believe? Didn't everything go to pieces for us because of the war? Well, it doesn't seem like a pity about what broke there; but later, was there even a single goal in the jumble of supposed needs and tasks? Hasn't everything we wanted been mocked and ridiculed? So, if this was so, if this is so, and we sense that something is still waiting for us, that we are called to do something other than be on this shoot, what then? If the revolution didn't happen, then what? Then we just have to make the revolution."

Now Wuth smiled. I lowered my eyes and looked down at my toes. I said: 'I am of the opinion that the revolution must be made up for. Parliamentary democracy — well, fine. That was fashionable in 1848. It might have made a lot of sense there. Although we only crammed sparsely through the history class this year in the cadet house

needed - because what much does a royal Prussian cadet need to know in 1848? — I grew up in an atmosphere that was still saturated this year. The Paulskirche in Frankfurt — well, there's nothing there. These were very honest people. It probably made a lot of sense back then. And Marxism? There is a firm and solid program to believe in, to make the bible of the revolution. But the revolution hasn't come! The result of 1918 is a mixture of 48, of Wilhelminism and Marx. And that's what it looks like. All remaining stocks of the warehouse are included in the new company. And we are in front of it. And fought for law and order. Yes." "Now I'm damned curious what this young man is getting at!" said Fury. Now everyone in Hamburg was listening. I said, "Maybe I can't express myself the way I want to. I'm not a popular speaker. Oh no. But I think we have to make a revolution. A national revolution, so to speak. Oh well. And I mean, we've already started it. After all, don't we all defend ourselves when it is said that our putsch is reactionary? I mean, everything we've done up until now has been a bit of a revolution. In the approach. Maybe not wanting it, but that's not what matters. In effect, not in consciousness. I mean like this: all revolutions in world history began with the rebellion of the spirit and ended with the storming of the barricades. We did it the other way around. We started with the barricade storm. And

have failed. The rebellion of the spirit, that's what I mean when I say we have to make up for the revolution. We have to start now." "Oh, my dear," said Wuth, "do you want to look for the ghost now? may you find him And may it be a good one." I said: 'You must excuse me if I am not clear. But do you know how the Russian revolution happened? I mean from their very beginnings? Do you know how many "Bolsheviks" there were up to 1917? I mean real Bolsheviks who wanted this revolution and no other? Not quite three thousand, not quite three thousand in the whole giant empire, I have been told, and a good number of them are still squatting abroad, in Switzerland and God knows where else. But these were people who worked tirelessly. Theoreticians of the revolution first and then practitioners. It was clear step by step, word by word, idea by idea. And the people mastered revolutionary tactics as well as revolutionary strategy. Admittedly, they had a reference to Marx's theory. But that, after all, was only the theory around which the revolution was to be made, not the theory of the revolution itself. We must make the revolution for the sake of the nation, for the sake of the nation. And so we first have to know what a nation actually is. I mean knowing, not guessing. We all guess. But know. And then we have to know how to present the nation that we don't have today. And to learn that, that seems to me the task.” We must make the revolution for the nation, for the nation. And so we first have to know what a nation actually is. I mean knowing, not guessing. We all guess. But know. And then we have to know how to present the nation that we don't have today. And to learn that, that seems to me the task.” We must make the revolution for the nation, for the nation. And so we first have to know what a nation actually is. I mean knowing, not guessing. We all guess. But know. And then we have to know how to present the nation that we don't have today. And to learn that, that seems to me the task.”

Translated from German to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.com

I said nothing, shaken by the flow of my own speech. The Hamburgers were silent too. I got up. Wuth asked: "What are you doing now?" I said, "I'm going." - "To where?" — I said: «Get out!» And walked towards the guards at the door of the riding arena. The Hamburgers watched me. There was a non-commissioned officer with the Reichswehr pioneers who was keen on my breeches. He had already asked me twice if I didn't want to sell it to him. Now I took him aside and said, "You can have the pants." He immediately asked, "What should I spend on it?" I said: "Pay attention: a pair of old rifles from you, a belt with a saber tassel, a pair of shoulder straps from you and a Reichswehr cap with the beautiful oak wreath that you are allowed to wear because you fought so bravely." "That won't do," said the engineer. "You can fuck me," I said, turning around. "Stop, don't run away right away!" He stood and looked indecisive. Then he asked, "Is that good leather?" I said: "One A-leather, much too nice for you, you're just filling it up, you jumping jack." He looked and mused and said, «In ' I'll bring the junk in half an hour. Then I'll have the guard at the barracks gate. But you can't get through here, workers are also posted here." "Fine, you heroic youth, you got it. So in half an hour." Then I went to the hamburgers and took off my jodhpurs. Wuth understood immediately. I said goodbye to the hamburgers. I shook hands with each one and not many words were said. 'Take care' and 'Break a leg' and then I went to the straw near the door. The pioneer came I shook hands with each one and not many words were said. 'Take care' and 'Break a leg' and then I went to the straw near the door. The pioneer came I shook hands with each one and not many words were said. 'Take care' and 'Break a leg' and then I went to the straw near the door. The pioneer came

and carefully handed me the things. I gave him the breeches.

Then I went to the dark, rear end of the riding arena. There the straw lay piled up up to a window that stuck small and forgotten in the wall. Nobody paid any attention to me except the hamburgers. I put on the Reichswehr cap and buckled on the belt and fastened the shoulder flaps to my skirt. Then I reached for the windowsill. I turned back to the hamburgers and waved. The Hamburgers suddenly began to sing softly. The Bavarians listened in astonishment, the guard at the gate turned to them. The Hamburgers—the last ten men of the company that was once a battalion — the Hamburgers sang the pirate song. I pulled myself up and swung myself through the window. Outside, I clung to the strong branch of a large chestnut tree, dangling my legs, and scrambled to the ground. Then I walked across the dark courtyard to the gate. The corporal stood there, took two steps back, and let me pass in silence. I walked endlessly alone through the empty, nocturnal, echoing streets towards Hamburg.

THE CONSPIRATORS

prelude

It only required detaching myself from the martial community for me to immediately realize how very seventeen I was. Even if the separation took place with a cutting pain, it still had the same lightness in its wake, the sudden clairvoyant ability to give up previously valid ideas and maxims for me, which on the November night of 1918 both frightened and made me happy. I was troubled by the thought, not quite followed through by unexpected shame, that I must have a special springing of the heart, a kind of internal safety structure that allowed me to take any daring leap, any adventurous advance without fear of inevitable recoil would fall into the abyss, into the open jaws of the hideous beast,

So it was possible that, now at the mercy of the world, which was flat in its real sobriety, completely alone in the face of the unknown, sucking rhythm of a life regulated by apparently meaningless and yet inexorably hard mechanics, I almost symbolically first grabbed what I had a vague concept of life also first conveyed, to the book. Before I went out like the pure fool of the legend, I had built a dam against the daily worries of my something through books

difficult rearing. But now, at this moment, when everything I saw and felt seemed so full of pale shadows and colorless, the window of a bookshop could, as if in response to a secret call, awaken in me a furious longing for that luminous immediacy that the There were books before I tried to follow my brother Simplicius Simplicissimus not only in imagination. In the shop window, however, was a book with the title "Of Coming Things," a little pushed into the corner and a little dusty. And curiously attracted and touched by this title, I went to the store and bought the book. I climbed up to my attic room, lit the last big candle, sat down in the old plush armchair, one leg of which had already been burned out, not without having supported the groaning furniture with a hand grenade box, and began to read, freezing. I read all night long. The book was by Walther Rathenau, whose name I remember vaguely as that of a great industrialist and business leader in the great war. The very first sentences of the book, which emphasized that it was about material things, but for the sake of the spirit, gave me a peculiar satisfaction: reading that now seemed good and necessary to me. This book was written with a whispering urgency, strangely unplastic and entirely without pathos, and even the few sentences in which the warm light of transfigured optimism shone,

were shadowed by a melancholy that gripped me immediately. Of things to come I was eager to hear from that distant, passionate, solemn voice, and I read that the goal was human liberty. Soberingly, I leafed back and forth and saw the year of publication 1917, and was caught again by the message of the transfiguration of the divine from the human spirit, and it happened to me that I followed the lines spellbound, and it happened to me that I spent minutes looked up and doubted whether I was involved here. Because this book was strange and close, it was kind and cold, it was deep and weightless, it showed the narrow connections to the background, but it didn't show the background. There was so much that I didn't understand, there was so much that I had thought for myself, youth spoke to me uninhibitedly, and then a superior old man lectured admonishingly. Every thing was illuminated all around and shimmered like a cut crystal, held up by a playful hand, and a crystal, I thought, of course, cannot show urgent life. Something was missing here, and something was too much there. Something gently stroked the tangle, softening it, and something hostile in between. I could read and say yes, yes once, yes twice and yes three times, and feverishly yes again and again, and I could already sense the country to which the path led me, could already see the landscape lying there, irradiated, spread out, only a little of the undergrowth separated me still — and then there was a limit, then suddenly the step grew tired, then only a vague hand gesture fluttered about the things to come, and full Every thing was illuminated all around and shimmered like a cut crystal, held up by a playful hand, and a crystal, I thought, of course, cannot show urgent life. Something was missing here, and something was too much there. Something gently stroked the tangle, softening it, and something hostile in between. I could read and say yes, yes once, yes twice and yes three times, and feverishly yes again and again, and I could already sense the country to which the path led me, could already see the landscape lying there, irradiated, spread out, only a little of the undergrowth separated me still — and then there was a limit, then suddenly the step grew tired, then only a vague hand gesture fluttered about the things to come, and full Every thing was illuminated all around and shimmered like a cut crystal, held up by a playful hand, and a crystal, I thought, of course, cannot show urgent life. Something was missing here, and something was too much there. Something gently stroked the tangle, softening it, and something hostile in between. I could read and say yes, yes once, yes twice and yes three times, and feverishly yes again and again, and I could already sense the country to which the path led me, could already see the landscape lying there, irradiated, spread out, only a little of the undergrowth separated me still — and then there was a limit, then suddenly the step grew tired, then only a vague hand gesture fluttered about the things to come, and full like a polished crystal, and a crystal, I thought, can certainly show no pressing life. Something was missing here, and something was too much there. Something gently stroked the tangle, softening it, and something hostile in between. I could read and say yes, yes once, yes twice and yes three times, and feverishly yes again and again, and I could already sense the country to which the path led me, could already see the landscape lying there, irradiated, spread out, only a little of the undergrowth separated me still — and then there was a limit, then suddenly the step grew tired, then only a vague hand gesture fluttered about the things to come, and full like a

polished crystal, and a crystal, I thought, can certainly show no pressing life. Something was missing here, and something was too much there. Something

pitiful resignation, the tone of the zealous voice lost itself in the chorus of spirits that she herself conjured up. Things that seemed to me like pebbles that my foot carelessly pushes aside appeared here like rigid rocks dominating the plain, things that seemed to me tangled like snakes' knots, here they came out simply and clearly and were ordered with a gentle hand, things that which seemed to me plastic and simple in line and without mystery, here they suddenly trembled with a magical glow. This was an extraordinary book, and extraordinary was the landscape it showed, the mechanistic realm of the world and the psychic power of the spirit shaping that realm into things to come. But precisely this, the narrow hope that mechanics will be ensouled by the spirit, seemed to me only a meager answer to the urgent search that suddenly announced itself in this book as in the hearts of youth; and since I did not find the answer, not the real thing that I was longing for to unveil, I had to ache even more bitterly to find that no question was asked more sharply, no responsibility more clearly defined than the proclamation of the new one justice, from the goods of the soul, would have to require.

So this book was a confirmation; for since it sought to ennoble the matter, it recognized its dominion. This was, I thought I recognized, a reactionary book in spirit. A tardy spoke here, not a premature. His prophecy criticism remained, and the criticism of beings thus also happened for the sake of beings. The requirements,

they grew up, you could hear them on every street, people's state, democracy - the words had been rolling lasciviously in the mouths of the chubby cheeked for a long time, the same words whose noble energies were now recognized in the deepest lonely too late for those out there. I thought I could see the aching features of the blind man who spoke and listened in the desert, since the people were silent, whether the stones weren't speaking. But the stones were silent too. What should the values, since words suffice?

I read and read and neared the end. It all seemed to me like a dream, as if seen through glass, as if through a matte, breathy glass, through which the world shimmered pale and bluish, yes, just like the landscape that I now saw through the window - because the night was drawing to a close its end, and the candle died out, and the chunky outlines up to the roof of tenements packed with people, the tangle of chimneys and chimneys, the brittle lines of the roofs detached ghostly from the velvet background. So I got up and leaned out and looked into the ravines of the backyards, in which the noise of the approaching day was already echoing, and I felt seventeen enough to know that this had to be controlled and not animated, and I managed it book and thought, the light shower,

At this moment the French advanced into the city. I heard the bang of their clairons and rushed into the street and saw. The force of

marching columns almost pinned me to the walls. The thoughts of the book I had read in the night were still floundering in me. Here a glass dream shattered under the shrill jubilation of victory that rang over rifles and helmets. I felt my face as if I wanted to wipe cobwebs from my forehead and listened to the mocking triumph that banged through the streets and saw the certainty of victory, the elegance, the smiling contempt that was allowed to speak of punishment and retribution . The city was at the mercy of someone else's will, dignity violated, and that we had to put up with it was unbearable. The gleaming limbs pushed forward as if pulled by a wire, tanks rolled around like gigantic woodlice, an inexorable mass of armored bodies, and I stood patiently and unarmed. The dull proletarian rage rose in me. I saw that these small, black officers wore patent leather boots, had slim waists, I saw the wellgroomed horses, the casually proud looks, ribbons, I saw that captain with his riding stick laughingly greeted the girl, who then disappeared from the window, startled . Yes, that they were allowed to laugh while we were burning, that they were allowed to march, show off their warrior pride, and we stood in humility, that drove red hatred into my heart. I walked around town all morning and almost cried with anger. The people I met walked pale and hastily, even the noise of the street seemed to tremble slightly. Everywhere the patrols of the French went in threes and fours

Man, and they walked quickly, tightly, with closed faces, as it were carrying an invisible wall around them, while stronger columns scuttled through the streets and the soldiers happily inquisitively surveyed the conquered city and seemed to find it wholesome. At individual squares, at the main train station, at the opera house, at the main guard station, troop camps had formed, machine guns stood ready to fire at the corners, the guns were assembled and set up in short rows of pyramids. Officers sauntered down the sidewalks, never alone, always in twos or threes, riding sticks swinging, and the faces of passers-by grew rigid and expressionless when they met them. At a hotel, the tricolor was raised by busy poilus, while the officers hurried off and on. I tried to control my thoughts. To acknowledge anything, such as the rigid and precise functioning of the military machinery, the good soldierly good looks of the troops, the clean, blond, and cheerful faces of the people, seemed to me like treason. I didn't want to acknowledge anything, I wanted the hatred of the crowd to build a granite wall around these victors, they should find themselves in deadly isolation, ever teetering between fear and terror. Then came a group of Negroes led by a white corporal. The negroes had thin, calfless legs on which the gaiters slipped, and they walked with their feet turned in. They grinned beneath their flat helmets with large, shining teeth, turned blithely

and visibly tasted the feeling of an unexpected superiority. So here the representatives of humanity and democracy marched in their name from all corners of the world to chastise us barbarians. Excellent, and only no false shame! What, aren't we barbarians? Well, we want to be barbarians. And the last remnant of that night's trembling dream shattered; for the goods of the soul, which feed on the spirit of justice, were not enough to resist here. The whole city was alarmed. Only twice had I seen the city covered by such a shimmering haze, in August 1914 and on the day of the revolt. It was as if the restlessness of all hearts had thickened into a fog and vibrated up, filling everything with trembling tension. Short groups formed at street corners, which immediately gave way to the clattering footsteps of the patrols, but coalesced again behind them. A crowd edged around a disarmed security officer, silent and nervous. Everyone felt time burning, everyone was waiting for something that was relentlessly drawing closer, but no one knew how the sudden discharge would come about. A company lined up in the courtyard of the main post office. A crowd gathered at the gates of the driveway, with whom I immediately felt contact. Everywhere something elementary seemed to break through the crust of everyday life. The human wall thickened and let the waves of a dark, hardly contained hatred break out in ever shorter spaces against the troops. The

commanding officer rattled back and forth restlessly, the soldiers pressed close together. The officer gave the order, the soldiers hastily tore the bayonets out of their scabbards and planted them on the guns. I started hooting, "Oh!" to shout, and immediately the shouting continued. The officer turned to us, he was very pale and had a small black beard and dark eyes and tried to sparkle with them. The hoot swelled. Now he stepped back, turned to his troops and commanded. The company took over rifle. But it didn't work; the soldiers, becoming uneasy, rattled their barrels against each other, and one of his helmets slipped. We screamed and laughed, the scorn forced itself through the hatred, a shrill voice cried, trembling: "The rifle—over! Slap again! "Laughter erupted from every throat. The archways threw the echo into the corners of the courtyard. The officer, utterly bewildered, actually had his rifle put down again to repeat the grip. Now the yelling knew no end. Then the sky-blue turned and suddenly the soldiers advanced, a closed, resolute mass. We saw the white, tense faces; they were already there. The fearful menace in those expressions drew the crowd back; at the same time a strong patrol of Moroccans trotted through the Zeil, pushing their legs forward to the sidewalk, the crowd bursting. At the corners of the side streets, small groups gathered again, accompanied the marching troop with jeering shouts, gave way to the patrols here and stuck there The archways threw the echo into the corners of the courtyard. The officer, utterly bewildered, actually had his rifle put down again to repeat the grip. Now the yelling knew no end. Then the sky-blue turned and suddenly the soldiers advanced, a closed, resolute mass. We saw the white, tense faces; they were already there. The fearful menace in those expressions drew the crowd back; at the same time a strong patrol of Moroccans trotted through the Zeil, pushing their legs forward to the sidewalk, the crowd bursting. At the corners of the side streets, small groups gathered again, accompanied the marching troop with jeering shouts, gave way to the patrols here and stuck there The archways threw the echo into the corners of the courtyard. The officer, utterly bewildered, actually had his rifle put down again to repeat the grip. Now the yelling knew no end. Then the sky-blue turned and suddenly the soldiers advanced, a closed, resolute mass. We saw the white, tense faces; they were already there. The fearful menace in those expressions drew the crowd back; at the same time a strong patrol of Moroccans trotted through the Zeil, pushing their legs forward to the sidewalk, the crowd bursting. At the corners of the side streets, small groups gathered again, accompanied the marching troop with jeering shouts, gave way to the patrols here and stuck there completely insane, really had the rifle brought down again to repeat the grip. Now the yelling knew no end. Then the sky-blue turned and suddenly the soldiers advanced, a closed, resolute mass. We saw the white, tense faces; they were already there. The fearful menace in those expressions drew the crowd back; at the same time a strong patrol of Moroccans trotted through the Zeil, pushing their legs forward to the sidewalk, the crowd bursting. At the corners of the side streets, small groups gathered again, accompanied the marching troop with jeering shouts, gave way to the patrols here and stuck there completely insane, really had the rifle brought down again to repeat the grip. Now the yelling knew no end. Then the sky-blue turned and suddenly the soldiers advanced, a closed, resolute mass. We saw the white, tense faces; they were already there. The

fearful menace in those expressions drew the crowd back; at the same time a strong patrol of Moroccans trotted through the Zeil, pushing their legs forw

together again. A larger stream made its way to the Hauptwache. I followed him.

Crowds lined the square. A group of officers was standing in front of the Schiller monument; the soldiers lay on the ground but soon rose and formed in disordered groups near their pyramids of rifles. Moroccans, negroes and whites clustered around the machine guns that had been set up. Schiller looked over the square unmoved and with a bold nose.

In front of the main guard, directly at the entrance for "women," stood a very young French officer, who took pleasure in showing passers-by who wanted to go to the tram stop off the path with a wave of his riding stick. Toward women and girls, however, he was obtrusively gallant. The Denizens who were gathering on the other side of the Main Guard stood muttering and scowling, looking at the slim-laced one.

In the stream of other passers-by, a young man in a blue suit came from Schillerstrasse, of medium height, stocky, and with strikingly large, dark eyes. He didn't turn with the others in front of the island that had formed around the officer, but went on unconcernedly, with a somewhat broad elegance and great certainty. He wanted to get past the officer, who called out something to him; the young man paid no attention to it; the officer turned crimson and ran after him, and when he didn't even turn around, he touched him with his dangling riding crop.

At that moment the crowd cried out. Because the young man turned around in a flash, thrust his arm up from below, snatched the whip from the officer, snapped it once over his face and then cracked it in three parts, which he threw at the Frenchman's feet. The Frenchman staggered back, then lurched, gasped, and, the line on his cheek white against his blood-reddened face, lunged at the young man with a muffled growl. He stood, legs apart, motionless, with a dangerous look in his eyes, until the Frenchman was within half a step, then he bent his knees briefly, grabbed the officer's chest and hips and lifted him up with grandeur. In the air he laid the struggling boy across, carried him three paces further, and then, almost carelessly, threw him down the stairs to "Women." Then he turned, made a sleek turn around the low building, and disappeared into the group of French officers, who parted in surprise. A Moroccan helped the chastised officer up, who rushed excitedly to his comrades; immediately afterwards there was violent movement, and a few seconds later shots rang out from the Rossmarkt. But now the masses suddenly crowded in. An angry roar rang out across the square. The French ran in confusion, the guards started firing. I ran across the square towards the Katherinenpforte. The shots lashed the pavement, whizzed around my legs, slammed into the walls.

The crowd scattered, only to burst out from another corner. I turned into a side street, the bullets were whistling here too. So I jumped into a hallway. A moment later something blew in through the gate behind me. I looked up and saw the young man leaning against the banister with his arms crossed and very calm. There was shouting and banging outside. I approached the young person and said enthusiastically: "That was smart!"

"Oh, don't talk," he said, "you'd better help me. We've got to pump this town up!" "Of course I'll help!" I yelled and introduced myself, saying my name. The young man shook my hand, bowed and said: "Kern".

collection The city couldn't be fooled. After the first test of their barbaric courage, the citizens of the urban trading metropolis assured them that the French were people too, to which nothing could be said. Still, the French seemed to be people with whom one could not associate. For they never succeeded in gaining entry into bourgeois circles, not into society, not even into the families with which they

were billeted. You never saw a girl walking with a Frenchman. The French were completely isolated, thrown into a frigid circle. Perhaps this hardening of feelings was not based on hatred but on disappointment, on the kind of disappointment a businessman feels when a valued and longstanding business friend suddenly turns into a dangerous competitor and triumphs by using unclean means. Because this city had always been proud of its cosmopolitan status, of its broad and generous liberality, it was a city that always paid homage to the idea of human progress, and there used to be so many close ties between France and the city, between of the city and Paris, the shining, a little admired and also a little imitated example of the way of life. And now this, now these methods: Occupation by the hordes of French soldiers, victorious pride and blinded screams of revenge and violence! Now this insistence on military representation, so far removed from the spirit of true democracy, this handing over of brutal demands on the tips of the bayonets! The city sat in silent contempt. And a few months later, after the Reichswehr, which had crushed the Red Army uprising around Wesel, evacuated the neutral zone in the Ruhr, the French disappeared without sounding their farewell clairons, leaving nothing behind but a few posters with the insurance that France keeps all treaties and promises sacred. Occupied by the hordes of French soldiers, victorious pride and deluded screams of revenge and violence! Now this insistence on military representation, so far removed from the spirit of true democracy, this handing over of brutal demands on the tips of the bayonets! The city sat in silent contempt. And a few months later, after the Reichswehr, which had crushed the Red Army uprising around Wesel, evacuated the neutral zone in the Ruhr, the French disappeared without sounding their farewell clairons, leaving nothing behind but a few posters with the insurance that France keeps all treaties and promises sacred. Occupied by the hordes of French soldiers, victorious pride and deluded screams of revenge and violence! Now this insistence on military representation, so far removed from the spirit of true democracy, this handing over of brutal demands on the tips of the bayonets! The city sat in silent contempt. And a few months later, after the Reichswehr, which had crushed the Red Army uprising around Wesel, evacuated the neutral zone in the Ruhr, the French disappeared without sounding their farewell clairons, leaving nothing behind but a few posters with the insurance that France keeps all treaties and promises sacred. Now this insistence on military representation, so far removed from the spirit of true democracy, this handing over of brutal demands on the tips of the bayonets! The city sat in silent contempt. And a few months later, after the Reichswehr, which had crushed the Red Army uprising around Wesel, evacuated the neutral zone in the Ruhr, the French disappeared without sounding their farewell clairons, leaving nothing behind but a few posters with the insurance that France keeps all treaties and promises sacred. Now this insistence on military representation, so far removed from the spirit of true democracy, this handing over of brutal demands on the tips of the bayonets! The city sat in silent contempt. And a few months later, after the Reichswehr, which had crushed the Red Army uprising around Wesel, evacuated the neutral zone in the Ruhr, the French disappeared without sounding their farewell clairons, leaving nothing behind but a few posters with the insurance that France keeps all treaties and promises sacred.

War and revolt had robbed the city of much of its elegance, little of its portliness and none of its liberality. But the air in the city was bitter, like the air in the whole empire in this and the following years. The whole quiet life of the city was trembling with an inner nervousness that had increased to the highest degree. The coming conflicts cast their shadows, which mingled with the unresolved old conflicts, and created an atmosphere in which striving to preserve the rule of cosiness according to the commandments of old-fashioned virtues must have seemed completely pointless. Everyone knew that, despite the apparent calm, something couldn't be right. Everyone sensed the deceit, and everyone was reluctant to expose it. For as soon as the ceiling was lifted and order shaken, something else was bound to break out, the unknown, the dangerous, that of whose eruptive power only a shuddering presentiment lived in people's minds. And yet there was something that wanted to live more decisively. Beneath the surface, the edge of a fracture rippled, the mirror of a new content rose into the old form. Many were homeless, and many still felt without standards, and many were ready to see that new virtues must grow on new levels, and that the deepest desires could no longer ripen in mere progress. After I had been stamping rings for jars in a rubber factory for a few weeks, the works council found out that I had been to the Baltic States

was. I had almost forgotten that; the Baltic lay behind me like a wild, confused dream. But the works council threatened a strike by the workforce if I were kept on, and I was fired. I then tried it as an apprentice in a film company, but I soon had differences with the boss, which ended in a threat of a slap and a slap in the face. The boss threatened. I finally wrote out premium receipts at an insurance office for eight hours a day. The department head praised my diligence and criticized my handwriting. From four o'clock in the afternoon I was free. At the works meetings, the colleagues discussed several times whether it wouldn't be appropriate to throw a typewriter in the back of the director, who has an annual income of 60,000 marks, to teach him that the lower-level employees were starving. I seriously admonished my colleagues to fight only with spiritual weapons. Although I was always hungry, satisfying it seemed to be a secondary issue. I didn't have a coat. I didn't have a hat. If I wanted to put on a fresh shirt, I had to wash it in the evening and let it dry overnight. The shoes held up, they were captured English shoes from the Baltic States. What didn't last was the pants. Mending them was daily humiliation for me. The skirt also slowly but surely unraveled. But in my tie I wore a strikingly large, old-fashioned pin, the last of the family jewels.

My attic was stuffed with the weapons I collected in the days of the revolt. Under the narrow iron bed lay three cases of hand grenades and ten cases of rifle ammunition. The guns, greased and tied, were bundled up and took up almost a third of the room. Kern, who was still an active naval officer in the Reichsmarine, came up to my attic once every month on his way to Munich, where he held mysterious conferences. He usually stayed a day or two and slept in a hammock. Once he was rummaging through my books. I had nailed together a shelf out of crate boards, on which Rathenau and Nietzsche, Stendhal and Dostoyevsky, Langbehn and Marx stood in a jumble. "Can I take this with me?" Kern asked, holding "Of Coming Things" in his hesitant hand. "Gladly," I said, eager to hear his judgment and glad that he didn't relegate my, though notable, inclination towards books to the realm of personal whimsy. A large patriotic association, which emerged from a formation of temporary volunteers, wanted to set up a local group in the city. I went to the inaugural meeting with Kern. The men all wore white stand-up collars. They called each other brother. We introduced ourselves, and it touched me pleasantly that, despite my somewhat disheveled attire, the brothers regarded me as one of their kind. But

was there a reason for this? for the very first words of the leader of the meeting urgently pointed out that the order had made it its sacred duty and task to especially cultivate the bridging of class and status differences. I listened carefully and only feared the waiter, who always wanted to put a glass of beer in front of me. There were about forty gentlemen in the bar, mostly younger and all from the so-called better classes. When the front spirit was quoted, the mood became warmer. Then there was talk of the octagonal cross of rebirth, and that interested me because, after hearing about the symbols and customs of this covenant, I hoped to sense the glimmer of a new romanticism, the first splendor of a mystical awareness of life . I leaned over to my neighbor and asked him in a whisper, what this rebirth cross is all about. He replied: "Not at all, it doesn't matter!" I jumped back, somewhat frightened, and I must say that I was somewhat sobered. The brother follower master, as the lecturer was called, was, as I learned at the introduction, the private secretary of a large bank. Now he spoke of Realpolitik and accordingly demanded a united Greater Germany and the rejection of the thoroughly un-German socialism. The older brothers nodded eagerly, the younger ones listened with interest but in silence. The party spirit, said the speaker brother, had led the German fatherland to the abyss of ruin, and only a moral, cultural, religious and political renewal in the spirit of brotherhood of the order "Never mind, it doesn't matter!" I jumped back, somewhat frightened, and I must say that I was somewhat sobered. The brother follower master, as the lecturer was called, was, as I learned at the introduction, the private secretary of a large bank. Now he spoke of Realpolitik and accordingly demanded a united Greater Germany and the rejection of the thoroughly un-German socialism. The older brothers nodded eagerly, the younger ones listened with interest but in silence. The party spirit, said the speaker brother, had led the German fatherland to the abyss of ruin, and only a moral, cultural, religious and political renewal in the spirit of brotherhood of the order "Never mind, it doesn't matter!" I jumped back, somewhat frightened, and I must say that I was somewhat sobered. The brother follower master, as the lecturer was called, was, as I learned at the introduction, the private secretary of a large bank. Now he spoke of Realpolitik and accordingly demanded a united Greater Germany and the rejection of the thoroughly un-German socialism. The older brothers nodded eagerly, the younger ones listened with interest but in silence. The party spirit, said the speaker brother, had led the German fatherland to the abyss of ruin, and only a moral, cultural, religious and political renewal in the spirit of brotherhood of the order The brother follower master, as the lecturer was called, was, as I learned at the introduction, the private secretary of a large bank. Now he spoke of Realpolitik and accordingly demanded a united Greater Germany and the rejection of the thoroughly un-German socialism. The older brothers nodded eagerly, the younger ones listened with interest but in silence. The party spirit, said the speaker brother, had led the German fatherland to the abyss of ruin, and only a moral, cultural, religious and political renewal in the spirit of brotherhood of the order The brother follower master, as the lecturer was called, was, as I learned at the introduction, the private secretary of a large bank. Now he spoke of Realpolitik and accordingly demanded a united Greater Germany and the rejection of the thoroughly un-German socialism. The older brothers nodded eagerly, the younger ones listened with interest but in

silence. The party spirit, said the speaker brother, had led the German fatherland to the abyss of ruin, and only a moral, cultural, religious and political ren

could free it from the disgraceful provisions of the shameful dictate. The applause was great and the waiter wanted to give me another glass of beer. A gentleman thanked the speaker for his light and warm-hearted speech and opened the debate. A rather dark-haired gentleman, who had been sitting near me visibly nervously the whole time, immediately jumped up and asked with some excitement how the order felt about the Jewish question. An embarrassed silence followed, and finally the brother entourage cleared his throat and remarked that the order maintained absolute neutrality in religious matters. The tactless questioner, unable, it seemed to me, to increase sympathy for his race, sat down right next to me. Then he informed me that he was a member of the board of the German-Völkischer Schutz- und TrutzBund, enthusiastically pressed a bundle of papers into my hand and bubbled into my ear all the secrets of the wise men of Zion. The membership card was already under his pen, but when I told him my name, he became noticeably cooler and soon sat down again, whispering eagerly to his neighbor. Meanwhile, various questions were still being asked, as homeowners and tradespeople, vegetarians and retired majors demanded the Order's defense of their true ideals. But the Order was always determined to be absolutely neutral. I looked at Kern, who had been sitting there in silence the whole time, then I got up timidly and allowed myself to ask what specific tasks the federal government had set itself.

I suspect that it should first of all represent a kind of reservoir or a continuation of the temporary volunteer formations, in order to so the oppressive chains of...? Then an older brother, a university professor, as I found out, interrupted me and insisted that the order could and would only realize its aspirations through legal means! I asked, but what, but what, for God's sake, are the aspirations of the order? And I felt that I was well on the way to making myself unpopular. But my neighbor suddenly shook my hand and introduced himself. His name was Heinz and he said he would like to pay for my beer. I was heartily grateful to him for that. The discussion was over and now, as the brother entourage master humorously remarked, Fidelitas could begin. Gradually, beer consumption increased. And if at the first glass there was talk of bridging the class and status differences, at the tenth glass "Heil dir im Siegerkranz" was sung. This didn't annoy me. What annoyed me more was that the windows were carefully closed before this singing. Kern got up. Heinz and I followed him. Pretty shocked we made our way home. The patriotic associations grew like mushrooms out of the ground. The believers of the disturbed classes gathered in them. It was the same mix of opinions and people everywhere. Whatever scraps and fragments of past values and ideologies, confessions and feelings from the

rescued from shipwreck, mingled with the catchy slogans and half-truths of the day, with swollen insights and genuine scents to form a constantly circling tangle from which the thread spun, pulled by a thousand busy hands and woven into a carpet of bewildering colourfulness. From the gray undertone of the theories grew the little flowers, talkative bushy beards, splashed the colorful screams of deceived and light-thirsty youth, German womanly virtue drew delicate tendrils. The world of employers and workers contributed their mite of social issues; the desert cry of bald party executives planted its lights after the younger generation; the interests of the most diverse trades pushed impishly into the room. Bismarck framed by decorated generals, threatened and delighted in plaster of laurel trees; Windcheaters and privations, fanfares, flags and parades, and the agony for real expression of real power, determined the pomp and pomp; a strange mixture of beer vapor, sun myth, military music killed the pale fear of life. The basic chord of very loud manliness was drowned out in consecration by quotations from Schiller and the Deutschlandlied; in between there was a rumble of runes and rattles of rascals. Around the mottled painting wound the fool's hem with its fringes of sects and churches, prophets and apostles. The wildest romanticism made treaties with naked civilization. And dreams shimmered everywhere, they whirled through all brains, all hearts; the need, the faith and the fallow power produced plans, Flags and parades and the agony for real expression of real power determined the pomp and pomp; a strange mixture of beer vapor, sun myth, military music killed the pale fear of life. The basic chord of very loud manliness was drowned out in consecration by quotations from Schiller and the Deutschlandlied; in between there was a rumble of runes and rattles of rascals. Around the mottled painting wound the fool's hem with its fringes of sects and churches, prophets and apostles. The wildest romanticism made treaties with naked civilization. And dreams shimmered everywhere, they whirled through all brains, all hearts; the need, the faith and the fallow power produced plans, Flags and parades and the agony for real expression of real power determined the pomp and pomp; a strange mixture of beer vapor, sun myth, military music killed the pale fear of life. The basic chord of very loud manliness was drowned out in consecration by quotations from Schiller and the Deutschlandlied; in between there was a rumble of runes and rattles of rascals. Around the mottled painting wound the fool's hem with its fringes of sects and churches, prophets and apostles. The wildest romanticism made treaties with naked civilization. And dreams shimmered everywhere, they whirled through all brains, all hearts; the need, the faith and the fallow power produced plans, The basic chord of very loud manliness was drowned out in consecration by quotations from Schiller and the Deutschlandlied; in between there was a rumble of runes and rattles of rascals. Around the mottled painting wound the fool's hem with its fringes of sects and churches, prophets and apostles. The wildest romanticism made treaties with naked civilization. And dreams shimmered everywhere, they whirled through all brains, all hearts; the need, the faith and the fallow power produced plans, The basic chord of very loud manliness was drowned out in consecration by quotations from Schiller and the Deutschlandlied; in between there was a rumble of runes and rattles of rascals. Around the mottled painting wound the fool's hem with its fringes of sects and churches, prophets and apostles. The wildest romanticism

made treaties with naked civilization. And dreams shimmered everywhere, they whirled through all brains, all hearts; the need, the faith and the fallow po

who populated the Rhine with U-boats, destroyed the English fleet with waves of death and rolled up the Polish Corridor with scythe-armed peasant mobs. These bonds were a symptom. This is where people gathered who felt betrayed and betrayed by time. Nothing was real anymore, all the pillars swayed. The hopeful and the despairing crowded together, hearts were all open, hands clung to what was familiar. Their concentration fostered that mysterious whirlpool from which, in play and counterplay, in belief and disbelief, that which we called the new could arise. If anywhere, then the new blossoms out of the chaos, there, where misery makes life deeper, where, at elevated temperatures, what cannot survive is burned up, what should triumph is purified. We could cast our desires into this fermenting, bubbling mush, and see our hopes steam out of it. Kern had asked Heinz and me to pick out the best and most active guys from all the patriotic associations, to maintain a cell in each club and thus to gather a small but hardened group with which one could not only have German evenings and happy commerce, but also could undertake certain things which, however, could not be accomplished with the best-intentioned patriotic enthusiasm alone. The city, Kern calculated, could possibly become the center of a large-scale resistance conspiracy against the inter-allied occupation of the Rhineland. The

Reich, it seemed, was on the verge of complete crumbling. It was necessary to be prepared for the moment of disintegration. Every town, every village, Kern said, would then have to be held. Connections, he said, to Hungary, to Turkey, to the other oppressed peoples had already been established. And indeed: there came enough mysterious strangers, sent by Kern, who brought short messages and then traveled on, who carried manifold messages from city to city, from state to state, from country to country and thus worked on a living network. Small squads of young people, ready for the last, were waiting everywhere, the patrols of the uprising—we had to gather them here too.

we collected. Heinz had a head full of ideas. He had been a very young officer, wounded four times, tried in Freikorps battles, now a secret poet and, with emphasis, an aesthete. Bitter hater of all sentimentality, he loved to kill melancholic emotional problems with a single word full of the cruelest irony. A thousand fragrant little waters stood on his bedside table - but he invented a new way of making explosives from dirt. He made excellent sonnets and shot the ace of hearts from 50 yards. We both joined eighteen clubs. Wherever there was a young fellow who was indignant at the slow incrustation of patriotic sentiments, at the incessantly babbled speeches of honored old men and aged luminaries, we approached him and enticed him. We grabbed workers and students, pupils and young merchants, idlers and

All-rounders, ardent idealists and sneering fanatics. Just as we organized the Fronde in the leagues without organization, so we formed a security force without obligation. We secured the meetings of the national parties and dealt with the invading communists. We broke into the assemblies of Democrats and Majority Socialists together with the Communists and blew them up together with them. We tried to disrupt communist meetings, and that got on us badly. But the crowd soon grew and got used to each other. The leader of the communist raiding party was called Otto and had invented the soot bombs, ingenious mixtures of plaster of paris, soot and water which, bursting in the face thrown at, turned a clear-faced baker into a blind chimney sweep. Otto could be seen at every brawl. We knew each other and greeted each other when we met on the street or before battle. Soon we were friends. Jörg was a Schupo man. Once, all by himself, he cleared an inn full of rampaging Polish migrant workers by pulling off a hand grenade and holding it out silently, running towards the dense mobs. Only at the very last moment did he throw her through the window. He joined us after he had beaten out with us Mahrenholz, the student, who declared at a workers' meeting that he knew well that he was throwing pearls before pigs here and was then beaten half to death.

We rummaged in the most distant areas. Wherever there was anyone who showed courage on any occasion, no matter how foolish, we approached him, and he was always ours. We usually recognized each other at first sight. There were always three or four men out of a hundred who came to us almost of their own accord. Jörg dragged along comrades and Otto, squeaky boys; we sniffed each other a little and found that our respective world views coincided happily on the crucial points. Heinz shot the bird. He brought us a committed pacifist of the most warlike sort. When we were fifty men strong, Kern came roaring and stopped the advertising. Fifty men were plenty enough for the time being.

For a while, economics appealed to me. "We don't have the foggiest idea," I explained to Heinz, "of the economic conditions and inevitabilities!" "We're talking," I said, "completely blind!" "We still have a lot to learn," I said. And I bombarded the lectures in the folk education center and in the university; I bought books with statistics and notes and references; my pockets were full of pamphlets and spreadsheets. I didn't understand anything. I understood nothing. I knew the Communist Manifesto by heart and so beat Otto with it in the debate. Then I had it with religion. 'The renewal,' I said to Heinz, 'must be done with religious fervor

to be connected." "Are we," I asked him, "religious? I have no idea!" "And yet," I said to him seriously, "what drives us is of religious origin. We are seekers, not yet believers." "We must," I protested, "become believers!" And I went to churches, Protestant and Catholic — I was expelled from the synagogue. I let myself be captivated by the sonorous enthusiasm of the preacher of the Paulskirche, felt the shudder of the divine secret in the high mass of the cathedral, called up the sun with blond boys in the Taunus, debated with youth activists of all denominations, ended up with Nietzsche, despaired and intoxicated myself and explained , we must go beyond Nietzsche. "The literature!" I said to Heinz. «We don't even know from which spiritual sources our actions are fed! If we want to recognize Germanness," I implored him, "we must conquer the works in which it is reflected!" And I read. I read with furious fervor all night long, was the horror of book-owning friends, a regular at the city library, read wildly, from the Edda to Spengler, no matter how it happened, was a customer of the communist "book box" in the arcade and the Borromeo Society. Heinz threw booming chants from the Divine Comedy at me, I threw Shakespeare's lashing monologues at him; finally we agreed on Hölderlin. For all these months I wrote award receipts for eight hours a day. Colleagues always knew when there had been a political meeting in town. By the number of dents on mine

Heads they thought they could recognize the political direction of the respective speaker. They smiled at me because of my ignorance in meddling in things that just didn't concern me at all. But they didn't hold it against me that I didn't take part in their hour-long debates about salary increases and general tariffs and association elections. I lived the life of this city. I queued for four hours at the box office to get another gallery ticket, and in the process made friends with the only experts in the audience. I begged for free tickets for the Monday concerts of the Philharmonic Orchestra, I smuggled myself through the entrance gate of the Palmengarten without a ticket, pretending to be a long-time subscriber. I promenaded in front of the concert pavilion with the others on Laesterallee, cast victorious looks at the girls and had philosophical conversations. At first I was a little embarrassed about the state of my wardrobe, then I made a virtue of necessity and behaved like a bully even more. I took dance lessons. It cost me nothing, because Madame Grunert, in desperation, That so few gentlemen and so many ladies honored her institute benevolently and with the utmost tact closed both eyes. There wasn't a notch on the surrounding farming villages that I couldn't be found on. i fell in love I fell into the deepest abyss of wild longing for death and at the same moment I was exposed to the glowing sun of the utmost affirmation of life

hurled. At a nod fromherI was ready to blow up myself, the house, the city, the world. Then I bought the booklet in matchbox format "Mozart on the Journey to Prague" and wrapped it up in twelve folio pages of my closely written poemshe.I considered that I would soon have a large family to support, and decided to work overtime writing bonus receipts—and God only knows how hard that was for me. The colleagues in the office were amazed that I was now shaved every day.HerI gave a gold chain from the first overtime pay; then I had a marvel of a suit built for me. By the way wassheten years later my wife.

In those days the Reich government carried out the great disarmament campaign. Anyone who handed in a rifle was to receive a hundred marks. As soon as we found out, we ran. We sought out every wealthy man who even remotely had a patriotic touch about him, we scoured the estates in the area, we ran into the houses of society ladies. And begged. We begged for cash, swindled where the man didn't seem safe, burst out enthusiastically with the truth where he vehemently cursed the government and the French. Instead of money, Heinz was given a sausage by a manor owner. A charitable lady handed me a bowl of soup in the stairwell. On German evenings we begged the citizens to give us their guns. Otto searched

his comrades, but they themselves knew what guns are useful for and kept them. We lined up near the police stations and winked at the worthy gentlemen who, with rifles on their shoulders, wanted to fulfill their civic duties for a hundred marks, and dragged those who seemed to be in favor into a dark corner and offered a hundred and five. So we snatched numerous weapons from the juggernaut of destruction and dragged them home. This didn't attract attention, because the citizens with their bagged rifles walked gravely on all the streets. A detective only stopped Otto; for Otto was too well known. But Otto faithfully looked the detective in the eye and declared: "I was just about to deliver it!" But the detective insisted on accompanying Otto to the police station, and so Otto got his hundred marks and lost five in this way.

But Jörg and his cops dragged the rifles away by the handcart. Gradually each of us had an armory as big as mine. From the tame bourgeois middle, the weapons swam to the activists to the right and left. This was not quite the success that the Reich government hoped for from this action.

There was good reason to doubt whether the Reich government was in a position to wish for anything but the possibility of their existence. A compromise product of all the contradictions that divided the empire, she was unable to dare anything decisive; because everything that is decisive is a risk, and since all of them push against each other

Forces kept the balance, a single step into the unknown had to let the beam hit mightily, unpredictably deep down.

The West threatened relentlessly with the club blows of the billions in demands. Saying no to him meant opening the sluice gates of the flood that was already flooding the dams of Poland; yes to submission meant suffocation. The Reich government could do nothing but clothe its distress in paper formulas, send out notes, defend against ultimatums, beg, protest, appeal and renounce. And just as the Reich was worn down and crushed between the powers of East and West, which were struggling for power and life, so the Reich's government stood between all camps in which, in the fiery excitement of danger, the crowds, ready to leap, sensed the enemy's weaknesses.

We will never forget how fate dropped us because we could not confess to it. We will never forget how life itself sought its way out, how the pressing forces slowly and swayingly scrambled and doggedly amidst all the opposites, how the dead formula grew out of pressure and counterpressure. We will never forget how the empire was formed, the form that was never form, how the crust slowly covered itself over movement, over all feverish searching, wanting, glowing. «Stuffing air, sticking air!» said core. "You have to punch holes in the crust so that a fresh wind blows into our dull German spaces!"

He came to my room and reported that he had retired from the Reichsmarine. The task now is to lay the groundwork for decisive action in a hundred small individual companies. He sat tensely, hunched over the ammunition cases and described how, like us, individuals everywhere in the sea of tired, starving, wasted people were arming themselves. As yet, he said, neither the path nor the ultimate goal is known. But the cry that rises in every alley after the strong man guarantees that, since the word has not yet been commanded, the deed must open the ears for the word. He believes, he said, in the inevitability of events. The first thrust must hurl us into a whirlwind of chained dangers, which greet us lightly and playfully, in order then to grow in our actions, and then violently, After a long conversation he got up. Reflecting, he took the book I lent him out of his portfolio and put it on the shelf. I looked at him inquiringly. Kern only said: "So many sparks and so little dynamite!"

advance

At the beginning of 1921 a young man named Gabriel came to us. We sat, Kern, Heinz, I, in Heinzen's room. Gabriel said: 'I was told there were men here to help me. I come from the Palatinate. I was an officer in a Bavarian regiment. I had a sister. Four months ago I went with her outside the estate district. We stayed with a family friend; it was already late in the evening when we made our way home. At a field barn, a little off the path, the French came towards us. A patrol consisting of a drunk officer and four men. They stopped us. The officer asked for a passport. I told him no passport needed, we never needed a passport except going to town. I tried in vain to persuade the officer. He yelled at me. I, too, raised my voice and asked if that was the much-vaunted discipline of the French army. The man, the guy slapped me in the face. I held myself. My sister was with me. My sister screamed. The Frenchman grabbed her arm. I told him to release my sister. He said we had to go to the station and slipped his arm under my sister's. My sister tried to free herself. Then the guy wanted to kiss her. I snatched his hand from her. Then the guard grabbed me. They beat me, they dragged my sister away. I saw her trying to they dragged my sister away. I saw her trying to they dragged my sister away. I saw her trying to

escape. Half on the ground, they dragged her to the field barn. They held me. They beat me. I screamed, I cursed, I threatened. They bound me. They pulled me to my knees, they tied me to a tree. They stuffed a piece of stuff in my mouth. Gentlemen, I resisted to the end. Believe me, please believe me! The guys ran after their officer into the barn. Then I heard my sister scream. I heard..."

"Enough!" shouted Kern. He said with a dry throat: "I also have sisters." Gabriel continued softly, 'She drowned herself a few days later. I was with the local commandant, I described the incident; but he scoffed, threatened, said something about German whores. For four months I've been looking for the guy who killed my sister. Now I have found him. He is now in Mainz. Do you want to help me?" — We helped him.

With the recommendation of one of our friends in Kassel, a mysterious gentleman came to us, a stately, erect gentleman with a very high, white, stiff collar and a tanned face, which was only bleached on the forehead over a smooth line. The gentleman, elegant and reserved, cautiously let it be known that he was informed about our activities and approved of them, with the possible exception of a few small incidents. The gentleman reminded Kern and Heinz that they had been officers and spoke a few polite words about the plight of our fatherland, about the tireless work with which serious men and ardent patriots had gone about reconstruction even under the changed circumstances

and would have to make the sacrifice that the fatherland demands of each one of us, a sacrifice that even goes so far as to accept cooperation while apparently giving up our still untouchable attitude. "In short," Kern said, "do you want something specific from us, Herr Hauptmann?" The gentleman protested in horror: "Please, pardon, not a captain, no longer a captain, gentlemen!" And then explained that it had turned out that the French intelligence department was working with an army of German spies. The activities of these spies should be stopped. Wouldn't it be possible for us to set up a counter-organization, a kind of anti-spies defense, quite privately, of course, because the peace treaty unfortunately forbids unfortunately the German authorities this kind of activity - but he could - here the gentleman looked around cautiously and whispered leaning forward, he could probably make it understood that difficulties of any kind were hardly to be expected from his authority. The gentleman lowered his voice a little more and gave a longer lecture. Finally the gentleman said: «Of course gentlemen, your activity must remain secret under all circumstances. Absolutely secret and under all circumstances. Even my authorities are allowed...' 'I understand,' Kern said contemptuously. Heinz asked thoughtfully: "If I have understood you correctly, sir... is it our task to determine the names and personalities of the German and French spies who are in French pay...? - «And the further activities of these people», said the gentleman with dignity,

"So that means," I said, trying to give my voice the appropriate military sharpness, "so that means taking them down?" The gentleman was embarrassed. "That means: with the means at your disposal to prevent you from your pernicious craft!" he said. Heinz rested his chin on his hand and said: "Suppose one of us, in the course of his task, should by an unfortunate accident come into conflict with the laws which..." - The gentleman rose to his full, respectable height: "Gentlemen! They are German men! We all have to make sacrifices. We must all let our small personal worries take a back seat to the great and sublime demands of our beloved Fatherland! All of us...' — 'It's fine,' said Kern, standing up and stubbornly holding his right hand behind his back. The Lord went. A fervent patriot, untouchable, dutiful. The net was already stretched. Gabriel worked in the Palatinate. He was in a dangerous position; for the commander of his hometown did not return from a hunt, and Gabriel was suspected. In Mainz, in Cologne, in Koblenz, small, flexible groups formed everywhere; in Worms, in Trier, in Aachen they nested, always endangered, hidden, tireless. In the tangle of cities, on the vineyards of the Moselle and Saar, in the wide plains of the Lower Rhine, in the villages of the Palatinate, the young roamed in the shadow of betrayal, made connections, lurked, researched, reported. She

drilled their way into the structure which, expertly built up by the Deuxieme Bureau and filled with an army of spies of German nationality through the incessantly rolling Franc, dominated all areas of German public and private life. They traced the secret paths the franc took. They crept around closed houses, behind whose curtained windows the shadows flitted, they lingered in bars where suspicious figures met and took instructions from dark-eyed gentlemen in black coats and bowler hats. Suddenly, young, boldly, without any respect, they appeared in front of important bodies, warning, threatening, advising. They spoke the big word in the meetings of excited workers, in the factory yards, at the shafts, in smoky halls.

They were like the alert conscience of the provinces. The girls who went with the French feared for their braids. The citizens who had dealings with the officers of the occupation made sure that this was done in secret. The French gendarmerie, the criminal police—and not only the French! — rushed after them. The German administrative authorities avoided them like the plague. They, without hope, without means, without thanks, stood in all camps, spoke all idioms, were the only one for the French

near danger. In no city were they more than twenty men. We received the reports from Rheinhessen and the Saar region. The headquarters for the Rhine province was in Elberfeld, and for the Palatinate in Mannheim. French detectives arrested one of the Mainzers. He was beaten at the station. Two of his teeth were knocked out. He should say where the guns were stored. He was supposed to say who Heinz was and who Kern was. He stayed silent. They tore his clothes from his upper body and beat him with driver's whips. He clenched his teeth, bleeding, staggering, said nothing. A Frenchman lit a cigarette, stepped close in front of him and approached the glowing dot of his skin. He cried out in pain, the Frenchman dabbed him with the embers, asked with scornful politeness. But he said nothing. After three weeks the French had to release him, and the German authorities became uncomfortable. So we were spied on. Kern was pale with anger. Even in such small communities there must be traitors! It was important at all costs to find out who was in the pay of the French. Heinz asked if there was one of the men in the group who used to tease. He who taunts commits treason.

As so often, Kern and Heinz were away on a secret mission. Muellnitz, son of a general, student and ensign, came to me and brought an elderly lady with him. The lady said she ran a small business dealing in lace and jewellery. Their trade also often leads them to the occupied territory

Wiesbaden and to Mainz. In the Kurpark in Wiesbaden, where she made an occasional purchase with a business friend, the latter introduced her to a French officer. As it turned out, he was an Alsatian, used to be called Schröder and now headed the French news agency in Mainz. In the course of the amiable conversation, this gentleman was able to convince her that there was little money to be made with her trade compared to an activity with which she would also be doing him a favor personally. The lady, bewildered, unfamiliar with the customs of lowly politics, as a seasoned businesswoman, paused, expectant but not unfriendly. The officer, captain in rank, talked at her, dropping sharp, stubborn insinuations, winking harmlessly, sneaking around the heart of the matter, patient, tenacious and sure of his cause. It was only necessary to introduce him to the lady's good acquaintances, perhaps gentlemen who were once in the Reichswehr or were still on duty there, or perhaps in the police force? Gentlemen, who would like to earn a little extra income in these bad times, wouldn't they, or, who knows, maybe even a big one? The lady remained silent. She left the matter open. The captain, not at all angry, gave her his address and, after a formal farewell, left. But the business friend insisted that she shouldn't be foolish, it wouldn't matter, the captain was so nice and very, very generous; she herself has... only little things of course, a little favor here and there, without any danger, thousands would do it to bring him good acquaintances of the lady, perhaps gentlemen who were once in the Reichswehr or were still on duty there, or perhaps in the police force? Gentlemen, who would like to earn a little extra income in these bad times, wouldn't they, or, who knows, maybe even a big one? The lady remained silent. She left the matter open. The captain, not at all angry, gave her his address and, after a formal farewell, left. But the business friend insisted that she shouldn't be foolish, it wouldn't matter, the captain was so nice and very, very generous; she herself has... only little things of course, a little favor here and there, without any danger, thousands would do it to bring him good acquaintances of the lady, perhaps gentlemen who were once in the Reichswehr or were still on duty there, or perhaps in the police force? Gentlemen, who would like to earn a little extra income in these bad times, wouldn't they, or, who knows, maybe even a big one? The lady remained silent. She left the matter open. The captain, not at all angry, gave her his address and, after a formal farewell, left. But the business friend insisted that she shouldn't be foolish, it wouldn't matter, the captain was so nice and very, very generous; she herself has... only little things of course, a little favor here and there, without any danger, thousands would do it who were once in the Reichswehr or were still serving there, or perhaps in the police force? Gentlemen, who would like to earn a little extra income in these bad times, wouldn't they, or, who knows, maybe even a big one? The lady remained silent. She left the matter open. The captain, not at all angry, gave her his address and, after a formal farewell, left. But the business friend insisted that she shouldn't be foolish, it wouldn't matter, the captain was so nice and very, very generous; she herself has... only little things of course, a little favor here and there, without any danger, thousands would do it who were once in the Reichswehr or were still serving there, or perhaps in the police force? Gentlemen, who would like to earn a little extra income in these bad times, wouldn't they, or, who knows, maybe even a big one? The lady remained silent. She left the matter open. The captain, not

at all angry, gave her his address and, after a formal farewell, left. But the business friend insisted that she shouldn't be foolish, it wouldn't matter, the cap

it. The lady who frequented the Müllnitz house shared the content of this conversation there with trembling.

We consulted. Then I decided to visit the spider in its lair. — Monsieur le Capitaine asked. We entered. The room was spacious with a huge desk in the middle. The captain, a still young, dark gentleman, cleanshaven, well-groomed, agile, greeted the lady cordially. 'I've brought you,' she said, 'two young friends who might be inclined to be of use to you. One of the gentlemen," she said, pointing to Müllnitz, "is a member of the Reichswehr, the other is with the security police." The Herr Captain was pleased. Although he only shook hands with the lady, he courteously asked her to sit down. I sat down on a chair that was close behind the desk, the lady was sitting on the other side, half behind the captain, Muellnitz directly opposite him. Muellnitz said hesitantly that he had heard that Herr Capitaine was grateful for information. The captain took out a blue folder, raised his hand gently and asked for our names. On the blue folder—I had a hard time deciphering the letters because I had to read them wrong— was written in red pencil: "Journeaux des canailles." The captain turned to me. "My name is Schroeder!" I said. The captain flinched a little, gave me a burning look. I gave him a stony face and handed him a passport.

My picture stuck stamped on the cover sheet. The captain opened the folder and entered the name in a long list. Müllnitz gave his name. He was terribly pale, and I could see his white fingers trembling on the edge of the chair. The captain closed the folder again and pushed it to the edge of the desk, right in front of me. I threw a quick look at Muellnitz; he understood. "I'm from Schleswig," I said to the captain, "I come from Hadersleben." The captain immediately said: "Ah, I have the honor of greeting you as a member of a people who, oppressed by Prussian despotism, are striving for reunification with their fatherland?" I, unable to say another word, bowed. The captain spoke German without any accent. "And you, Mr. Muellnitz?" Müllnitz choked out and his cheek muscles trembled: "My father is a general, and..." Oh God, why is he saying that, I thought, but the captain, eloquent, interrupted him: "I understand, gentlemen, you are Dismayed by their status, impoverished, serve without conviction. The Bolsheviks are a danger. Not only for you. The greatest danger is yet to come: Prussian Bolsheviks. You are, Mr. Müllnitz, as I can see, Bayer? » Müllnitz approved. The captain begins to ask questions in a conversational, fluent, elegant manner. He almost always turns to Müllnitz. A corner of white paper flashes from the blue folder in front of me. My hand slowly rises, rests on the table, moves imperceptibly towards the blue folder. Müllnitz stammers, babbles, tells personal things, wants to make it clear why he has a connection with the Lord .» Oh God, why is he saying that, I thought to myself, but the captain quickly interrupted him: «I understand, gentlemen, you are appalled by your position, you are impoverished, you are serving without conviction. The Bolsheviks are a danger. Not only for you. The greatest danger is yet to come: Prussian Bolsheviks. You are, Mr. Müllnitz, as I can see, Bayer? » Müllnitz approved. The captain begins to ask questions in a conversational, fluent, elegant manner. He almost always turns to Müllnitz. A corner of white paper flashes from the blue folder in front of me. My hand slowly rises, rests on the table, moves imperceptibly towards the blue folder. Müllnitz stammers, babbles, tells personal things, wants to make it clear why he has a connection with the Lord .» Oh God, why is he saying that, I thought to myself, but the captain quickly interrupted him: «I understand, gentlemen, you are appalled by your position, you are impoverished, you are serving without conviction. The Bolsheviks are a danger. Not only for you. The greatest danger is yet to come: Prussian Bolsheviks. You are, Mr. Müllnitz, as I can see, Bayer? » Müllnitz approved. The captain begins to ask questions in a conversational, fluent, elegant manner. He almost always turns to Müllnitz. A corner of white paper flashes from the blue folder in front of me. My hand slowly rises, rests on the table, moves imperceptibly towards the blue folder. Müllnitz stammers, babbles, tells personal things, wants to make it clear why he has a connection with the Lord already interrupted him: "I understand, gentlemen, you are appalled by your status, impoverished, serve without conviction. The Bolsheviks are a danger. Not only for you. The greatest danger is yet to come: Prussian Bolsheviks. You are, Mr. Müllnitz, as I can see, Bayer? » Müllnitz approved. The captain begins to ask questions in a conversational, fluent, elegant manner. He almost always turns to Müllnitz. A corner of white paper flashes from the blue folder in front of me. My hand slowly rises, rests on the table, moves imperceptibly towards the blue folder. Müllnitz stammers, babbles, tells personal things, wants to make it clear why he has a connection with the Lord

already interrupted him: "I understand, gentlemen, you are appalled by your status, impoverished, serve without conviction. The Bolsheviks are a danger.

Captain search. He drums his fingers on the back of the chair. I cast an imploring look at the lady who sits in silence. Suddenly she leans forward, and Müllnitz turns: "Isn't it, madam?" to her; she says something, the captain immediately turns politely to her; my hand begins to tremble, pulls, plucks, the bow suddenly sails to the ground at my feet. I hear the captain joking that the franc is better off than the mark. I bend down, pretend to adjust the shoelace, unroll the bow, and shove it into the stocking with fluttering hands. Muellnitz stares at me, I nod to him imperceptibly, have to bite my teeth, have to press my feet together to stifle the rush of my blood. Müllnitz, spontaneously resolved, gets up and promises to come back with material. We murmur parting words, the captain shakes hands with Madame, bows curtly; we go. The bow I stole contained a long list, the names of the canailles. The gentleman in Kassel could be satisfied. We sat late into the night and waited for Jörg, who was supposed to give us a report on the course of a gun transfer to a Taunus town. Kern was worried, Jörg should have been there in the afternoon. Around midnight he stormed up the stairs and staggered into the room, pale, distraught, sweaty. "Otto and Mahrenholz..." he gasped, "both caught. In Mainz." —

The guns were safely brought through the demarcation line. The recipients, farm boys from the Taunus region group, were waiting at the agreed place. The weapons were distributed equally and hidden. Then the comrades went to an inn to rest. Someone must have sent word to the French. On the way home, at the exit of the village, Moroccans came, led by French gendarmes. Suddenly they stepped out of a courtyard, rifles at the ready. The group immediately splintered; the French fired, four men were surrounded and taken prisoner, including Otto and Mahrenholz. Jörg was able to fight his way through. He rushed across the field to a neighboring village, got a bicycle from a farmer friend of his, and rode to Mainz, asking furtive questions along the way. The four had not yet been taken to prison, That same night we drove Mullnitz out of bed, who in turn harassed his uncle. This uncle had an old but fast Adlerwagen. I wrote a note for my company which, as so often before, announced that I was ill and unfortunately had to stay in bed. In the morning we drove off, Kern and I in the car that Muellnitz was driving, Heinz, Jörg, two cops in civilian clothes and a young communist, Otto's friend, by train. Each of us had a pistol in each of our trouser pockets and an egg grenade in each of our coat pockets. Kern still had two stick grenades in his coat.

The people of Mainz, who had already been informed by Jörg the previous day, had learned that the prisoners were locked up in the gymnasium of the Moroccan barracks, a former school. Kern had the location of the hall recorded and reported his plan. Then we were on our way. The car was waiting near the barracks, covered by Jörg and Heinz. The people of Mainz and the other three spread out on the surrounding streets. Kern and I walked towards the gate of the barracks without the pace of our steps matching that of our heartbeat. A Moroccan stood guard. He paced up and down with short, tripping steps. Countless French soldiers and officers walked past, strolled through the gate. The gym was free in the courtyard. I stopped near the guard, both hands in pockets, gripping pistol butts, pistols cocked. Kern turned the corner elegantly and brushed past the guard with a polite waving of his hat. He let him through without hesitation. It's amazing how much I saw in the few seconds that followed. The sun shone brightly in the yard, reflected in many pebbles, made the windowpanes and the broken glass on the walls gleam. A flock of sparrows scurried in one spot, in the shade of a large chestnut tree, which in the first adornment of early spring proudly stretched up lustrous brown buds with delicate green tips. How gracefully lopsided did the caps of the Frenchmen strolling past.

The sentry had a yellow, sallow face and deepset eyes with bluish shadows. His uniform hung loosely around his slim body; he was hung with a coarsely woven, strong harness, his flat helmet sat on his neck. And Kern, Kern walked with natural ease, his loden coat billowed out with his quick step, individual pebbles flew and spattered under his feet. Now he stood at the gate of the hall. Now he reached into his coat pockets... I croaked hoarsely, took a step or two toward the guard, who turned to me. And Kern took out a hand grenade, hung it on the door handle and pulled it off. And with a short turn he stepped to the side, snuggled up against the wall, in a corner. The sentry looked at me strangely. I stared at him and counted in my head. Five seconds, five seconds, then... A dull crack. The guard started and whirled around. I was at him in two steps. I didn't see anything now, I only saw the guard staring out of widened, blackened sockets, dropping his lower jaw, tugging at his rifle. Then my hands shot out of my pockets, the pistols shot up, I screamed: "A bas les armes!"The sentry staggered back, eyes and mouth wide open, uncomprehending, and stared into the muzzles. There, footsteps, shadows, noise. Kern was there, the others too, the French swarmed over; I jumped back, I saw Otto put his fist under the chin of a Poilu who had hurried up, so that he stumbled into his comrade's arms. And core, both

Arms up, fired the shots in the air; I turned and stumbled and sped off. This cursed pavement of this city! How many people were in the streets! Those were humans, weren't they shadows? Pale panes instead of faces, narrow lines instead of figures; go on, go on. There's Jörg, there's the car. The blows fly up, we throw ourselves in; the car groans and jerks and drives. "Quick to the bridge," calls Kern, "over the bridge as quickly as possible!" The car roars loudly, honking, and Müllnitz sits at the wheel like a stone.

We are stacked on top of each other. Otto, Mahrenholz, the two peasant boys. Kern next to Müllnitz. I hand out guns. "Loaded and secured," I say. Everyone now has a weapon in their fist, ready to fire.

We race across the bridge. How sluggishly the stream spreads. "The Rhine, the Rhine," I say, murmuring over and over again: "The Rhine." Until we're over there. The car loops the grey-white ribbon of the highway. "Be careful at the demarcation line," Kern turns, holding his hat. "I'm sure they telephoned all the guards!" We nod and remain silent. The forest sweeps by. Mahrenholz looks at me with a smile, nods, spreads his arms. I understand; he wants to say: the world is beautiful.

A group of houses. soldiers on the way. We're close. The soldiers wave their rifles, more and more hurry out of the farmstead. "Through!" screams core. Müllnitz steps on the gas again. The car jumps, squeaks, howls, races. It bangs, they shoot...

And we're through, we're through!

Mahrenholz bends over. What has he? blood on his cheek? Mahrenholz is dead. Many more will follow him.

OS

In 1917, the Kingdom of Poland was re-established by German politicians, generals and statesmen. In 1918 the grateful and liberated populace of the kingdom transformed that empire into a republic, and in the German provinces of Posen and West Prussia, the proletarian revolt into a Polish one. In 1919, in a bitter struggle with the weak German border guards, but not without the goodwill of the German authorities, the Polish occupation of the two provinces took place and was sanctioned by the Peace Treaty of Versailles. At the same time, the peace treaty created the Free State of Danzig, the Polish Corridor and the Upper Silesia voting area. The German National Assembly and government protested against the treaty and signed it. The Reichtaler Ländchen, just northeast of Namslau, the birthplace of the former German Reichstag deputy Korfanty was immediately included in the borders of the new Polish state by the Poles in the zeal for the occupation; although the peace treaty said otherwise in this regard, this was not noticed. The first Polish insurgent uprising took place in Upper Silesia and was crushed by German Freikorps and border guard troops.

In 1920, on February 11th, the Interallied Voting Commission, called IAK., under the leadership of the French General Le Rond, took over the government in Upper Silesia. In the summer of that year, the Russo-Polish War broke out. The cavalry army of the Soviet General Budjonni defeated the Poles and penetrated far into the Polish Corridor in former German territory. Poland seemed lost. German dreamers, who, as National Bolsheviks, fell under the curse of public ridicule, hoped that this unique, never-to-be-returned moment, which opened the gates to all German possibilities, would be exploited by Germany, bring about a German-Russian brotherhood in arms and Poland, and thus the strongest eastern pillar of the west will be destroyed. But in East Prussia and in the Grenzmark the security police was strengthened, an internment camp was set up for Bolsheviks who had defected and the strictest neutrality was maintained. In August 1920, the Second Polish Uprising broke out in Upper Silesia after a Polish army organized, equipped and led by French officers managed to block or throw back hung Soviet troops. The second Polish uprising in Upper Silesia, carried out by the Sokols, was suppressed by German protection police. After this happened, the IAK decreed. — in October — the removal of the Schutzpolizei and the establishment of a half-Polish and half-German voting police, the Apo. the 20th set up an internment camp for Bolsheviks who had defected and maintained the strictest neutrality. In August 1920, the Second Polish Uprising broke out in Upper Silesia after a Polish army organized, equipped and led by French officers managed to block or throw back hung Soviet troops. The second Polish uprising in Upper Silesia, carried out by the Sokols, was suppressed by German protection police. After this happened, the IAK decreed. — in October — the removal of the Schutzpolizei and the establishment of a half-Polish and half-German voting police, the Apo. the 20th set up an internment camp for Bolsheviks who had defected and maintained the strictest neutrality. In August 1920, the Second Polish Uprising broke out in Upper Silesia after a Polish army organized, equipped and led by French officers managed to block or throw back hung Soviet troops. The second Polish uprising in Upper Silesia, carried out by the Sokols, was suppressed by German protection police. After this happened, the IAK decreed. — in October — the removal of the Schutzpolizei and the establishment of a halfPolish and half-German voting police, the Apo. the 20th after a Polish army organized, equipped and led by French officers managed to block or throw back the suspended Soviet troops. The second Polish uprising in Upper Silesia, carried out by the Sokols, was suppressed by German protection police. After this happened, the IAK decreed. — in October — the removal of the Schutzpolizei and the establishment of a half-Polish and half-German voting police, the Apo. the 20th after a Polish army organized, equipped and led by French officers managed to block or throw back the suspended Soviet troops. The second Polish uprising in Upper Silesia, carried out by the Sokols, was suppressed by German protection police. After this happened, the IAK decreed. — in October — the removal of the Schutzpolizei and the establishment of a half-Polish and half-German voting police, the Apo. the 20th After this happened, the IAK decreed. — in October — the removal of the Schutzpolizei and the establishment of a half-Polish and half-German voting police, the Apo. the 20th After this happened,

the IAK decreed. — in October — the removal of the Schutzpolizei and the establishment of a half-Polish and half-German voting police, the Apo. the 20th

March 1921 was issued by the IAK. scheduled for voting. In the meantime three conferences, Spa, Brussels and London, in which the question of reparations was discussed, had gone in a way that was unfavorable for Germany. The Entente had occupied the Ruhr ports of Duisburg, Ruhrort and Düsseldorf and threatened further sanctions. In this sign the vote in Upper Silesia took place. 70 percent of the votes cast were counted for Germany. The German public celebrated this victory with delight. Based on the result of the vote, Korfanty demanded the Oder as Poland's border. He organized the Polish Sokols under the eyes of the IAK, raised an army of insurgents, gathered regular and irregular troops on the borders, armed them and thus prepared the uprising. At about the same time, the German government carried out the great disarmament campaign and dissolved the Orsch and its related organizations. On May 3, 1921, the third Polish uprising began in Upper Silesia. Insurgents, Sokoln and Haller troops pushed west to the Oder, north to Kreuzburg and occupied the country, openly supported by the French, secretly by the Italians, and supported by the English by waiting. Apo and allied troops were only still on duty in the towns of the industrial area. supported by the English by waiting. Apo and allied troops were only still on duty in the towns of the industrial area. supported by the English by waiting. Apo and allied troops were only still on duty in the towns of the industrial area.

At the protest meeting against the rape of Upper Silesia on May 22, 1921, seven days before the takeover of the Ministry of Reconstruction in

newly formed Cabinet Wirth, Dr. Walter Rathenau. He said:

"When on August 4, 1914, a German statesman spoke the most unfortunate political word that has ever been heard in our country, when he spoke of a scrap of paper and meant a treaty, a storm went through the British Empire, and this storm led to the wars. We said at the time: it's self-defence. But the British Empire said treaties must be kept. Therein lies truth. Because compared to the ruthless violence into which peoples fall when they pursue their interests unbridled, there is only one means of international law, the means of the contract, the means of the sacred contract between peoples. Such a treaty has been made between all the civilized nations of the earth. Not a treaty of justice, but a treaty signed by 28 nations, bearing all the marks of sanctity accorded to international treaties. This contract lasts for two years. What has become of him? Where is the sanctity of this Treaty of Versailles? Gnawed in the west and broken in the east. Who broke that treaty in the East? The people of Poland. For 120 years Poles around the world have been complaining about the injustice that has happened, about rape. Their men went through the countries of the earth as messengers and called for justice and against violence. And every time this call has gone through Europe, it has resonated. Even in Germany. Because that never happened

German conscience closed to those who sought justice and who appealed to justice.

This Poland has awakened again to become an independent and sovereign nation. Its first action is to break the treaty to which it owes its sovereignty and nationality. Lloyd George had asked the Poles: on what do you base yourselves, did you defend this Treaty of Versailles, with whose blood was this war and victory fought, perhaps with the blood of the Poles? This question was answered in Warsaw with a flood of insults. A reasonable answer could not be given. But we are the raped. We signed the contract. We signed the ultimatum. And being a nation of equity, we will keep what we have pledged to do. We do not incite our people to hate or revenge. But in return we demand justice before the world, and this justice cannot be denied to us. Justice has still been restored on earth after a long time or after a short time. In Germany we had to put up with the unspeakable. Our country is mangled, our resources are exhausted. We face a bleak future. But what sustains us is the belief in our unbreakable community. The call to unity you have heard is the call of the hour. We are and will remain a people of 60 million, and the world should know that this people is aware of its power. not for war

but to work. And not only to work, but also to represent his rights. We will defend this right by peaceful means. But it will not be taken from us. And if the unfortunate event should occur, if irresponsible men should dare to temporarily separate this country from Germany, then a event will arise in the world which will weigh far more heavily on the peace and on the consciences of nations than Alsace-Lorraine . Then there will be a wound in the middle of Europe that will never heal and can only be healed through justice. This assembly is an outcry of our conscience, and this outcry is addressed to all the powers of morality, reason and conscience in the world. These powers have not died out. One of the speakers mentioned a word from our great poet of freedom. That is why the meeting may end in another word from the same great poet, which we feel doubly as ours in these difficult times. He puts it in the mouth of a people who suffer injustice as we do, and he says: "When the oppressed cannot find justice anywhere, when the burden becomes unbearable - he reaches up to heaven with confidence And fetches down his eternal rights, which hang above inalienable and unbreakable like the stars themselves. »

On the same day, at the same hour, when the future minister delivered this speech in Berlin, Mullnitz, standing guard at a distant post, was attacked by Poles, killed and shamefully mauled. On the same day, Paul Tollner, a Marburg Teuton, was shot in the heart while advancing on the occupied Leschna mill. On the same day, the noise of nightly fighting rang out from Zembowitz, the rolling of the Polish ammunition columns on the Guttentag-Rosenberg road rumbled right in front of us, the patrols of the Haller army crept through the oak forest, the Leschna, the forest village we occupied in Upper Silesia, south-east of Kreuzburg -Sausenberg, surrounded on all sides with a dark roar. On the same day the situation of the insurgent army was desperate, for the storming of the Oberland Corps on the Annaberg had touched the heart of the Polish victory. On the same day the dispersed, fighting, victorious, advancing squads of German youth, the liberators of Upper Silesia, the pioneers of the nation, waited for the order - what am I saying - for the silent toleration of the Reich government, which gave way to the selfdefence formations waiting in front of the voting zone released to their fighting comrades; because the German victory was pinpoint. On the same day Briand issued a sharp note about the dissolution of the German self-defense formations. which gave way to the self-defence formations waiting in front of the voting zone to their fighting comrades; because the German victory was pinpoint. On the same day Briand issued a sharp note about the dissolution of the German selfdefense formations. which gave way to the self-defence formations waiting in front of the voting zone to their fighting comrades; because the German victory was pinpoint. On the same day Briand issued a sharp note about the dissolution of the German self-defense formations.

The next day, the Reich government issued the following decree based on Article 48 of the Reich constitution to restore public safety and order:

§ 1 Anyone who undertakes to organize people into formations of a military nature without the approval of the competent authorities, or who otherwise takes part in such formations, shall be punished with a fine of up to 100,000 marks or with imprisonment. § 2: This ordinance comes into effect immediately.

Among those who went to Upper Silesia, ready to die and eager to fight, there was not one who did so for the sake of the sanctity of the treaties. Not one marched in ranks to appeal to the powers of custom, reason, and conscience. And if any among them ever saw an eternal right hanging inalienably in the heavens above, it was the right of youth to seek justice in revenge. Because for the first time in Germany after the war a struggle was free of all problems. The call hit us in the heart, it killed all doubtful consideration in a moment. This country was German, it was threatened, and we marched to win it anew. Nothing lessened the force of the demand that suddenly overcame us, nothing could intensify it. What was the point of the government's fearful cry, which was not addressed to us, not to the awake power of young people, but to the conscience of the world? What do we care about the arguments spat out a thousand times by the press, by the authorities, from tepid lips? We were not concerned with what could be justified with numbers and statistics, with grades, ultimatums, with inheritance claims and election results. But that the Poles

now stood in the country and dared to offer us scorn, that concerned us.

The provinces, far away, hardly known, a wedge that was aggressively inserted between Poland and Czechia— and therefore loved by us—contained all energies at its point, because it was endangered it was now the focal point of the nation. This was recognized by all who ruled the metaphysical law through which alone the nation can be understood. This law requires action. So Upper Silesia became a touchstone for us, for the country and the people. Ultimately it was not about industry and coal production, about national economy and potato growing, not about the preservation of German culture and not about the well-being of the inhabitants of the province. It was about fulfilling the law of the nation. To those who knew, there was no why.

I stood leaning against the dugout as a guard. The dark lines of the ditch ran all around the homestead. The other posts lay, swallowed up by the darkness, on the village street and on the field and forest paths. Gunfire from Zembowitz and Rosenberg sounded very faint. Around the narrow clearing in which the village of Leschna lay nestled, the oak forest arched full of brooding secrets. I was amazed at the unknown power that hurled me to this place. And yet what surrounded me, despite the blue, magical veils of the softly approaching twilight, was full of compelling reality. But the loud movement of the past few days seemed unreal to me

me the reverberation of that world that had just held me under its spell.

I thought of the hour when the newspapers brought the first news of the Polish uprising, on May 4th at 6 o'clock in the afternoon. I read standing in the street and told myself it was time. I went home, packed my knapsack, and hurried to get to the nine o'clock train. On the way to the train station I met an older colleague from my company; I told him to please inform the management that I could no longer come to the office, I was going to Upper Silesia. The colleague murmured in astonishment and benevolently, yes, yes, the young people would be lucky, who could still change and improve, and he wished me good luck and hopefully I would get a better salary in my new position. Apparently my brave colleague thought I was going to Upper Silesia to write out bonus receipts there. I didn't explain it to him, I turned away hastily and greeted me, but Major Behring, chairman of many clubs, came towards me; I told him what I was going to do and he shook both my hands with a pithy manly pressure and said that as long as Germany had such young heroes as me, it could not perish. And I shouldn't fail to bring him one of the Upper Silesian voting stamps for his collection, of course with the postmark of the day of the voting. The train roared into the night. I stood in the corridor and tasted the foreboding of coming events with the coal smoke that penetrated every crack.

Translated from German to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.com

In Bebra, someone in a windbreaker climbed into the crowded express train corridor and stepped on my foot. As I stepped back, a conversation ensued, the effect of which was soon greatly altered by flashes of recognition. That was one of the Elberfeld group, I know by name. Reconciled, I walked with him through the corridors. Everywhere, in all compartments, young people were sitting or standing. They crouched next to snoring traveling salesmen and sandwicheating businessmen; They were watched suspiciously by the railway officials, they wore faded field gray and patched breeches like me, they looked extraordinarily like each other with their blond hair and haughty faces, without the reason for this resemblance for those who did not know about the similarity of their fate , was recognizable. We recognized each other immediately we greeted each other, we came from all parts of the Reich, scenting battles and danger, without knowing each other, without marching orders and without a more definite destination than simply this: Upper Silesia! While we were still on the train, we already formed the tribe of a company, a leader was soon recognized after a few minutes of conversation, immediately and naturally his authority was respected; one, a future company sergeant, was already making a list. In Leipzig, young people got on board who wore feathers on their caps, spoke Bavarian and had strange luggage with them: wagon wheels and heavy cylinders tied with canvas and strange pieces of iron packed in cardboard boxes. I brushed past them, knocked on such a roller and whispered:

"Guns?" And the one who stood first grinned: "Oberland!"

In Dresden came a troop of forest school students, green uniforms, hunting rifles, open hunter's hats, students from a forest academy. The whole academy, the teachers as officers, had left for Upper Silesia. They carefully stowed heavy washing baskets in the luggage nets and assured the conductor that these were surveying instruments for the Upper Silesian forests. In Breslau, the station master declared that the demarcation line was closed and that self-defense formations were illegal and would not be promoted. The travelers gave way uncomfortably and timidly when we confiscated and boarded a train and declared that we would smash the station if the train did not move on immediately. The train moved on. We got out in Namslau, and here the self-defence battalion was formed from the volunteers who arrived on every train. The fighters, the seekers, had separated themselves from all regions and all leagues, many different dialects could be heard and many badges could be seen. Young Germans were there, Stahlhelmer, Roßbacher, Baltic, state hunters, Kapp putschists, people from the Rhine and Ruhr, some from Bavaria and some from Dithmarschen. Whole student fraternities appeared as one, work detachments, settlers and soldiers lined up. workers and young merchants. Balts and Swedes and Finns, Transylvanians and Tyroleans, East Prussians and Saarlanders came, all young, all ready. And everyone

I had met the third man somewhere and at some point in one of the battles of the German post-war. And whoever I had not already met had a friend who knew me, whom I knew, or who had once fought on the same field as I did; after three minutes of conversation we knew about each other. In a few days a company was ready to march. Sealed wagons rolled onto a siding at Namslau station. At dawn we lined up and unloaded. The bill of lading said: machine parts. Now everyone had a gun, but ammunition was always scarce. I met Schlageter. Coming from the towns in the south to smuggle weapons and work with authorities, he took pity on the misery I described to him. At night we broke into the disgruntled Reichswehr's weapons magazine and stole an LMG and many cases of cartridges. Schlageter reported to me that he had seen Heinz, who was already at work down in the industrial triangle in contact with Hauenstein's special police. Then I found out that Muellnitz was in the neighboring formation and Otto was in Oberland to the south. I met Jörg a few days later; he had received the order to create a gun from Waldeck-Pyrmont to Upper Silesia. So he set off with his three cops without a vacation, requisitioned a truck from a poorly guarded brewery, loaded it with ammunition, tied the cannon to the back with strong ropes and drove across Saxony and Silesia, as a coupe, not stopped by anyone, in a gentle brisk manner to Upper Silesia. I do

I feared a failure of my otherwise alert instinct, which had always led me to the places of decision and this time landed me in the north of the province, while the battle broke out in the south. We heard all sorts of rumors from Oppeln, from Castle Löwen, where General Hofer, the leader of the Self-Defense Troops, was sitting, from Cosel and Ratibor and Beuthen. We knew negotiations were going on, negotiations! And we knew that nothing would be negotiated in these negotiations but us and the country, and we knew that every hour of fighting mattered. The stalks bent uniformly. Part of the embankment crumbled and slapped the bottom of the ditch dullly and shattering. I strained my ears and bored my eyes into the twilight. Nothing could be heard in the forest, only from Rosenberg the lost sound of gunfire sounded more violently. There the Roßbacher lay before the city. They had led the first thrust here in the north. They had liberated Kreuzburg and stormed Sausenberg and Wendrin Castle. Now they were in front of the city and could go no further. And here we were, scattered in the wide forest and couldn't go any further. Why, why couldn't we go on? No one answered us, we were bound by an order. An order, nothing else; for the Poles scarcely resisted us, they gave way before us everywhere; but we lay here now, giving them time to collect themselves again.

into their houses. The English, who crowded the streets with their fast cars, greeted our columns. Just before Schlageter left us again to make his way into the towns, he spoke to some English officers, who referred to their allies, the French and Italians, and the Poles collectively only as white niggers. The English did not think their own role in this Upper Silesian game was clean. They murmured to us through their teeth that we should, damn,but thewhite niggerschase to hell. We started this business in Sausenberg. We should be deployed at once. Take Leschna, secure the connection from Rosenberg to Zembowitz and watch the road Rosenberg — Guttentag. And now we were lying here, far advanced, in the middle of the forest, now we were lying here for four days and didn't get any further. I heard the clatter of a gun breech. Was that in front? The day was here. The post booth at the inn could be seen. I waved over, the guard fumbled with his carbine lock, which must have gotten sand in it. Four days ago, just before the nocturnal shadows began to set, we cautiously stepped out of the shelter of the forest, and we were greeted by music and screeches from the inn. We crept through the deserted village street at gun point. Because the Poles were supposed to be in Leschna, and besides, the whole village, with the exception of a single vote, voted Polish, and when the uprising broke out, the people of Leschna, as we were told, attacked the German Sausenbergers and many

beaten and abused. For that was how the uprising had happened here in the north; the local Sokols seized power, and the German villages were attacked by the Polish, and those loyal to their homeland were not able to defend themselves for long, for behind the insurgents were regular Polish troops, Polish Congress troops from across the border, and Haller legionnaires. The Poles denied this and we were eager to prove it to them. When we heard the music we thought it was a trap; and soon a few shots rang out. We rushed forward quickly and saw how a crowd of armed lads rushed out of the door of the inn and ran screaming towards the nearby forest. We banged after them, but when we got to the inn we realized that a wedding was being celebrated; the whole village was gathered; now only the weeping women remained. The bride met us, pale, with the high, proud, green bridal crown still on her head, a magnificent building made of fir and oak branches, decorated with red and white ribbons. The tables were occupied and bottles of liquor stood around; we thought of Seydlitz near Rossbach and hurriedly sat down at the tables for the wedding supper, and some Polish girls weren't as hostile as we thought; the bride, of course, was angry with us and wept. The Poles attacked early the next morning. we thought of Seydlitz near Rossbach and hurriedly sat down at the tables for the wedding supper, and some Polish girls weren't as hostile as we thought; the bride, of course, was angry with us and wept. The Poles attacked early the next morning. we thought of Seydlitz near Rossbach and hurriedly sat down at the tables for the wedding supper, and some Polish girls weren't as hostile as we thought; the bride, of course, was angry with us and wept. The Poles attacked early the next morning.

They shot out of the bushes suddenly and surprisingly, but a strong patrol of ours broke out and flanked them, and our machine-gun, mounted on the roof of a house, pounded them hard. They had to go back, but they left them in the bushes

Wounded lie, and one of the wounded was the groom. He was badly shot in the loin, and we hesitantly carried him into the house where his bride was sitting behind the stove, still in her bridal attire, and then we sent the paramedic in and stood around in groups outside. But we didn't hear the bride squeal as we feared, and a little later, when the company commander went to interrogate, the girl or young woman was sitting by the bed, pale and red-eyed, but still. The wounded man was a tall, slender fellow, with a fresh, open, intelligent face, the son of one of the wealthiest farmers in town. When asked, he said, and there was a strange pride in his words that he had been a soldier and in the field and had served with the Elizabethans. And when we asked him in surprise how he came to the insurgents, he said he was Pole, but he spoke German better than Congress Polish, had never been to Poland over there, he liked being a soldier, and his brother was loyal to his homeland, but he was Pole. The paramedic, stud. medical in the eighth semester, asked for rest for the injured man, and we left shaking our heads and debating. And then came the second attack.

We were attacked twice every day. We dug trenches around the homestead on the southern outskirts of the village and posted guards and sent patrols far and wide. On the second day Toellner fell in a counter-attack on the Leschna mill, which lay in a forest near the road, and we had to retreat for a short time, and when we advanced again we found the body stripped and mutilated. And so we decided that the wounded bridegroom the

had to be the only prisoner we let live. In the afternoon we surprised a Polish attacking column, smashed it and took two prisoners, soldiers of the regular Polish Infantry Regiment 27, in Polish equipment and with French rifles. Here we had proof that regular Polish regiments were fighting against us, and I vehemently opposed having these living specimens deprived of their value by shooting; but for two more days I was accused of not being immune to humanitarian influences. The prisoners were sent to Sausenberg.

A lark climbed up out of the cornfield ahead. Many Polish corpses must still be lying there; on the day when the blazing sun of that hot month of May burned down on the field, heavy vapors came over. None of us had bothered to look; we lay totally undressed in the hot sand during the day, basking in the sun, and when we were attacked in the afternoon there had been no time to dress, and strange enough might have been the sight of the naked men standing in the trenches and firing , who then advanced to counterattack, bare bodies, only the gun in their hand, white, shining youth, naked and defensive in the blazing sun. Even in the forest, the slender bodies shimmered through the trunks, and this attack of ours was the wildest and most lively I have ever experienced. —

It was fully daylight. The dew glistened on the stalks and the white sand was damp. But nothing stirred in the trenches. There the company lay. What wind had blown us together? There the men lay in the burrows, pressed tightly together. There lay Lindig, the journeyman blacksmith, and Busch, a senior lieutenant at sea. D. They blew their breath in each other's faces and their breath mixed; there lay Nawroth, Upper Silesian miner, and v. Unruh, son of a Wilhelmine Minister of State; there lay Kenstier, Transylvanian farmer's son, and Bergson, Baltic student. We came from all areas and were not strangers to each other. We were close, we had always been close. And no dams could stand; for we all served the same law, one law. And so we were truly free. That's why what was subject to bourgeois evaluation couldn't count for us, that's why there was no question of the past and the present that was insoluble for us. And it didn't occur to any of us to ponder the solutions. Our skill was unique and therefore full of the highest potency. We were happy that hardly anyone in the Reich understood, we were happy in the confusion because we felt one with the times. We were happy under the burden and happy in the pain; for we knew that we were found worthy to experience all the elements of life in our hearts. We knew that we were blessed to live more decisively, and so the transformations of life manifested themselves more decisively. We shared the deepest

Energies now rushing to break through felt us rushed by their vortices, ripening for death even more than for life.

It cracked in the undergrowth. The stalks rustled, noise mingled confusedly with the whirring of the leaves. I rushed through the ditch and gasped into every hole in the ground, and the old magic word of the front: "They are coming!" pushed the sleeping ones up, rent the veils of dreams, strained the nerves, filled the ditches.

We heard them scream. «Na pravo» — «Na lewo» — the Poles developed the attacking line in the forest. They chattered to each other, they had to drive the trembling out of their limbs with courageous words. This chatter before attack is the hallmark of the soldiers of small peoples. The Estonians, the Latvians, the Lithuanians chattered like that, these peoples had been under pressure for too long to know silent determination. The company commander hurried through the trench: "Don't fire until I give the order!" I aimed the machine gun at the depression that took up the path in the forest. Then it broke through the bushes at the edge of the forest. — We shot.

Why couldn't we go on, why did we have to go back, who gave the treacherous order? Didn't the Poles run where we came from? Where we marched, the Germans cheered us! And now back, back to the old quarters around Konstadt, now again waiting and doubting and damn his paralyzing restlessness, and this in the intoxicating moment of victory?

Heinz came, sore, feverish, with a shot arm, and told us about it. In the first hours of May 21, 1921, the Oberland Corps, a total of 1,000 men, had launched the attack against the Annaberg from Neustadt, against the key position of the insurgent front. The Oberlanders rushed through the forests, over the valleys, over the slopes, in three groups, unexpectedly hit the Poles who were expecting an attack from the south, climbed the heights in the fire that hissed from every bush, from every hatch in the house. At 12 noon the Annaberg was in German hands and more than a quarter of the Oberlanders were no longer alive.

And then the Bavarians, the Tyroleans, the Silesians, the scattered fighters of all German tribes, pushed into the country, into the confusing, blurred forests, into fleeing, hasty, broken columns of Poles - and they took victory with them and widened the wedge, and in hundreds of liberated places the bells rang, the German flags waved, and they rushed forward and the country swallowed them. Because there was nothing behind them. When they came to their senses, they were alone. Alone and lost they stood in the country, small, daring crowds, hidden in trees, resting in deserted farmsteads, panting in ravines and valleys. And in front of them the insurgent front was formed again. The German government, however, closed the western border of Upper Silesia. The German government, at the moment of victory, sent out their sipo hundred and threatened and arrested them with imprisonment

Or, self-defence battalions encamped along the line. And in front every man was needed. At the front it was all about the last thing, it was about fresh forces filling the troops that had rushed forward from Annaberg with new force, in order to sweep the country in one go through the confused, agitated hordes of insurgents and liberate the towns. One last push, a push with groups that weren't just pumped out, and the country was free. And on the western frontier the battalions waited, raged, growled— they weren't allowed, they couldn't. Just as the Sipo kept a border guard on orders from the Reich government, the Italians and the French had not kept a border guard. But those from Annaberg knew that they had been betrayed.

When Rosenberg was ready for an attack, a French detachment marched past us and the Rossbachers and occupied the town. The mayor and the maids of honor received the "liberators" ceremoniously and with high praise - the Poles fled unhindered. The French drew a new line, created a neutral zone four kilometers wide, and in this zone the Poles were allowed to roam, and we could only break in after weaving through the Poilus sentry lines. The Korfanty Line was shredded by our action. The whole north of the province could not be held by the Poles. Our line had not advanced as far as the Pless and Rybnik districts in the south.

Polish rule was sanctioned there. In the cities, however, the struggle raged on. Through the towns, over which the coal haze hung, and hunger and despair, the groups roamed, torn down, rushed, denied. Small troops, who were not thrown together by chance, who were thrown together by the call of the nation, the young lads whom the devil did not forget and not death, the ecstatics of their barren, soot-blackened homeland fought here, radioed through the darkness of shots of torn nights, always ready , always ready to risk the last, crept, betrayed by treachery, through the narrow passages of the streets, crept between heaps and cooling towers, lost themselves in the shafts, climbed over the roofs, crouched at the entrances of the country roads and secured, Known by none and distrusted by all, the cities they defended against the insurgent bands that hung greedily at the gates,

But one by one they disappeared. The Hauenstein people who organized the secret network, known to the higher authorities as the men of the special police, almost despaired when the news came in every day, when the meager reports came, when they found out how the groups were melting together, like this one was found shot dead, just as one was dying of a rattle under the butt blows. An army of

Spies buzzed around the lonely, the prisons swallowed them up, their blood spattered on the walls—Bergerhoff sank and Krenek, they got Nauenstein out of prison at the last second, Schlageter cut himself through three times, Jörg shot Otto out of a raging crowd of insurgents, yes Otto died the next day, his intestines torn to pieces. But the others, Eichler and Becker and Fahlbusch and Klapproth and whatever their names were, the last, the scattered ones, held their ground.

The towns where the groups were broken up, where no man fought any more, were left to the Poles by the French. The towns, in which the remnants of the groups were still fanatically banishing the dwindling energies, remained occupied by the IAK and freed from insurgents.

And so the new line, called the Sforza Line because it was devised by the Italian Commissioner Sforza, stretched across the coalfields, across the provinces, laid down by the sacred League of Nations, recognized by the Reich government, endured with a growl by Korfanty and the Poles. And it turned out that the line ran almost exactly like that formed by the front of the German self-defense after the Annaberg storm and after the Rossbach Action. And it turned out that Beuthen, that Gleiwitz, that Hindenburg remained German, although even Sforza included the cities for Poland in his line, remained German because the crumbling remnants of the German action groups held the cities there, held them in spite of the betrayal, despite the nagging, vain hope of German relief. The

Self-defense saved two-thirds of the province for Germany, and he could not save the last third because a German decree broke his back. We offered victory like a precious bowl on our sacrificial hands to those who threatened Poland with world conscience and us with imprisonment. And they dropped the victory, and it shattered at their feet.

While in the pubs, in the beer halls all over Germany countless protest meetings were mourning Upper Silesia's fate, we salvaged, in order to save what could still be saved, at least the weapons that we carried. We smuggled them along winding paths through the western border—because the Prussian police watched our actions with more squint eyes than the IAK. We buried them in the woods, handed them over to those who were loyal to their homeland, shipped them under harmless declarations to the Reich, to the Ruhr area, to the provinces, from which we sniffed the scent, they were needed there.

We stayed in Upper Silesia for two months. We were said to be volunteer farm workers, and during the day we tied sheaves, piled them onto swaying wagons, threshed and mowed. At night we smuggled weapons, secured the Polish border. In the sweltering heat of that arid summer of 1921, a specter grew out of blood, chaos, and danger. People whispered about him, unbelievers learned to keep quiet, and those responsible cautiously stepped back. From angry bubbling

it rose, satiated with the wild harvest of our experiences, and its slogan dripped into hearts like glowing lead: traitors perish from far away!

O.C It started in Munich. There, MP for the Independent Social Democratic Party, Gareis, was found shot dead near his home in the street after he announced revelations the night before about the clandestine continued existence of the militia. His death caused a stir, but it was not possible to apprehend the killer or killers. A few weeks later, the deputy Matthias Erzberger, Reich Minister a. D., with his parliamentary colleague Diehl at the foot of the Kniebis in the Black Forest in Baden, near Griesbach. He was overtaken by two young people who suddenly turned and asked the deputy if he was Erzberger. When the astonished answer was affirmative, the young people drew pistols and shot Erzberger, while Deputy Diehl, who immediately and hastily fled, received a shot in the arm. Two former naval officers, former members of the Ehrhardt Brigade, were identified as the perpetrators.

The police, trying to solve the mysterious murder with an unprecedented amount of forensic technology, found clues that led to Munich, Upper Silesia, Saxony, Hungary, the Rhineland, Berlin and Frankfurt am Main . Their tireless zeal succeeded in making countless arrests, all of which had to be reversed. Their zeal also succeeded in not arresting the two perpetrators. The indignation of large sections of the population about the shameful act was revealed in a wealth of relevant letters and observations of all kinds. The police discovered a document which appeared to prove the existence of a secret organization called the OC. One of the statutes of this league read: Traitors fall into the Feme. After the announcement of this extraordinary find, the abundance of letters became meager.

The people who had wondered how it was possible that within a few days a German army was suddenly in Upper Silesia, armed and ready for battle, without the German public seeing the slightest glimpse of mobilization, were no more surprised when they heard of found out about the existence of a secret organization. Nor were they surprised when dark tidings of Upper Silesia slowly penetrated the country, whispered reports came, hints that remained strangely in the twilight. Rather, her amazement gave way to a terror that forced her to remain silent. Because the rule of the OC soon became terribly obvious.

Murder crept through the streets. Poison, dagger, pistol and bomb seemed to be the tools of a band of cold-hearted criminals emerging from the darkness of the German confusion. Detonations erupted in the cities. Men who stood out for afar, tolerated as leaders by the masses and indeed worthy of them, fell in the fire. The people, starving, stubborn, embittered, striking, began to tremble. Carried away in furious demonstrations, the people protested against an incomprehensible danger that was casting clear shadows. Every single act made its mark. But the circles intersected, grew into one another. Soon there could no longer be any doubt that a unified, sinister plan was being acted upon here. Apparently, the OC began to do their reprehensible craft in full public view. The excitement grew with her the disgust. But at the same time an incomprehensible magnetic force was growing, which was sucking ever larger sections of the people into the criminal whirlpool that had formed beneath the surface. The universal idea of the OC had its influence everywhere. Any action created the shimmering air in which the games of the imagination took shape.

It was like a plague that afflicted the peaceful citizens. The air was thick with the smells of sticky catacombs. It came from the cracks in the doors of secretive back rooms with the sour whiff of conspiracy. The sharp wind of knife-cold cynicism drove even from the districts known as legal and idealistic associations. Countless Liedertafeln soon felt like organs

of mysterious power and felt called upon and blessed to be the saviors of the fatherland. It went with hush and hush and hush and hush through all the pubs, cellars and rooms. What's more, the song of Brigade Ehrhardt, the melody of an old English operetta hit, with the choppy sentences of the soldier's lyrics, resounded in every street. The children sang the song, patriotic associations used it on their German evenings, and the bands played it in the pubs by popular request. Through the shudder of mystery that shrouded the union and its deeds, the bold defiance of rebellion grew around the song. The men were legion, who sought great fame and tried to prove it. They whispered the magic word, "Orders from the boss," and no one dared to inquire, and the following was assured.

And it was strange and worrying at the same time that the roaring indignation was all too often and all too soon mixed with a secret pleasure, the anxious fear with a sweet tickle. There were moments, brought on by ghostly news of the OC, when even the frugal and most loyal subaltern was filled with enthusiasm like the froth in the beer glass in front of him. Like a gas-filled cloud, the nefarious spirit of the secret society expanded. Soon it even seemed an honor to belong to him. Many boasted in

intimate circles of being members of the Bund, some even boasting publicly. There were men the whole town knew to be leaders of the OC, and astonishment alternated with indignation that they hadn't already been seized and put in jail. The affair became a public scandal. The strictest orders and decrees of the authorities, the severest persecutions led to nothing. All concepts of honour, morality, custom and duty which maintained the state were soon to be shaken. But the poison penetrated even into the highest circles. An end had to be put to this hustle and bustle. All the responsible elements welcomed it with satisfaction when the police finally proceeded to make arrests in some obvious cases. But this is where the whole danger of the OC became apparent. Because in no case was it possible to get the delinquents to confess, to shed light on the background of the conspiracy. Secondaries who enjoyed a reputation among their classmates for being OC people, venerable majors and respectable patriotic club directors who were dangerously rumored to have vehemently protested that they had nothing to do with the OC. Men who had belonged to the Ehrhardt Brigade, who still had various connections with their comrades in Munich and in the Reich, who spoke openly of their "boss," told the police with cold foreheads that they didn't even know what that was: OC In the police headquarters, on the editorial desks, the material on mountains accumulated, again and again the

Public worried by new, exciting news, facts, leads, suspicions. One read in the newspapers that a corpse had been found here and there under mysterious circumstances, and that a murder had taken place; and in the absence of any further clues as to the identity of the killer, the crime had to be linked to the OC. One read that in various places in the Reich suspicious members of suspicious organizations had been arrested and the organizations dissolved; this is probably the OC. But no positive result was obtained. What kind of dangerous power was that, which, despite all the noise around it, knew how to cloak itself in silence? What kind of power was that, in isolated, very few and unproductive cases,

The ghost of the OC rattled its invisible bones. The plague was spreading. The Republic was in imminent danger. Plans aimed at overthrow and civil war appeared everywhere, mysterious armaments were being made everywhere. The land was fermenting; the clubs and associations got feverish, the authorities in dismay. From London, from Paris came the question, first confidentially, then with a restrained threat, what is the matter with this OC? The incantations in the press, the inquiries

in the parliaments were piling up. But the underground power of the OC grew and grew.

But the sharpest weapon in the hands of the OC, and the most monstrous danger that arose from it, was the fact that it never existed.

"Primitive natures," said Kern, who sometimes liked to lecture with a raised forefinger, "feel the need to take some of the terror out of the unknown powers to which they feel subjected by giving them a name. It is not unlikely that the transformation of religiosity into religion is due to this human need. The word bans. The god I call by name, build altars to, carve my own image to worship loses the best part of his demon, going from a god of vengeance to a god of law. The devil, relegated to his realm, hell, endowed with cloven hoof, stench of sulfur and grandmother, becomes a demon for domestic use. Lightning hasn't been so terrifying for a long time now that it's known to be nothing more than an electrical spark, which anyone can produce on a smaller scale. Since one can say simply and bravely: Wilhelm von Hohenzollern, instead of His Majesty, the Emperor has visibly lost the aura of divine right, which of course was not for everyone to understand and which therefore retained its enormous power to the end. The incomprehensible that is happening now and today becomes digestible and decent if you only know how to classify it correctly. There's the Sages of Zion, for example, the world conspiracy even visibly lost. The incomprehensible that is happening now and today becomes digestible and decent if you only know how to classify it correctly. There's the Sages of Zion, for example, the world conspiracy even visibly lost. The incomprehensible that is happening now and today becomes digestible and decent if you only know how to classify it correctly. There's the Sages of Zion, for example, the world conspiracy

of Judaism, Freemasonry, the Jesuits, in short, the supranational powers—how simple is the world that one understands! And it seems to me that if the term OC didn't already exist, it would have to be invented. Consider this: a secret society of men who are ready to fight for power by any means necessary, bound unbreakably to one another and above by a duty of confidentiality and unconditional obedience, with threats of death for the traitors, a union with such enigmatic statutes, a conspiracy with local groups , chairman and treasurer — and always secret: excellent! Isn't the danger, knowing it, half averted?" Kern said: 'It is probably the case that life itself is preparing for a breakthrough, penetrating into legitimate space. Good people who sense the ruling of spontaneously generated energies believe they are serving them when they intend to materialize them. They are under the spell of new images, which they are horrified to recognize as eternal. They sense the anonymous and want to calculate it, want to get around it. But you have to go through it. Basically, good people only defend order, not moral principles. Anyway, where are the absolute values that have to be defended? The bad conscience seeks to banish the power that threatens it. It creates a mumbo-jumbo to stink at and thinks it's safe. And those on the other hand who opt for the OC, what are they doing differently? than looking for reinsurance? When I meet someone who says they're O.C, I know they're either

Nair or impostor or detective. It is useful to know this. It is useful when the opponent falls prey to the appearance of things and thus misjudges their nature. It is useful to use cool skepticism to prevent oneself from confusing life with one of its forms. The suggestion is great. It creates the veil behind which good work is for us. We must welcome that document, that barbaric document, which, thanks to the kind cooperation of our capable but unfortunately somewhat neglected police force in terms of their intellectual abilities, became the occasion for escalating the conspiracy psychosis immeasurably. Incidentally, the man who drafted this interesting document and played into the hands of the police is very closely related and related by marriage to me. Evil tongues claim Kern said this comfortably, sitting on a small safe in my exchange office, more to Heinz, who was leaning against the low door, than to me, who was counting a wad of dirty banknotes at the counter. Since I had returned from Upper Silesia, I had been sitting in a small wooden kiosk in the middle of the station hall, taking advantage of the onset of inflation for a Berlin bank. There was nothing in the room apart from a narrow table, a chair, the telephone, the currency folder and the safe, and nothing more could have fit into it. When Kern had finished his obscure speech, I asked him if I had to telephone about a customer, he would like to be inconspicuous

press the button of the apparatus with one finger. And then a customer came and asked for dollars to be changed. I hastily promised to get the latest rate and picked up the phone. I called the foreign exchange department into the deaf machine and asked for the latest exchange rate. money or letter? I asked, eighty-two, thank you, I said, hung up and paid the lucky guy well below the rate.

"But that's cheating!" Kern was amazed and Heinz grinned. Indeed, that was fraud, I assured him, everything I was doing in this famous kiosk was fraud, fraud by order, right honorable fraud, fraud that is the soul of this business. And I told him about the edifying little tricks, about the system of little messes, like entering larger transactions in the books as a number of smaller ones, because a turnover of more than three thousand marks has to be taxed, but nevertheless letting the customer pay the tax and then bag them for the company; a ring of bureaux de change to officially hold prices down on purchases and ramp them up intensively on sales; and other such things.

"One must," I said to Kern, "be able to do that too. We still have much to learn before we are ready to face the devastating forces of civilization. You told me,' I said abruptly, 'that the people of Mainz complained that their freedom of action was hampered by the lack of money,' and you pushed a bundle of bills towards him. He drove back

and said sharply: "If other people are scoundrels, it seems to me, this should not cause you to become one too." 'It's to be assumed,' I said, paying the sum to a Pole with black fingernails, 'that you're still sickened by bourgeois sentiment. It is to be assumed" and collected the white 10 pound note that felt like powder paper from an elegantly silent Englishman, "that even if everything were clean here, the fact that the people of Mainz were unable to act due to lack of money is reason enough for me" - and something bounced back from the cloud of perfume of a French woman no longer young, greedily counting the bills, "both on the profits of my well-respected banking firm," and yet cheating a suspicious Dane by at least 10 percent, "and on the purity of the moral principles of my unguarded nineteen years to take no heed"

"It is to be assumed," said Heinz, "that certain things can only be said in screwed-up German." "I can't take the money," Kern remained stubborn. "If I had won this money not by speculation but by fraud," I said, offended, "then rest assured I would not have made any intimations likely to lead you to any alarming conclusions."

"The confusion of feelings," said Heinz, "seems to me to be the OC's most successful weapon." My kiosk soon became the financing institute for the Rhineland campaigns. Even Heinz had to decide to work in order to do his part to secure the sums that were absolutely necessary for our activities in the occupied territory. Through daring speculation we succeeded in creating a fund that was not inexhaustible, but was profitable for our modest needs. Because since Upper Silesia there has been a lot to do. In Upper Silesia, the place of the general meeting of the activists of Germany, it was a matter of course that the men who worked like explosive powder in all parts of the country now found out about each other and were thus in a position, through teamwork, to give the individual actions greater force and greater importance to lend. In the months that followed, a tough, invisible, springy network was created, whose individual meshes reacted immediately if the signal was given at any point. This happened without any imaginable connection through an organization, without a plan or mandate, solely through the action of a spontaneous and self-evident solidarity. Men were in all unions, in all camps, in all professions. They threw balls to each other, informed each other, warned each other,

and

jump up, the same Vocations, the same goals, that the same situation was given everywhere and begot the same actions. Thus a great and unified direction of will arose for them. There was a bond around her that was tighter than pledges of allegiance and organizational statutes could be; she was tied to the same rhythm that beat in her veins. It turned out that a series of new commandments, all recognized by them with the same elementary certainty, forced them into the same line. They held each other as people of one race, feeling the same labor pains and the same currents. The same doubts sprang up in them. They were apodictics of doubt, ready to cast off every ballast in their searching ways, delighted when they realized Thoughts

ideas

The men, still isolated in their ranks, dived into the mass of the nameless and rose again, driven by incomprehensible forces, they drew a quivering circle of unrest around them, ever ready to rouse hesitant forces to erupt with mad dashes , always active in overheating and burning through ascending demands, always willing to penetrate to the ultimate acuteness of the question. There was no field they dared not tread, no alliance they avoided. They became more certain that to recognize the laws of a state was to recognize the state itself. The realization flashed on them

that a new will demanded new laws, laws that were formulated in the restlessly working minds of the lone fighters and burdened them with an enormous responsibility that only those who were prepared to surrender unreservedly could bear. They forced themselves to the inexorable conclusion that it was not enough, if we were talking about sacrifices, to sacrifice life, but what was higher to them than life: honor and conscience. In this way they alienated themselves from the world, which they felt to be rotten, muddy, blurred, unspeakably improbable, even though this world gave them daily proof of the tugging force of their existence. So they acted, dynamic people in dynamic time, measured only by dynamic measures, on a level that must have appeared spooky and menacing to those around them. Thus they became outlaws from strangers, avoided from those desired, and criminals from those who acted. And they knew that, and they were not inclined to mourn it. One action led to another. With uncanny consistency the stream gushed toward the falls, sweeping us with it. We lived twice. What we gained in hated drudgery during the day in terms of material results enabled us to work at night and in the free hours. We jumped from one tension to another in the heated breath of action. We learned of each other in hasty encounters, all of which served a constantly changing purpose. Gabriel choked on the crouched groups of his

Collected laboriously the first convulsions of the separatist movement in the Palatinate through naked, bloody terror, without being able to destroy the apparatus well fed by Paris. The Elberfelders, spied on by the suspicious Communists, by separatists and French alike by the German authorities, vigilant under the constant, imminent threat of a French occupation of the Ruhr that had hung like a cloud for years, were laying the foundations of an unrelenting resistance, supported by Schlageter and his activists, who had shifted their base from Upper Silesia to the sooty towns of the Ruhr industrial district. In the Grenzmark, in the eastern provinces, in Brandenburg, Schulz built up the camouflaged national defense system, the black Reichswehr. In Munich the men in a grueling struggle with the inadequacies of sentimental patriots, felt with pointed fingers in the areas of low, high, very high politics, without gaining any other impression than that of the most unspeakable disgust, still found time, the French-inspired machinations of the Bavarian To put an end to the separatists, they felt their way across to Austria, drilled in Hungary and Turkey, fed the wells of the South Tyrolean resistance. We learned from Kern that he was, as so often, on the road in the Reich, the stages of his road through the reports that reached us from all sides, reports about arms trafficking in East Prussia, about the misleading of the police, the search for the Erzberger murderers searched, about the commissioning felt with pointed fingers in the areas of low, high, very high politics, without gaining any other impression than that of the most unspeakable disgust, still found time to put a precise end to the French-inspired machinations of the Bavarian separatists, groped Crossed Austria, drilled in Hungary and Turkey, fed the sources of the South Tyrolean resistance. We learned from Kern that he was, as so often, on the road in the Reich, the stages of his road through the reports that reached us from all sides, reports about arms trafficking in East Prussia, about the misleading of the police, the search for the Erzberger murderers searched, about the commissioning felt with pointed fingers in the areas of low, high, very high politics, without gaining any other impression than that of the most unspeakable disgust, still found time to put a precise end to the French-inspired machinations of the Bavarian separatists, groped Crossed Austria, drilled in Hungary and Turkey, fed the sources of the South Tyrolean resistance. We learned from Kern that he was, as so often, on the road in the Reich, the stages of his road through the reports that reached us from all sides, reports about arms trafficking in East Prussia, about the misleading of the police, the search for the Erzberger murderers searched, about the commissioning Without gaining any impression other than that of the most unspeakable disgust, they still found time to put a precise end to the French-inspired machinations of the Bavarian separatists, groped across to Austria, drilled in Hungary and Turkey, fed the wells of the South Tyrolean resistance. We learned from Kern that he was, as so often, on the road in the Reich, the stages of his road through the reports that reached us from all sides, reports about arms trafficking in East Prussia, about the misleading of the police, the search for the Erzberger murderers searched, about the commissioning Without gaining any impression other than that of the most unspeakable disgust, they still found time to put a precise end to the French-inspired machinations of the Bavarian separatists, groped across to Austria, drilled in Hungary and Turkey, fed the wells of the South Tyrolean resistance. We learned from Kern that he was, as

so often, on the road in the Reich, the stages of his road through the reports that reached us from all sides, reports about arms trafficking in East Prussia,

of six thousand farmers from Dithmarschen, about the wild capture of a separatist leader near Cologne, about organizing Sudeten German activists, about somewhat violent talks with Reichswehr group commanders, about the liberation of prisoners in the occupied territory. Kern quickly became one of the leading activists. If there was a gun smuggling in Danzig or an explosive attack in Hamburg, he would be called in as leader. Soon a wreath of legends wove around him. He, always at least three new plans in his head and one ready to be carried out in his pocket, constantly on the move, sweeping fresh air everywhere with him, glowed with an inner fire whose flames brooked no lukewarmness near him. Ruthless in his demands of others, because just as ruthless towards himself, this medium-sized, broad man with open features and dark eyes, whose will and physical strength were immediately apparent, exerted a compelling, suggestive influence that he only had in such cases abused where the price of the stake was greater than its value or where the actors proved inferior. The absoluteness of his nature forced his thinking to surprising results. Gifted with a pronounced sense of rank and character, he was always ready to passionately defend every emotional value until he recognized its inner untruthfulness, only to then suddenly throw it overboard. Nothing gave him more élan than the premonition of his early death.

In the meantime, however, the group acquired splendor and prestige in the city. Every weekend saw us in Mainz or in the Taunus area or in the bridgeheads. The number of people reported as deserters in the lists of the occupying army in the Rhineland grew to such an extent that the news center in Mainz turned its attention to us even more than before. Soon the informers appeared even in our most secret hiding places and presented themselves as loyal German men, which made them suspicious from the start. Soon anyone who had blood feuds over there turned to us, anyone who needed help with secret activities, anyone who knew things that the German authorities could not pursue with a shrug of the shoulders. Soon the authorities themselves turned to us. We drove many a premeditated wedge between department and department, between department and department, between office and office. Soon we were catch ball and soon we directed the game ourselves. In Munich, however, at that time a handsome, middleaged man was working as an authorized officer for an optical company and was tinkering with the invention of a children's toy. The gentleman was registered with the police as Consul Eichwald. The O. seemed to have her C. And she was just as real as that name and that title.

For a long time we didn't care what happened officially, we didn't care about the concerns of the elected and the voters. The deliberations of the parliaments, the decrees of the ministers, the conferences of the powers could, in spite of the loudest chatter

Don't let circles get to us. For we were below the surface, and nothing that came from above could stir up the waters to the bottom. What we recognized as politics was determined by fate. Beyond our world, however, politics was determined by interests. Even if we boldly reached into those mysterious realms where life most sharply accentuates its breakthrough, because we were determined not to shy away from any burden, to avoid any necessity, because we faced phenomena as they presented themselves along the way to ourselves, we recognized that no understanding was possible in any area between that world and ours. And that's why we didn't seek an understanding. So we couldn't answer the question that so often echoed to us from the other side of the gorge: What do you actually want? We couldn't answer because we didn't understand the question and they wouldn't have understood the answer. The opponents were not fighting for the same prize. Because over there it was about possessions and stocks, but for us it was about purification. We weren't concerned with the system and regulations, with slogans and programmes. We didn't work according to plan and clearly defined goal. We didn't work, it worked in us. And so the question seemed stupid and flat to us. The question seemed to dig no deeper than just the surface of our being. Our promise spoke

silent to us. And we feared that it might begin to sound before our mission was accomplished. For the kingdom lay open like a tilled field; it was ready to receive any seed. But the seed that alone was allowed to sprout, this was our firm will, could only be the fruit of our dreams. There was still no design, and any was possible. The realm was like a stagnant, supercooled liquid, into which only a single droplet needs to fall for it to freeze with a crackling blow. This droplet must contain our essence, or our destiny was meaningless. And we looked around to see who might be the man who could speak the word before us. We have known for a long time that men make decisions, not measures. But wherever we looked around among the men of the new German upper class for one man, we could only look mockingly and look ahead. Where was there a man of historical substance, one more than a day's height, save the one silent Seeckt? The level-headed Ebert, or the chubby Scheidemann? The modest Hermann Müller, the venerable Fehrenbach, the brave Wirth? Or Rathenau—Rathenau? Rathenau spoke in the Volksbildungsheim. Kern and I did not manage to get any place in the overcrowded hall other than standing on a pillar three meters from the lectern. From the crowd of black-coated gentlemen sitting at the board table

surrounded, the minister immediately distinguished himself by the noblesse of his appearance. When he stepped up to the lectern, when the narrow, noble skull with the forehead built up imperatively appeared above the bare wood, the busy murmuring of the assembly died away and he stood in silence for a few seconds, infinitely well-groomed, with dark, intelligent eyes and a slight nonchalance of Attitude. Then he began to speak.

What surprised me was not the tone of the voice, it was just as I had imagined when reading Rathenau's writings, cool and warm at the same time. What surprised me was the pathos with which the opening sentences of the speech were filled, and the impossibility of doubting that pathos was genuine. "Baffled in pain," said the minister, "we stand before the unraveling of the Upper Silesian drama..." And he pronounced these first words softly, very urgently, and let the deep sadness that banished him be felt. But the object of this mourning was the violation of the principle of justice.

The first full chord dominated the whole theme of the speech. And that issue was the justification of the compliance policy. The minister did not make it easy for himself, he spoke like someone who, out of a sense of responsibility and willingness to serve, was struggling for consciousness and now hesitantly presented the results of the conscientious investigation, which stood under the guiding star of an ideal recognized as absolute, almost before profane eyes. And yet the coherence of his argument had to give him security. A certainty that did not make him shy away from that historical proclamation as support for his thesis

comparison spoken in 1871 before the French National Assembly in Bordeaux, with which the Alsace-Lorraine deputies bid farewell to France and which began with the words directed against the victorious Germany: "To the travesty of all justice..." But from this point of view, namely the assumption that there was justice, that this concept was not a fiction, or as a requirement not immoral, from this point of view everything the minister said was logical and coherent. This man seemed imbued with an ethos that was not new, new only as a dominant motive in a statesman's heart, and certainly, applied to German politics, it suddenly gave what it had so long lacked: fullness and direction and meaning. For justice, viewed as an absolute value, demands the absolute equality of all orders. In order for us, defeated, accused and suspected, to be admitted to this equality, we need trust. To gain that trust, we must fulfill. Fulfillment reveals our good will and the measure of its power. Then, according to the measure of that power, justice grants us liberty. There is no missing line here. Here the tip of a German broadcast towers above the earth again. Here the broken bond is re-established, Germanness fits into the system of the sacred principles of the civilized world, into democracy, giving it dignity again through sacrifice, atonement and faith. The minister carried his speech like a message to the citizens, who captivated attentively and pleasantly

listened. Devoted to his own words, he spoke smoothly, with a small delight in his own thoughts. He spoke, well aware of his worth and stimulated by the wave of warm understanding that swept out of the hall. Nowhere, of course, could this man's magic work as well as in this city. For the citizens of this city were proud of the spirit that reigned within its walls, embodied in the two great names that are forever associated with the name of the city. Rathenau, however, carried a touch of what made these two names great. He himself had once indicated what seemed to be becoming reality when he said that a statesman must be a mixture of two polarities: like Napoleon and Bismarck, he must be half Roman, half Levantine, half Baidur, half Loki. The mixture of two polarities was also the secret of his being; in it merged what seemed to the citizens of this city—sometimes doubtful as to who should take precedence—as characteristic of the two greats of their homeland: Goethe and Rothschild. And while I was listening closely to the speech, following the arabesques of my thoughts that wound around the man up there on the lectern, it suddenly became clear to me to which side his objectivity was struggling, and also from which side it was coming took its start. This man had said that our thinking is polar, and had endeavored to show courage and fear as the opposite primary elements. But what he shyly tried to conceal in his pronouncement came to light in his tone

voice, in the gesture of his hand, in the searching of his eyes; namely, to whom his love belonged. It belonged to the Fear Man.

And realizing this, I involuntarily took my eyes off this man and turned to Kern. He was standing, almost motionless, on the pillar next to me, his arms folded across his chest. And then the incomprehensible happened. It happened while the minister spoke of leadership and trust, while his voice pierced the dead quiet room, the haze of worldly slowness that hung over the assembly. Surely, it couldn't be otherwise, that one deadly second struck every heart. It must have been like a throbbing, two heartbeats long, a throbbing in each breast, oppressive, sudden, ripping open a gate to death, lit by a bolt of lightning, and already over. Gone, as if wiped away, unreal now and yet happened. I saw Kern, half bent over, not quite three paces from Rathenau, forced him into the sphere of his eyes. I saw a metallic green glow in his dark eyes, I saw the paleness of his forehead, the rigidity of his strength, I saw the space evaporate so quickly that nothing remained of him but this one poor circle and only two people in the circle.

The minister, however, turned hesitantly, looked first briefly, then confused, at that pillar, hesitated, searched with difficulty, then found himself and wiped his forehead with his hand nervously what had flew on him. But from then on he spoke to Kern alone. Almost imploringly, he addressed his words to the man at that pillar and slowly grew tired as he held the position

not changed. I could not understand the end of his speech. As we pushed our way through the exit, Kern got close to the minister. Rathenau, surrounded by chatty gentlemen, looked at him questioningly. But Kern hesitantly pushed past him, and his face seemed eyeless.

action

In October 1917, U 27, commander Kapitänleutnant Patzig, sighted the English steamer "Landowry Castle" in the English Channel. The ship was marked as a hospital ship. But captain lieutenant Patzig thought he saw gun superstructures and, thinking of the Baralong case, he ordered the steamer to be sunk. This happened. Lieutenant Patzig did not return from a later trip.

The German people had protested against no other condition imposed on them in the armistice and peace treaties as vehemently as against the extradition of the so-called war criminals. Everyone will still remember that storm of indignation, the only one of the many storms that did not have an inferior character, which raged through Germany at that time, so to speak. It seemed the Entente

dangerous to go too far, and since the arc was in fact already stretched sufficiently taut and the danger of setting a precedent need not be feared given the well-known German mentality, she was inclined to do so on this point to give in. No one expected, however, that the German people would rise up unanimously and resolutely against this provision of the treaty, which the Germans called a shameful treaty, not considering that the shame falls on those who recognize it with their signature and seal. But worthless, people in Germany believed at the time, was the nation that didn't happily stake everything on its honor. The German government, however, considering that honor cannot be eaten, condescended to negotiations and celebrated it as a success, when the Allies condescended to leave the punishment of German war criminals to the German Imperial Court. The name of Lieutenant Captain Patzig was also on the English list of war criminals. Since Patzig had died, the German government felt it had to do something else and called the two officers on watch on the submarine, the first lieutenants z. S. Boldt and Dittmar, whose names were not on the list. The Oberreichsanwalt Ebermayer believed it the dignity of the Reichsgericht, the highest German court, known all over the world as the unshakable guardian of the most sacred legal interests, to be responsible for a special demonstration to show to the outside world what he considered the two officers to be on behalf of

Entente and the government of the Reich, and ordered their tying up. The English officers who were sent to Leipzig to observe the proceedings acknowledged this civility of courtesy with impassive expressions. The Reichsgericht, however, sentenced the two naval officers, who had unconditionally obeyed their superior's orders in the face of the enemy, to four years in prison for this damnable act. For the Reichsgericht is an objective court. And Brutus is an honorable man. Kern, Heinz and I also listened to the older gentleman, who on a patriotic evening recited a poem ardently that dealt with this verdict and in which there was much talk of a spot of dirt on the shiny German shield of honour. In the secondslong pause between the end of the declamation and the onset of the roaring storm of applause, Heinz could not refrain from calling out: "Waiter, a beer!" Since the festivities were somewhat disturbed by this, we went to my kiosk in the station hall and discussed how Boldt and Dittmar could be got out of prison. Since it was to be assumed that at this moment the putschists in all cities throughout the Reich were brooding over the same plans, speed seemed to be called for. I zealously defended the point of view that action must be taken immediately, since the two were still in the Reich Court prison, had not yet been transported to different prisons and were therefore still together

and could be pulled out with a single blow. My suggestion was followed by an ambiguous silence. I was then astonished to hear that some naval officers, including Kern and Fischer from Freiberg in Saxony, dressed in Schupo uniforms, had recently driven up in a car in the evening to the Reichsgerichts jail on Beethovenstrasse in Leipzig, had shown and demanded a well-forged document as transport instructions had to deliver the two prisoners to them in a hurry, since they still had to make do with the night train and the prisoners had to be transferred as far as possible in secret, because unfortunately it was to be feared that the two naval officers would be freed by the OC. The Saxon prison officials, however, did not crawl on this glue, rather rattled the keys audibly, feigned haste and secretly alerted the police guards. These, dutiful and unwilling to meet dark forces in any other way than openly, first turned on all the light switches so that the whole square was lit up as bright as day. Kern and Fischer smelled a rat, quickly got into their vehicle and roared away. Later they learned that the plan had been betrayed, and Kern thoughtfully announced the prophecy that after the wave of anti-Semitism that shook our beloved fatherland to the core, another wave would surely follow, that of anti-Saxony. so that the whole square was lit up as bright as day. Kern and Fischer smelled a rat, quickly got into their vehicle and roared away. Later they learned that the plan had been betrayed, and Kern thoughtfully announced the prophecy that after the wave of anti-Semitism that shook our beloved fatherland to the core, another wave would surely follow, that of anti-Saxony. so that the whole square was lit up as bright as day. Kern and Fischer smelled a rat, quickly got into their vehicle and roared away. Later they learned that the plan had been betrayed, and Kern thoughtfully announced the prophecy that after the wave of anti-Semitism that shook our beloved fatherland to the core, another wave would surely follow, that of anti-Saxony.

Since the first action had failed in this sad way, the enterprise had to be divided up. We had to wait and see which one

Boldt and Dittmar prisons were removed. But at least the plan of the action could be discussed in general outlines. Kern, however, was of the opinion that the liberation of the "war criminals" was a matter of honor for the Navy, and demanded that Heinz and I renounce direct participation in the planned operation. After initially intending to challenge him for pistols for this suggestion, we gave in on the condition that another action be left entirely to the skill of both of us, and we were then rudely insulted as compromisers. The Boldt affair worked smoothly. Auxiliary officers at the Hamburg prison had been members of the Navy and later of the Ehrhardt Brigade. Dittmar had been imprisoned in Naumburg an der Saale. After lengthy preparations, he managed to smuggle a welding machine into the cell. Some naval officers demanded that the liberation must take place on the birthday of the Supreme Warlord of the Imperial Navy, on January 27, 1922. But at the last moment the naval officer who had taken over driving the getaway car dropped out, and Kern, embarrassed, so quickly To create a replacement, chose a certain Weigelt as chauffeur, who had been employed by the Orgesch in Thuringia and stated that he was a flight officer. The operation happened a day later than planned, on January 28, 1922. According to the reports, however, the liberation of Lieutenant Dittmar happened as follows:

A garden center borders on the prison wall in Naumburg. Dittmar's cell window could be seen from the nursery. In the evening the liberators entered the garden and scaled the wall; they lowered a rope ladder into the prison yard and held pistols ready. Around the prison they posted posts; the car stopped in a side street. The driver, Weigelt, was already drunk at this time. Dittmar welded through the bars and attached the long rope to the stumps, which he had laboriously twisted out of his blue checkered sheet, which had been torn into long strips. The route of the Ronde had been carefully scouted out. When the guard had disappeared into the building, Dittmar, watched breathlessly by his comrades and his young wife, But under his movements, the rope began to swing. Dittmar repeatedly hit his body against the masonry. He tried to push himself off the wall with his legs - and clattered his foot into the glass of the cell window below him. The whole prison was in an uproar. Dittmar, hurrying on, stepped into the glass again. The prisoners, full of envy that one of their own could seek freedom, shouted that the war criminal was moving out. The glass rattled, the prisoners raged, doors slammed in the building, the lights went on. Then Dieter, lieutenant captain a. D. to riot terribly at a far corner of the wall.

The guard, falling out of the building, listened irresolutely to the noise and finally ran to the place where Dieter was making a scandal.

Dittmar had slipped down to the first floor when the rope snapped. He fell and hit the floor with a thump. At the same moment Kern was down from the wall, in the yard. Fischer and the brave young woman were crouching on the wall, their pistols cocked. Luckily for themselves, the prison guards were still excitedly investigating the cause of Dieter's noise. But Kern and a comrade picked up Dittmar, whose spine was badly injured, and dragged him to the rope ladder, then laboriously hoisted him up. The second the officers saw the rope on Dittmar's cell and rushed over, brandishing their carabiners, the ghost vanished over the wall. When the liberators and the liberated man reached the street panting, the whole neighborhood was alarmed. But the guards who had been looking after came immediately and secured the road. The car was reached in a great run when the pursuers were already breaking out of a side street. Dittmar had already been shipped and Kern had gotten into the car with him when the chauffeur, Weigelt, nervous and pale, said he couldn't drive, the engine was frozen. Then Fischer jumped into the driver's seat, held the pistol to Weigelt's temple and commanded: "One - two -." At "three" the car drove off. The pursuers banged furiously after them.

In no nation in the world is the sense of duty as pronounced as in Germany. The police was

immensely active. All country roads, train stations and borders were immediately closed. As is usual in such cases, the Telegraph played, all the Landjäger posts, police stations and Schupo patrols were feverishly trying to catch the criminal Dittmar and bring him back to justice. A wanted poster was issued, which was soon stuck to many walls.

But while the borders of the Reich were guarded, Dittmar sat less than two kilometers from the prison in the tower of Saaleck Castle, opposite the Rudelsburg, and waited for his recovery and the end of the railroad strike.

I sat unsuspectingly in my kiosk and changed money. Travelers streamed through the station hall, porters hurried past, people came and went. Only the two gentlemen who were standing at the main entrance to the platforms came, but they didn't go. One wore a stiff black hat and the other a casual traveling cap. Both were wrapped in subaltern cloaks and had completely expressionless faces. You know these two gentlemen, I said to myself. I hastily drew a sign: "Closed for family reasons" and hung it in front of the counter; then I bolted the kiosk and called Heinz. 'Yes,' I said, 'crip. And Popo! Gentlemen are not inclined to do anything for nothing on their meager wages. Bad air, as they say. I expect everything that has legsto do his duty.Ending." Ten minutes later the first arrived. Heinz immediately said that Kern was on the way. Probably

he would arrive today, and Dittmar would probably be with him. We found that all the exits were occupied by the criminal police. There were two officials at the gates to the platforms, but only one at the gates to the station square. Heinz checked which trains were coming from Thuringia. The express train was expected in a few minutes. Soon there were about twenty of us at the station, stationed inconspicuously. I took a platform ticket and went through the barrier. The train came in. When I saw Kern, I shot at him. In three words he was informed. Dittmar walked close behind him. We pushed our way through the barrier. Oddly enough, there was no detective here. The board with the official announcements hung close to the main entrance. A red piece of paper was emblazoned there, Dittmar's wanted poster. A group of curious people gathered in front of him. Kern immediately went for the wanted poster.

"Outrageous mess!" he screamed. 'This man,' he roared, 'is being pursued like a criminal and has done nothing but his damn duty and debt. Down with the rag!" And tore off the warrant. At the moment the traveling public was gathering. The two detectives rushed at Kern first with their eyes, then with their heads, then with their shoulders, then with their legs. One of them stopped immediately, but watched his colleague who pushed his way through the crowd. Kern swore terribly. The police always squirmed

closer to him. Then a green uniform shot through the crowd like a wedge, shiny buttons glistened, and a cop put a heavy hand on Kern's shoulder. "Follow me to the police station," said the cop seriously. And the cop was Jörg.

The detective turned around calmly. And Kern, noticing with a quick glance that Dittmar was just scooting past, right through the middle of the two officials who were sweating their duty, suddenly became peaceful and walked alongside the weighty Jörg, looking like a sinner. When Dittmar stepped out of the station, the ring that had suddenly formed around the detective at the main gate slowly broke away. Jörg said sadly to Kern: "Hopefully the detectives aren't looking for my report." But the detectives investigated, and Jörg was thrown out of the Schupo.

It seemed to us doubtful that the quantities of material that Heinz had provided that February night in 1922 would be sufficient. We had to make a huge sacrifice to the demon we had invited as our guest, otherwise he would put his pincer fingers on our hearts and squeeze it a little for fun. Because Dittmar and Kern and the young woman were on the express train to Basel. They wanted to let us know as soon as the border was crossed. When the train arrived, however, the local putschists stood at the individual stations and monitored the smooth running of the journey, ready to step in immediately if the efficient German criminal police had an opportunity to do what they did

often and happily took occasion to describe it in a clumsy tone as their duty.

There was a bastard in our camaraderie. We had been able to infer this from various signs. That's how Jörg found out at the police headquarters that Ditrmar's whereabouts in the city were known. Dittmar's departure had to be hastened. One said that when Weigelt declared his willingness to take part in the liberation, as a special testament to his trustworthiness, Weigelt gave the fact that he had precise information about the unsuccessful action in Leipzig. A transfer of arms from Saxony to Czechoslovakia for the Sudeten Germans had to be stopped at the last moment, since several dignified gentlemen with low rubber collars and shabby dark coats, who pretended to be from the housing office, were asking about the activities and the constantly changing whereabouts of Fischer, the head of the Saxon actions. Twice Heinz had been briefly in custody. Various volumes of files that were stored in the police offices of many cities in the Reich bore names on the cover, all of which were not Kern, but nonetheless began with the letter K. If it was hard to find fifty reliable men in a city of half a million, it was even harder to find five of those who didn't gossip. Our community had not yet experienced any clean boundaries, no code that was more valid for us in every point than the useful morality of the world. But we soon grew strict

Isolation as a requirement of the struggle, which was a struggle for ourselves. The looser the ties that once held us in status, tradition and form, the more firmly the new upper class conformed. At every step we entangled ourselves in conflicts, and what was impulse and defiance and strong emotion for us was cold certainty and reckoning for those who were now well-founded. The people of good had surrounded us. The game became unequal if strict discipline did not succeed in giving fervor its hardness. Traitors could not be tolerated. The first telephone call came from Heidelberg with keywords that the train with Dittmar had definitely passed. Gabriel told about the fighting methods of the fascists, which were making a lot of noise in Italy. Traitors were punished by the fascists by being tied to a post in a public square in the village where the traitors lived, and their pant legs tied up and then filtered in a reasonable amount of castor oil. We found this method appealing, because it was quite suitable for removing even the slightest hint of heroic martyrdom in those affected, but it seemed to us too humane and in its further practical consequence for German conditions insofar not appropriate as with the well-known German one national peculiarity was to be expected,

and that further treason could not be ruled out. When the telephone call came in from Karlsruhe, the supply of caustics had to be replenished, and the conversation turned with unprecedented brutality to the various kinds of death that were to follow each variety of treason. Heinz supported his bloodthirsty statements with relevant passages from the works of a whole series of modern German poets, a procedure which we rejected, however, since the gentlemen cited enjoyed the protection of the highest circles and authorities and therefore certainly did not imply their expert knowledge taken from life, nor could they have been used for anything other than the benefit and piety of human civilization. In any case, we got some inspiration from Heinzen's quotations and soon only had to give the various methods the appropriate names, Freiburg got in touch. The train now had to approach the border. Weigelt's name fell again into the humming conversation of the revelers. Suddenly everything was quiet. One had a letter from Fischer with him, which he now read. After that, the delivery of the getaway car had not worked. The car belonged to a wealthy and, strangely enough, still useful and unselfish manufacturer from Halle. Fischer came to Weigelt, who pretended to him that he had to flee. Because in the small towns of Thuringia, a rumor began, the Dittmarbef

regarding rei, which soon led to investigations by the police. Weigelt admitted that Fischer, a regular at small-town entertainment establishments, had made no secret of his heroism to the barmaids. Fischer forced Weigelt to return the car, but gave him a larger sum so that he would not be penniless when he fled. But the girls put the money in their stockings, and Weigelt disappeared, but several landowners in Thuringia reported a few days later that a young gentleman, who had been a lieutenant pilot, had called on them, pretended to be the liberator of Dittmar and asked for money and support. A letter from Dieter was also read out. Dieter was interested in Weigelt's past and did some research. Although Weigelt was not a pilot, he was on the train. The Reichswehr is looking for him because a fleet of vehicles entrusted to him has been moved. The now dissolved Orsch had to dismiss him because of irregularities. Weigelt probably turned to the Rhineland. Here Gabriel intervened. Weigelt had appeared at Kern's and Kern's, decked out in a fur coat and monocle, and had expressed to them his serious fear that, if he didn't always provide plenty of funds, he could easily fall into the hands of the police and then, of course, not guarantee that he wouldn't the Dirtmar thing and other interesting things would be uncovered and various names included in the anticipated investigation. Kern had handed him smaller amounts several times,

then, at his constant urging, also larger ones, but Weigelt announced that he would soon need more. We were suddenly very sober and silent. According to the timetable, the train must now have arrived in Basel. The cans emptied. We incessantly flushed the blackest thoughts into the abyss and squinted shyly at the telephone. The clock ticked painfully. In the heart of the nerve-wracking silence, the bell rattled shrilly. Heinz jumped over two armchairs to the set and picked up the receiver. "Long-distance call from Basel... —" We climbed onto the tables and threw our glasses against the wall.

A few days later, Gabriel, gloomy as ever, skinny and fanatical, came to my apartment where Kern and I were sitting. He silently placed on the table a list of anti-spy services that had been completed in Kassel and distributed to the groups, and pointed to a name with an indifferent expression. Kern read, started up, and then walked back and forth in the room in silence for a long time, his face pinched.

I looked at the list and said: «Of course there are different possibilities. One could challenge Weigelt to pistols. But it can be assumed that he is pinching. He could also be charged with extortion and treason. But one should not occupy the bourgeois courts when one fights them. The French, for whom he seems to be in service, could also suspect him of being adept at warding off spies

do and they would settle the matter themselves. But that is hardly debatable for us. Then of course there is a fourth possibility..»

farewell

It wasn't difficult to persuade Weigelt to go on a trip to the mountains. It was harder to lure him out of the nightclubs of the World Baths, to which he made sure to head as soon as they came in sight. Late in the evening we made our way home. We walked through the Kurpark. I was reluctant to make any kind of somber preparation; for I could not relate to this man in any other way than, for example, to a bug that had to be crushed at the right moment. That's why we, Kern and I, walked the path that presented itself without a plan or goal, taking Weigelt in the middle and waiting for the decisive second without having determined it beforehand. The fog was milky in the night. Individual lanterns donated their dim glow with a greenish halo. It dripped coolly from the trees. Shivering, Weigelt slipped his arm under mine and strode forward, chattering incessantly.

The dark path in the park seemed to lead nowhere. The ragged branches of the bushes jabbed roughly around the threatening shadows of thick trees. Weigelt pressed his arm against my hip and remarked that it was weird. A secret fear suddenly rose up like a plug in my throat. The thought jumped at me that, according to human statutes, what inevitably grew towards us in the shadow of this hour was reprehensible. I defensively formulated that we were judges; but I immediately sensed the weakness of this argument. Because we, consciously attached only to the closest community, were not allowed to seek excuses for our actions towards the community if we did not want to recognize the will of the community. The devil take the brooding. What was the business of the others what should happen here? Here we were stepping towards the final act of a discussion that was taking place for us alone. The traitor fell into the fare. What did it mean to lose him in the game of dice? What did he mean by pushing himself into our mandatory area? Then he walked beside me, chattering, unworthy, shallow, annoying like vermin. He stumbled and hung heavily in my arm. I pulled away rudely. Enough comedy! What was his life worth to us, since he himself only knew how to waste it, oscillating between intoxication and weakness? At one point, where the path through bushes and parks came close to a lake, Weigelt stopped and listened to the click of the water beating on the shore. Suddenly he brought his eyes close to Kern's face and hesitantly, almost pathetically, asked if we could

probably intend to throw into this lake? Then he started laughing. Kern flinched, then grumbled that this was indeed a thought worth considering. But Weigelt hurried on, tugging at my arm. Soon he was singing and hooting again, delighted in the sound that the bushes threw back, hopped merrily, thirsting for schnapps and girls.

He seemed intrigued by the warning itself. Knowing of the danger, he cheated himself of her proximity. I felt sorry for him for a moment. Secret questions wanted to approach me. But I told myself that once the decision to wipe this man out was made, any moral issue was absurd. A sharp wind shredded the fog all around us, drove it in fibrous veils across the lake, let clouds pass by the narrow crescent of the moon on this March night as if pulled on strings. The shadows of the trees stretched and faded again. In the distance, lights shimmered across the lake. A nearby branch crashed hard and made Weigelt jump. He sang loudly, in a raspy voice, while we relentlessly flanked him. We walked faster and faster, we didn't know where the path led. Finally we almost walked. A car slammed the glaring arm of its headlight into our faces, then sped past behind a strip of trees with a bang. So there must be a road there. Windowpanes gleamed in the magnesiumbleached light, dark, compact masses suggested houses. Weigelt sang the cold fear away.

The lake stretched out a tongue to the slippery path. The trees receded, the bushes snuggled closer to the bank. The intricate entablature of a railing was outlined by the water. A lonely light blinked far away. Weigelt began to declaim aloud. He suddenly stopped and spoke with a raised finger, accentuated: "Oh, if the girl with the red hat..." But he couldn't finish the disgusting shaking rhyme. Because Kern raised his fist to the sky and let it come down with the force of a hammer on Weigelt's skull. Weigelt collapsed and hit the ground with lightning speed, with a booming echo, and didn't move. The hat rolled down the slope and the glasses shattered against a rock. Kern looked at me with wild eyes. His cloak stood billowing in the wind. His silhouette was sharp against the gently moving water. I bent over Weigelt. He raised his head, gurgled dully, tried to sit up. I knelt down by him. There was incomprehension in his wide-open eyes. He recognized me, suddenly reared up and stood staggering before Kern could turn. Weigelt raised his arm, his fist hung threateningly over Kern's head. And in his fist was the slayer. I screamed, jumped at Weigelt and grabbed his wrist. Kern turned around. But the leather loop held the instrument to the fist. Weigelt jerked free of my grip, his arm whipping away and whistling high; then the springy one hit with full force

Translated from German to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.com

smack my face I felt the nasal cartilage crack with a crunch. Hot and red, the juice flowed into his eyes and mouth. I groped blindly, grabbed a body, bit into hard bones, feeling my elbow through the thick fabric of the coat. I tucked my wriggling arm under my armpit, turning instinctively, grasped the cold hand, felt the weapon and almost deliberately broke free a clawing finger. The finger snapped back, the hand went slack. "You carrion," I gasped, "you carrion..." Weigelt screamed for help. Now the blood spurted out of my nose in a wide stream. I let go of Weigelt and rubbed my numb face.

The fight roared next to me. All in vain, I thought, he's fighting back, the bastard; Thank God, I thought, he's fighting back; now on it. I pulled myself together with difficulty, looked up, saw Kern stumbling and Weigelt above him. Now I kicked his boot in the stomach. He yelled, "Help, murderer!" He thrust the iiii shrillly into the night, so that it tore its way through the trees, darted across the lake like an arrow. Then I was on him, wrapping my fingers around his neck, reaching into his eyes, slamming my fist into his teeth, stifling his scream. I wanted to sink my teeth into his throat; rattling, he spat a broad soup of blood in my face. That went into my open mouth; I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and tasted, while disgust overcame me, the running mucus, thick, sweetish, unbearably warm. Then sagged

Weigelt together. Exhausted, shaking, I staggered back.

The night came alive. The cry for help had awakened all the ghosts. I thought I heard footsteps. But what did I care about steps! Now, whatever might happen, may it happen. Already Weigelt was up again! Kern immediately knocked him down again. I felt like I had to say something and gasped, "Damn tough!" Kern nudged Weigelt with his foot. Suddenly he was on his knees and raised his arms begging. "Fight!" shouted Kern, and the word resounded against the trees. "I want," babbled Weigelt plaintively, "I don't want to reveal anything more..." — "Fight!" I screamed.

Suddenly Weigelt ran to where the light was, to the railing of the lake. Kern was on him before I realized that Weigelt had drawn his pistol. I suddenly saw the barrel in his hand. I was able to throw up his arm, but the shot didn't go off. Weigelt clung to the railing with his left hand and kicked wildly at us with his feet. I threw myself at him, hugged him with both arms; he gushed blood to my mouth again. Then a kick hit me; I let him go, but Kern now had the pistol. Weigelt screamed. And each of his screams spurred the red fury again. We rushed forward; he wriggled, he hit, he hit. Kern grabbed his leg, which was raised for the thrust, and pulled it up and pulled, and suddenly Weigelt's whole body slid over the railing and fell—the shadow rushed into the water, the splashes splashed, wetting our faces.

I was hunched over the railing. The water bubbled. But Weigelt's face appeared a little further down the river. The mouth rose out of the water, horribly distorted, the arms flailing through the air, throwing raindrops. And then the screeching of the last fear broke out of the water, invoking God, chasing panic in the heart, calling flood, sky, earth, forest and people to witness unspeakable agony. And Kern shot the scream; he slammed across the water, once, twice, held the pistol with the barrel raised, fired and slowly let the silence press him against the railing.

Weigelt rowed sideways to the shore with a long arm. I wrestled the pistol from Kern's hand and ran up the steep embankment, bumped my head against trees, tore myself out of the tangled twigs of the bushes, bruised my toes and knees on roots, stones, branches, ran groaning, feverish under the compulsion of killing to that shallow spot where Weigelt wanted to save himself. Then I stood in front of him.

He was half sticking out of the water. When I came, he raised both arms. I grabbed his skirt, leaning forward, and slowly put the pistol to his temple. He moaned heavily. He lifted his bleeding face towards me, snuggled up to the cold muzzle of the pistol as it were surrendered. He murmured under his breath; The words formed heavily in his shattered mouth. He lifted his eyes with an effort, stared blankly into my face and held up his hands, shaking. He whimpered; I had trouble understanding him. He said, "Please, please, please, please..." He

gasped for breath and said: "Mercy, mercy..." He murmured: "Live, live!" —

I almost spat the words in his face. "You dog, you pig, you traitor... !" — He complained softly, in a whistling tone: "I don't want to reveal anything. I never want to reveal more. I want to do anything you want. Let me live, live...»

I slowly took pressure point. "You pathetic," I said. «You betrayed! Thou shalt...» But then I became infinitely tired. I looked bluntly into his distorted face and said, "Run!" He stammered something I didn't understand. I turned and slowly walked back.

Kern was still standing in the same position on the railing, as if thrown against a post. When I leaned in front of him, arms hanging down, gun heavy in a limp hand, he straightened up. We were both silent for a long time. I heard splashing and groaning from behind. Kern said bitterly: "Pfui Deibel, that wasn't a heroic act." Relieved, I whispered: "Weigelt is alive." Kern said: "I know." He pushed himself off the banister, hesitantly took a few steps, then turned toward the path toward the city. We went back.

We walked hour after hour. To get home we had to cross the entire Taunus. The odor of blood rose disgustingly to our nostrils. Shivering, we turned up our coat collars. The aching brain made us grope along the dark streets almost blind. We were both silent the whole long way. The waves of foul stench almost deafened us. The blood had seeped through the coat, skirt and underwear right down to the skin. in one

We laboriously washed ourselves in the Bergbach. But our sweat dissolved the blood again, it formed a disgusting crust on the skin, slimy and poisonous to the point of nausea. We caught the first tram early in the morning, snuggled tight in the darkest corner of the platform. When we arrived in the city, exhausted and yet still held tightly together by the terrible tension of what had happened, the crowd of returning ball guests pushed out of an elegant pleasure palace. The gentlemen stood with crumpled white shirt breasts and crooked top hats and whistled for the cars. Three young girls in expensive evening gowns, accompanied by fat cavaliers, brushed past us. They were costumed, wore silk panties, and bare shoulders gleamed under ruffled downy furs.

Conversation

At that time, when the battles that were taking place on all levels had to be fought out by us and in our hearts with all their blindness and hopeless absoluteness, our carefree actions could only grow from the few clear and simple certainties that we the living

himself contributed. Not practiced in what is undoubtedly the most pleasant way of fighting, which was praised in the columns of all newspapers as a fight with spiritual weapons, we still tried in the few contemplative hours between deed and deed to fish out of the chaos of words for useful fragments of expression for our will, thus preparing for the action to come by harmonizing it with the purpose of our being. We felt very definitely that the force that drove us was not actually our own being, but the emanation of mystical powers, which the pure intellect with all its methods could not suffice to recognize. Each and every one of our deeds, no matter how unhesitatingly born of the moment, no matter how little practical success they may have in the eyes of sharp-sighted politicians, at least the development continued, at least threw higher waves than the important deliberations and decrees of the respective ministers, than the zealous speeches and resolutions of the parliaments, than the costly efforts and promises of the parties and associations. Every act shook the fabric of the systems to a large extent, attacked the conditions that had been constructed with sufficient effort, provoked counterattacks from the threatened order that inevitably forced renewed action. We consciously submitted to the compulsion, we jumped unrestrainedly into every escalation, we" experienced in ourselves the word of the curse of the evil deed, which must continually give birth to evil, without, of course, naming neither the curse nor the evil low in rank at least threw higher waves than the important deliberations and decrees of the respective ministers, than the zealous speeches and resolutions of the parliaments, than the costly efforts and promises of the parties and associations. Every act shook the fabric of the systems to a large extent, attacked the conditions that had been constructed with sufficient effort, provoked counterattacks from the threatened order that inevitably forced renewed action. We consciously submitted to the compulsion, we jumped unrestrainedly into every escalation, we" experienced in ourselves the word of the curse of the evil deed, which must continually give birth to evil, without, of course, naming neither the curse nor the evil low in rank at least threw higher waves than the important deliberations and decrees of the respective ministers, than the zealous speeches and resolutions of the parliaments, than the costly efforts and promises of the parties and associations. Every act shook the fabric of the systems to a large extent, attacked the conditions that had been constructed with sufficient effort, provoked counterattacks from the threatened order that inevitably forced renewed action. We consciously submitted to the compulsion, we jumped unrestrainedly into every escalation, we" experienced in ourselves the word of the curse of the evil deed, which must continually give birth to evil, without, of course, naming neither the curse nor the evil low in rank Every act shook the fabric of the systems to a large extent, attacked the conditions that had been constructed with sufficient effort, provoked counterattacks from the threatened order that inevitably forced renewed action. We consciously submitted to the compulsion, we jumped unrestrainedly into every escalation, we" experienced in ourselves the word of the curse of the evil deed, which must continually give birth to evil, without, of course, naming neither the curse nor the evil low in rank Every act shook the fabric of the systems to a large extent, attacked the conditions that had been constructed with sufficient effort, provoked counterattacks from the threatened order that inevitably forced renewed action. We consciously submitted to the compulsion, we jumped unrestrainedly into every escalation, we" experienced in ourselves the word of the curse

ban

the

exhilarating Experience this Legality, however, brought us the certainty that we were the executors of a historical will. The fact that this certainty did not deprive us of the full value of the risk, that it relieved us of no responsibility, only gave our actions the right flavor. The will to create, which did not prevent us from destroying, which, driven into this time, made destruction possible and necessary in the first place, allowed us to distance ourselves in nocturnal and exaggerated conversations, in which the harmony of our thinking and our language was intoxicatedly revealed Feel the space, search for the meaning of our mission, search for the direction that the forces that have already been reporting on all paths have taken; it was not for justification that the desire to outline the incoherent picture of our dreams was aimed, but for the certainty The closer the vortex tore us from the edge to the center, the harder the path to decision became. What was almost a game at first, the simplest reflex movement of alert scent, going for it and grabbing it, because nothing else was self-evident, that demanded full liability with the sharper intuition of the law to which we were devoted, that put the purpose before passion as an obligation. Not all curbed the invisible demand; So it was not easy for Kern to reintegrate those journeymen into the discipline of the small community who had the plan to take the train that was to take Soviet Minister Chicherin to the conference in Genoa.

Bust

one

railway underpass to derail. I reported to Kern when he came back to town for a few days. He immediately prevented the daring venture, he roughly forced the men to give up who, with the bloody fumes of the first Baltic battles in their noses, would have taken anyone else as the core of cowardly weakness. Kern gave no reason for his behavior. In the evening of that day he came to me. through

We sat and talked into the darkness that surrounded us severely. I said hesitantly, feeling my words drip uncertainly into the silence:

'Never have I had such a strong feeling, as I did during these days, that all events and all movement are converging towards a single point. Perhaps I succumb to the general mood which, born of a thousand hopes and wishes, results from the agonizing wait for the big turning point. But if the decision is really made now — where are we then?”

Kern said: "There is no real decision that is not under the spell of the same forces to which we, especially we, are attached. There is no real decision whose exponents are men whose attitude, background and will belong to a time that failed its only severe test, the great war, which burned up in this war. If world history had lost its meaning," Kern said, laughing, "on the day the Kaiser would enter through the Brandenburg Gate on a white horse, it would never have been subject to a meaning when it became the bearer of its great

Moments chose those figures who, even before the standards that they themselves helped to create, did not suffice. However busy they may be, they did not fill a silent minute with full and pure sound. They may talk and argue and make deals, they never step off the beaten track. They may act and command, they may write and proclaim, their reputation does not even tear hearts through the day. The spaces that they fill with their confused noise are not the fields of decision. They still lie, untrodden by foot, behind the broad belt of the thicket, through which we cut our way with hard blows. That's where we'll be." “What gives us the right to our presumptuous faith? We, without power but those under whose spell we think we are, without skill but shooting and blasting, without knowledge but that of conspiracy, without experience but that of our failures, we, persecuted and pursuing ourselves, ostracized and ostracized ourselves, by no one recognized, disgusted by our own doings, we are called?"

«Not called to realize the last dreams, not called to bring in the harvest; but, is it about success? It's about fulfillment. No, we have not been successful. We will never succeed. We have marched and created an order in whose stifling haze we now hunger for free winds. We started our advance to the east and didn't attack Warsaw, didn't conquer Riga. We carried our flag to Berlin and carried it again

return. We swept Upper Silesia cleaner than it had ever been and had to leave it in fragments. We practiced in naked anarchy and are not a step further than before. We heard that we were losing and could only reply that this was no reason for us to leave the post. What still gives us faith, you ask? Nothing other than what we do, nothing other than the possibility of our doing, nothing other than the ability to do it. We allow ourselves to evaluate ourselves symptomatically. Fellows like us, chasing victories that brought no glory, beaten in defeats that could do us no harm, always climbed out of the shadow of what was to come. Didn't we once pin the Viking ship on our sleeves? Don't the frightened citizens call out "Landsknechts" to us? When had one ever heard that without men of our kind a change could take place which gave the face of the following epoch? But when was youth ever placed in such a time as we are blessed to experience? I cannot believe that a generation like ours, thrown into battle, educated and hardened by it, should now be destined to obediently renounce its struggle at the shallow appeal of those who are now afraid of the consequences of their own will. I cannot believe that a force dies before it is exhausted." which gave the face of the following epoch? But when was youth ever placed in such a time as we are blessed to experience? I cannot believe that a generation like ours, thrown into battle, educated and hardened by it, should now be destined to obediently renounce its struggle at the shallow appeal of those who are now afraid of the consequences of their own will. I cannot believe that a force dies before it is exhausted." which gave the face of the following epoch? But when was youth ever placed in such a time as we are blessed to experience? I cannot believe that a generation like ours, thrown into battle, educated and hardened by it, should now be destined to obediently renounce its struggle at the shallow appeal of those who are now afraid of the consequences of their own will. I cannot believe that a force dies before it is exhausted." who are now afraid of the consequences of their own will. I cannot believe that a force dies before it is exhausted." who are now afraid of the consequences of their own will. I cannot believe that a force dies before it is exhausted."

We were silent. I could only recognize Kern by the dark outline protruding from the whitewashed wall

signed. I got up and threw myself on the bed. I said:

"I want more. I don't want to be a mere victim. I want to see the kingdom lying there for which I fight. i want power I want a goal that fills my day. I want life whole, with all the sweetness of this world. I want to know that it's worth the effort."

Kern leaned back and nestled in his corner. «What does the big word sacrifice mean? We do not

sacrifice and are not sacrificed. I cannot understand myself otherwise than through the environment. I'm afraid you only understand the environment through yourself."

«No, because I don't want to be excluded from this environment. What is given to us is not enough for me. I want to be involved in an achievement that doesn't help me, that helps the country. you want that too There's a struggle for power out there. It may be that no one who seizes them is worthy of them, can be worthy of them. But they control the apparatus. Those we fight and despise hold in unworthy hands the instrument that can only serve our time if it is handled with reverence and used for a higher goal. Every little day there is a struggle for power outside. And what do you advise us?"

«To give up the little day in order to be ready for the big one.» «That means nothing other than continuing to live our wild compulsion and...?»

"Wait." "I can't wait, I don't want to wait."

«Employment neurosis?»

"Not that one; don't say that. We cannot do enough, we can never do enough. What we are doing now is not enough for me. I don't see the sun that must be over our last climb." "Of course, Napoleon was a brigadier general at twenty-six." 'Damn it, stop mocking. Tell me, if you know, by which corner should we grasp God's cloak when it blows past." 'Damn it, stop asking. Tell me, if you know, a greater happiness, if you already long for happiness, than that, in us, in us alone and only in us and only through the violence in which we serve to the dogs, to experience what makes our lives glow. How else but if we have the courage to throw ourselves at bare, unadulterated life, if we are what we cannot be otherwise without blushing to ourselves, how differently can we be fulfilled and ours fulfilled through us German destiny?" "What makes our life glow is the demand of the nation. She hits the others like us. Are you satisfied so quickly? You say fate where the others say hunger when they want to interpret." "I say destiny because I have to see the nation as a force and not as a substance." "Then the nation isn't your ultimate goal, is it?" «You were not startled from searing dreams, which you then recognized in their deepest meaning when you were awake? If we are called, then

it is we who keep in our hearts what has come to us through the centuries, has been preserved through every burial, what makes us worthy of being a people. No people that wants to perfect itself in its power renounces the claim to dominate as far as the fullness of its original content reaches. I accept no liability, for one, to this force." "Well then, in what dream is the fulfillment of this power shown?" «In the victory of Germanity over the earth.»

There were many things that we argued about that night. And it was the case that we always had to find our way around the concepts before we could understand each other. For one thing we experienced strongly: it was no longer enough for us to recognize one another by their posture. It was not enough for us to see that they made us different from the others. We asked why. And since we knew that this question was now rising out of the confusion in all camps of young people, we felt we had to put it more sharply, since we also lived this attitude more sharply. But that could mean nothing other than being radical on the question, that is, up to the pointradix,to get to the root. With that we submitted to the tyranny of the Word, as we were ready to submit to any tyranny in which we could grow strong. And Kern said: “We can never submit to a tyranny: the economic one; for since it is completely alien to our being, we cannot gain strength under it. She becomes unbearable as she ranks

is too low. Here is the point at which the criterion that one must know without asking for proof is formed. One feels one's rank, one cannot communicate about it with those who deny it." I said hesitantly: "Those who talk about understanding raise the rank of economic tyranny."

“Those who talk about understanding also talk about reconciliation. But a reconciliation, when the broad path of spilled blood stands between the parties, can only take place where the combatants recognize each other at the moment of supreme bravery. How can adversaries have respect for one another other than when they are aware of their worth and the polarity of their worth?»

"Those who talk about reconciliation believe in an absolute value."

'That separates us from them. What substance do the men who are now traveling to Genoa so earnestly and industriously have to use that is their own? They speak the enemy's language, they think in his terms. Their most important argument is always that damaging the German economy is damaging the economy of the world. Their great ambition is always to be integrated into the system of the great powers of Europe, the West, on an equal footing. And when I say "the West," I mean the powers that have submitted to the tyranny of the economy because they could grow strong under it."

"If I'm told correctly, Chicherin is also going to Genoa." "If my report is correct, Chicherin is going to Genoa to represent Russia for the first time in the existence of the Soviet Union with the claim of the nation on the West's own field." «Bolshevism as a claim of the nation? I'll be a Bolshevik tomorrow." 'Do that and I'll consider you a Russian. That's what gives me the certainty of the rise of the nation as a trend-setting concept. Fight a new idea and you hit a country. Like us, Chicherin's Russia is struggling for its freedom, which is fulfilled in finding its own attitude. Throughout their history, Russians, like Germans, have always had to defend themselves against invading foreigners. Only, it seems to me, the German endowment of will has always placed the German worldview at the center of the struggle, while within the Russian community one foreign infiltration fought against the other. What if the Russians to resist the West enlisted the help of a component that has formed within the West against the West itself? That would mean driving out the devil of capitalism with Beelzebub Marxism! Well, and it is important that this Beelzebub put the sheepskin hat on his head and under his tyranny the Russian became stronger than ever. And that's important, that an attack on Bolshevism is an attack on Russian national freedom. Because the contrasts were more sharply emphasized there, they were also

fought. So the Soviet Union — a union of national republics with a strictly hierarchical structure, by the way — found in Bolshevism its appropriate state form of expression, which the German Republic in Weimar did not find.” "These strange nationalists say: world revolution." 'You say world revolution and you believe Russia. A people reaches as far as its strength reaches, and so far does its idea reach. The Russian idea of world revolution went as far as sweeping the country in from foreign armies, daring an incursion into Poland, tormenting the West with nightmares, and marching a free, willing, and bona fide irredenta army in every country in the world. "Let's join this irredenta army!"

"That's why we can't join the German communists, because the Russians don't want them to win. They must not win because after their victory they dropped out as Russian irredenta, because then the same process must take place with them, the process of the growing in of elementary forces, which made Russia a nation in the first place under Bolshevism. That's why we don't want them to win because they deny themselves to the nation."

I said excitedly: "But it's about the fight against the West, against capitalism! Let's become communists! I am willing to make pacts with anyone who will fight my battle. I have no interest in protecting a property to which I have no connection."

"It's not about interests. That's what the communists are about. If we contest their interest, we do it not because it is theirs, but because we cannot recognize any interest as that of the nation. Let's put nation instead of society or "class" and you'll see what I mean." "But that means socialism in its purest form!" «Indeed, that means socialism. And only in its purest form, namely the Prussian one. A socialism in all areas, one with which we not only break the tyranny of the economy through the most intimate bond, through the last possible commitment for the German whole, one through which we also rediscover the inner attitude, the intellectual unity around which we the nineteenth century cheated. We are fighting for this socialism, and whoever refuses this fight is the enemy. Yes, they are all such good Germans, such warm patriots. When they say “German” with all their fervor, they mean exactly what shaped the past century. Then they mean exactly what the great war set the lever for. In no way do they mean what gives us the content. How could they! There is no reconciliation between them and us; because the last bravery is no longer possible for them. If there is a power that we are tasked with destroying by all means, then it is the West and the German stratum that allowed itself to be invaded by foreigners. They say "German" and push into their motherland

Europe. They wail before submission and long for it. They want us to live and are willing to give up the last remnant of German substance for the only tyranny they can understand. And they are amazed that the Germans are still feared. But these men of submission are not feared because their evidence and demands, their will and their attitude are dangerous, but the Germans are feared because we are there. Because in us and hundreds of thousands of others, the war and the post-war have brought back what makes us dangerous to the West. And that's a good thing, that's a good thing three times over. Because this is how our time works for us and we work for our time. So maybe we can still make amends for what we owe, because we committed the most monstrous breach of solidarity in world history towards the peoples oppressed by the West and now awakening, when we, as a people oppressed by the West, did not start our own struggle for freedom. When we were passive, when we had to be active at all costs!» «Rathenau began active politics. For the sake of his active politics he goes to Genoa."

«Rathenau? Yes, Rathenau. —» Kern got up and leaned against the window. “This man is hope. Because he's dangerous." Kern paced. He clinked glasses in the dark. He bumped into the crates of hand grenades and the rifles stacked in the corner. He spoke softly and urgently. "More is placed in his hand than has ever been in a hand since November 18. When fate came to a man with its demand,

with his most passionate demand, then it is this man. He wrote the most bitter criticism of the people and powers of his time. And yet he is a man of this time and given over to these powers. It is its most ripe, final fruit, uniting in itself what value and thought, ethos and pathos, dignity and faith his time contained. He saw what no one saw and demanded what no one demanded." Kern went to the window and threw it open. He leaned out. He turned. 'He never took the last step, the step that must set him free. I think I sense it in every sentence of his speeches, in his writings, he saved himself the last step for a time when it had to become decisive. I believe that time has come. I think he wants to go. For us it can only determine where it leads. » I got up and met Kern in the middle of the room. Kern said: "I couldn't bear it if greatness grew again from the crumbling, from the wicked existence of this time. May he pursue what the gossips call compliance politics. What does that have to do with us who fight for higher things. We do not fight so that the people may be happy. We fight to force it into its fate line. But if this man once again gave the people a belief, if he once again roused them to a will, to a form, the will and form are the will and form of a time that died in war, that is dead, three times dead, I cannot bear that .» May he pursue what the gossips call compliance politics. What does that have to do with us who fight for higher things. We do not fight so that the people may be happy. We fight to force it into its fate line. But if this man once again gave the people a belief, if he once again roused them to a will, to a form, the will and form are the will and form of a time that died in war, that is dead, three times dead, I cannot bear that .» May he pursue what the gossips call compliance politics. What does that have to do with us who fight for higher things. We do not fight so that the people may be happy. We fight to force it into its fate line. But if this man once again gave the people a belief, if he once again roused them to a will, to a form, the will and form are the will and form of a time that died in war, that is dead, three times dead, I cannot bear that .»

"Then the enemy is recognized," I said, "the question is, how do you attack his innermost being?"

I asked Kern: "How were you able to survive November 9, 1918, as an Imperial officer?" Kern said: "I didn't survive it. As honor dictated, I put a bullet in my head on November 9, 1918. I'm dead; what lives in me is not me. I haven't known an I since that day. I don't want to be worse than those two million dead. I died for the nation, so now everything lives in me solely for the nation. How could I bear it if it were otherwise! I do what I have to. Because I could die, I die every day. Because what I do is given to the only power, everything I do is an outflow of that power. This power wants destruction and I destroy. So far she has only wanted annihilation. Anyone who makes a pact with death must be able to call the devil uncle. I know that I will be crushed, that I will fall, when the power releases me from its service. I have nothing left but to do what is dictated to me with my full will. Nothing remains for me but to confess the beautiful hardness of my fate.»

plan A telegram from Kern sent me to Berlin. There I met him and Fischer in an obscure but cheap boarding house. Kern was of that free and light cheerfulness that allows a thousand plans to mature in the vibrations of her strength and a thousand

holds possibilities. The failure of the assassination attempt on Scheidemann almost satisfied him. As he said, from the beginning he advocated trying out the hydrogen cyanide mixture in the rubber balls used in the crime in a locked room. The unwavering activity of the elderly tribune, which made him praise his salvation in a long speech in front of the assembled people half an hour after the assassination, filled Kern with a sympathy underscored by a happy shake of the head, such as one would expect from the behavior of stranger and more exotic people turns to animals that one has the opportunity to observe. Fischer, a calm and thoughtful young man, an engineer from Saxony, the type of front-line officer for whom there was no other recognition than the confidence of the crew in the young leader, asked me to take over one of the many planned actions to relieve Kern and him. The Weigelt affair had become known; I hoped to be able to continue working in Berlin. Kern rejected my wish for me to take part in the break-in into the offices of the Inter-Allied Military Control Commission in Berlin, just as Fischer believed that he had enough forces at his disposal to repeat the then betrayed arms transfer from Freiberg to the Sudeten Germans in Czechoslovakia have. So I chose another arms transfer, which was to end in Pomerania. But Kern asked me to temporarily help him with the preparations for the liberation of German activists to continue working in Berlin. Kern rejected my wish for me to take part in the break-in into the offices of the Inter-Allied Military Control Commission in Berlin, just as Fischer believed that he had enough forces at his disposal to repeat the then betrayed arms transfer from Freiberg to the Sudeten Germans in Czechoslovakia have. So I chose another arms transfer, which was to end in Pomerania. But Kern asked me to temporarily help him with the preparations for the liberation of German activists to continue working in Berlin. Kern rejected my wish for me to take part in the break-in into the offices of the Inter-Allied Military Control Commission in Berlin, just as Fischer believed that he had enough forces at his disposal to repeat the then betrayed arms transfer from Freiberg to the Sudeten Germans in Czechoslovakia have. So I chose another arms transfer, which was to end in Pomerania. But Kern asked me to temporarily help him with the preparations for the liberation of German activists to have enough forces available to repeat the then betrayed arms transfer from Freiberg to the Sudeten Germans of Czechoslovakia. So I chose another arms transfer, which was to end in Pomerania. But Kern asked me to temporarily help him with the preparations for the liberation of German activists to have enough forces available to repeat the then betrayed arms transfer from Freiberg to the Sudeten Germans of Czechoslovakia. So I chose another arms transfer, which was to end in Pomerania. But Kern asked me to temporarily help him with the preparations for the liberation of German activists

from French military custody in Düsseldorf. The work in Berlin turned out to be more difficult than we had expected. We were forced to budget with an incredibly small sum of money. We had made the dates of the individual actions too short. The number of cases of treason increased in the country. Actions that lacked Kern's leadership went awry in the early stages of preparation. Suddenly we were faced with a multitude of tasks that we simply could not cope with. The news and the demands came from all parts of the empire. Mysterious strangers appeared at Kern's every day. It wasn't easy to keep directing her around, since we changed apartments every three days. Every glance at the newspapers showed us that we were in the wave-head shower that usually precedes a severe storm.

In the middle of June 1922 Kern seemed to hesitate in his zeal. He became more reserved than we were used to. He canceled some actions without reason, others he postponed. He tried a lot to be alone with Fischer. Fischer also began to brood. Sometimes he only spoke the most necessary things for days. Often both left me behind to

attend the deliberations in the Reichstag. They were happy to turn to democratic deputies with a conservative demeanor in order to obtain a permit. But they always returned grumpy and disappointed. The sequence of bomb attacks in Hamburg seemed to Kern to be somewhat directionless. He asked me to go to Hamburg and stop the action. At the same time, I would like to look around for a chauffeur to drive the car that is not yet available for the liberation of prisoners in Düsseldorf. When I returned, Kern was more angry with me than I had ever seen him. The chauffeur seemed completely inadequate to him. He sent it back. He said that he had already sent a comrade from the Assault Company of the Ehrhardt Brigade, Ernst Werner Techow, to Saxony to fetch a car. Now I revolted. I asked Kern to explain what he was up to. He claimed they were none of my business. I pressed him, fearing a loss of confidence. Kern finally said he didn't want to drag me into something that I couldn't see in its effects. I never accepted the objection that I was too young. On the evening of one of the next few days we, Kern, Fischer, and I, were sitting on a bench at the Großer Stern in the Tiergarten, waiting for the car that was supposed to arrive from Saxony. Kern said he had postponed all actions in order to strike a blow that must be decisive in more ways than one.

He sat bent over, arms on his knees, and watched the people strolling in the soft twilight. Fischer leaned back quietly and looked through the tops of the tall trees at the pale evening sky. The confused sounds of distant music echoed across to us. Reichswehr soldiers passed by. Kern followed them with his eyes. He said they entered Berlin through this street in March 1920. It was the best day of his life. He said he knew that what he was about to do would be unfaithful to a man. But he would not be unfaithful to the idea, which would mean pushing him further than any plan and calculation would allow. Duty is no longer duty and loyalty is no longer loyalty and honor is no longer honor. What remains is the deed and with it the ultimate liability.

Kern said: "If the last thing is not dared now, it may be too late for decades. What simmers in us ferments in all the brains that matter. What wants to become should not mature in dull rooms. It cannot take shape otherwise than under constant compulsion to constant action. It must demand the toughest resistance and lead to the toughest resistance itself. Development should whip itself forward to its highest degree, with a haste that leaves no room for reflection, that lets the need of the moment take the means that the most original life itself dictates. No other way does a revolution take place. We want the revolution. We are free from the burden of plan, method and system. That's why it's up to us to take the first step

to breach. We must resign the moment our task is accomplished. Our job is to push, not rule.” Fischer sat motionless. A security policeman slowly walked by and eyed us. It was getting dark. Kern said: “The will to transform is there, everywhere. It has gripped entire peoples; it stands in the hearts of the faint-hearted as a fear of life, which is always a fear of death. It stands as an affirmation of life in the hearts of those who build and those who want to tear down. The design is not in the hands of anyone. But each individual can determine the direction through his actions. I am used to seizing the most decisive of all possibilities. What we have done so far has increased but not been enough. The exponents of the attitude that must be destroyed at all costs fell in quick succession. We attack the visible; it is still embodied by humans. we met limbs not the head and not the heart. I intend to shoot the man who is taller than all those around him." My throat went dry. I asked: "Rathenau?" "Rathenau," Kern said. He stood up and said: "The blood of this man shall irreconcilably divide what must be divided forever." —

The car didn't come until we were in bed in our apartment on Schiffbauerdamm. Ernst Werner Techow reported that he had a breakdown on the way. He didn't yet know anything about Kern's plans. Kern wanted only through the authority that he received from everyone,

who knew him, create henchmen for the deed without holding them responsible. Over the next few days he ruthlessly exploited whatever help was offered to him. Only when it was unavoidable did he mention the name Rathenau. At a feverish pace he prepared everything that aimed at the deed. But he got neither passports nor money. When I finally asked him what he intended to do after the crime, he said: "Not what you think. We want to try to escape to Sweden. If the act does not lead to a decision, we will come back immediately and move on to the next one. I can't believe that the deed won't at least be a beacon that inspires further deeds. I will definitely come back to do what no one else can do. It's not in my hands when the end comes." Almost none of the preparations succeeded at first go. Your car was wrong. The expected submachine gun did not arrive, another one had to be procured, which failed several times during test firing. For days Fischer was looking for a suitable garage, finally he found one through the mediation of a man who had the sign of treason on his forehead. When it was said that Rathenau was going away, Kern said to me with dark eyes: "It's as if fate didn't want it." Kern had to put a stop to the assassination plans of a seventeen-year-old high school student that he learned about. He rudely forbade any interference I attempted. He wished that Fischer should have Techow teach him how to drive a motor vehicle

also to be able to switch off Techow. On the other hand, he made use of the services of a blustering and psychopathic student in a contemptuous tone. Fischer remained evenly calm. He was the pole to which Kern always found himself. Whenever he noticed that Kern was wearing himself out over small things, he would take him for long walks. Once, with a quick decision, he took us to a movie theater that was on the way. It became «Dr. Mabuse, the player». We only found space in separate rows. When the inside of a prison appeared on the screen, Kern called across three rows: "Pecheur, this is the cell from which we got Dittmar out." People shouted "Pst".

Kern and Fischer visited the Reichstag. Rathenau spoke. On the way home, Kern stopped for a long time on Unter den Linden in front of a photographer's notice in which Rathenau's portrait hung. The dark, strangely warm and collected eyes looked at us almost inquiringly from the narrow and well-groomed face.

After a long hesitation, Fischer said: "He looks very decent." On Saturday, June 24, 1922, around ten thirty in the morning, the car was parked in a side street off Königsallee in the villa suburb of Grunewald, near Rathenau's apartment. At the point where the street merged into Konigsallee, Fischer stood waiting. Kern took his old rubber coat out of the car. Techow tinkered with the hood of the car. He reported to Kern, the oil supplier

be broken The car would be enough for a short and fast journey. Kern maintained his free composure. I stood in front of him and looked at him. I was shaking so badly that for a moment I thought the engine of the car I was leaning against was already running. Kern slipped into his coat. I wanted to say something, something warm, sure. Finally I asked: "What should we give for motives if we are caught?" "If you're caught," Kern said happily, "then blatantly lay all the blame on me. This is of course. Don't tell the truth by any means, say anything, God, it doesn't matter what. Say something that people used to believing their morning papers will understand. Tell me he's one of the wise men of Zion, or that he married his sister to Radek, or some other stupid thing. Or say what the newspapers will tell you, what will go down like brown butter when they find it in your testimony. Maybe then they'll be a little ashamed. Say it as flatly as possible, if you have to say anything at all, that's the only way you can be understood. They will never understand what moved us, and if they did, it would humiliate you. Make sure you don't let yourself get caught. Soon every man will be needed." He pulled the leather cap over his head. His face looked bold and open from the brown stern frame. He said: «The Düsseldorf thing must not be abandoned. Yesterday I got the news that this time, too, the Freiberg arms transfer

had been whistled. The men need to be warned, remember. You must leave Berlin immediately. The Elberfeld should watch out for Matthes, Cologne, he is planning a big hit for his separatists. Gabriel is not allowed to leave the Palatinate when things start at the top. When Hitler sees his hour he will be the man I think he is. A year later is a decade too soon. Greet all comrades." He lifted the submachine gun from the seat and placed it under the front seats within easy reach. He turned to me and looked me full in the face. 'Bye, fella, you're a big axe, don't get jagged. I have one request, let the innkeeper live; he is a good man, and quite harmless." He leaned forward and grabbed my skirt. He said softly, 'You have no idea how glad I am to have it all behind me. At that moment a small, dark red car drove up the Konigsallee at a leisurely pace. Fischer brushed past and silently got into the car. Techow was driving; his face was suddenly gray and cut out of wood. Kern briefly shook my hand and then stood in the car, tall, with his coat flapping in the air. The car started shaking. I lunged at the punch and stuck my hand inside. Nobody grabbed her. Kern sat down. The car started. The car started; I wanted to hold him, he glided with a whirring sound. I wanted to scream, I wanted to run, I was left paralyzed, empty, frozen, utterly abandoned on the gray road. Kern looked around again. I saw his face again. Then the car swept around the corner.

murder

Walther Rathenau murdered

Berlin, June 24

According to an official report, Minister Rathenau was shot dead this morning shortly after he had left his villa in Grunewald to go to the Foreign Office and died immediately.

Report of the "Berliner Tageblatt". The construction worker Krischbin described the process as a witness in the "Vossische Zeitung":

“Around a quarter to eleven two cars came down Königsallee from the direction of Hundekehle. In the front, slower-moving car, which stopped about halfway down the street, sat a gentleman in the back seat; you could see him clearly because the car was completely open, even without a summer top. In the rear, also completely open car, a six-seater, dark field grey deleted, powerful touring cars, sat two gentlemen in long, brand-new leather coats with similar leather caps, which only just left the oval of the face free. You could see that they were both completely beardless.

They didn't wear car goggles. The Königsallee in Grunewald is a busy road, so you don't pay attention to every car that comes by. But we all saw this big car, because the fine leather things of the occupants caught our eye. The big car overtook the smaller car, which was driving more slowly, almost on the rails of the tram, probably because it wanted to swing out to the big S-curve, on the right side of the street and pushed it hard to the left, almost to our side of the street. When the big car was about half a car's length past and the lone occupant of the other car looked over to the right to see if there was going to be a collision, one gentleman in the fine leather coat bent forward, seized a long pistol, the butt of which he pulled into the armpit, and aimed at the gentleman in the other car. He didn't need to aim, it was that close; I looked him straight in the eye, so to speak. It was a healthy, open face, as we say: an officer's face. I took cover because the shots could have hit us too. Then the shots rang out very quickly, as fast as a machine gun. When one man had finished shooting, the other got up, pulled the trigger—it was an egg hand grenade—and threw it into the other car, which he was driving close to. Before that, the gentleman had already slumped in his seat and was lying on his side. Now the chauffeur stopped very close to Erdener Strasse, where there was a heap of rubble, and yelled: "Help, help!" He didn't need to aim, it was that close; I looked him straight in the eye, so to speak. It was a healthy, open face, as we say: an officer's face. I took cover because the shots could have hit us too. Then the shots rang out very quickly, as fast as a machine gun. When one man had finished shooting, the other got up, pulled the trigger—it was an egg hand grenade—and threw it into the other car, which he was driving close to. Before that, the gentleman had already slumped in his seat and was lying on his side. Now the chauffeur stopped very close to Erdener Strasse, where there was a heap of rubble, and yelled: "Help, help!" He didn't need to aim, it was that close; I looked him straight in the eye, so to speak. It was a healthy, open face, as we say: an officer's face. I took cover because the shots could have hit us too. Then the shots rang out very quickly, as fast as a machine gun. When one man had finished shooting, the other got up, pulled the trigger—it was an egg hand grenade—and threw it into the other car, which he was driving close to. Before that, the gentleman had already slumped in his seat and was lying on his side. Now the chauffeur stopped very close to Erdener Strasse, where there was a heap of rubble, and yelled: "Help, help!" I looked him straight in the eye, so to speak. It was a healthy, open face, as we say: an officer's face. I took cover because the shots could have hit us too. Then the shots rang out very quickly, as fast as a machine gun. When one man had finished shooting, the other got up, pulled the trigger—it was an egg hand grenade—and threw it into the other car, which he was driving close to. Before that, the gentleman had already slumped in his seat and was lying on his side. Now the chauffeur stopped very close to Erdener Strasse, where there was a heap of rubble, and yelled: "Help, help!" I looked him straight in the eye, so to speak. It was a healthy, open face, as we say: an officer's face. I took cover because the shots could have hit us too. Then the shots rang out very quickly, as fast as a machine gun. When one man had finished shooting, the other got up, pulled the trigger—it was an egg hand grenade—and threw it into the other car, which he was driving close to. Before that, the gentleman had already slumped in his seat and was lying on his side. Now the chauffeur stopped very

close to Erdener Strasse, where there was a heap of rubble, and yelled: "Help, help!" because the shots could have hit us too. Then the shots rang out very

Wallot Street off. The car with the shot dead man was now on the curb. At the same moment there was a crash and the egg grenade exploded. The gentleman in the back was lifted up by the pressure, even the car jumped a little. We all ran there at once and found nine shell casings and the trigger of the egg grenade on the dam. Parts of the Fournier wood had jumped off the car. The chauffeur started his car again, a young girl got into the car and supported the unconscious, probably already dead gentleman, and the car drove at high speed the way it had come, on the Königsallee back to the police station, which was about thirty meters further at the end of Königsallee towards Hundekehle.» "What have you done? You murdered the noblest in a cowardly ambush. You have inflicted the most outrageous bloodguilt on the people that this man has always served with every fiber of his heart. You have touched the heart of the people, the people in their believing masses. The wicked deed did not hit the Rathenau man alone, it hit Germany as a whole. Blinded boys you took up murder weapons, your shots killed a man and wounded sixty million. A people cries woe at your madness, at the crime to which its savior himself fell victim. Not enough with that, the world turns in disgust and horror from a country in which your spirit could grow in its blindness and ripen into such fruits. what this man in

painstaking construction, formed in hard, constant duty, you destroyed this in one fell swoop with your disastrous act of terror. You cheated the fate of our people out of this man. You have assassinated the voice of reason, buried the way it showed. You have irretrievably shaken the basis of all national life: trust. The work of Bismarck struck her and the German future in its first, graceful germ. You weren't worth living in that man's shadow. Your end should be as shameful as the deed, dying should bring you no glory, and no punishment that hits you is heavy enough. » Rathenau wrote in The Mechanics of the Spirit: "Death appears to us only when we erroneously direct the eye to the limb, not to the creature. The ancients compared the decline of human life to the fall of leaves; the leaf dies but the tree lives. When the tree falls, the forest lives, and when the forest dies, the earthly garment turns green, nourishing, warming and consuming all its protégés. When the planet freezes, a thousand branches of Brader bloom under the rays of new suns. Nothing organic dies, everything renews itself, and the god who looks from afar finds the same image and life thousands of years from now. — In the entire visible world we know nothing mortal. Something that is mortal could not be born. Of course, everything that strives for a goal, that rubs and fights, wears out,

body to the mechanism of the atom. But this change looks no more like dying than does the growth of the individual plant, which would be impossible without a change in substance. The notion of dying comes from miscontemplation, with the eye attaching to the part rather than the whole. — Nothing being in the world is mortal. If we nevertheless want to continue to use the image of death to designate the power that demarcates the worlds in the manifestation of existence, then the glorious genius appears as the guardian of life, as the lord of transfiguration and witness of truth. Death

The icy breath that swept over countries and cities from the whirlwinds of horror, darkened the sun and cast pale shadows in the street canyons, tore all hearts out of the smooth day with its shudder at that hour. When the newsagents shouted the news in hoarse voices across the squares, when the street noise died away for a few seconds, only to rise again in disturbed rhythms, it seemed as if the echo of distant shots hung menacingly over everyone's heads. The people stood stunned in a tangled heap, which then quickly split up, they hurriedly went on again, as if they had to flee, had to find themselves and yet knew that terror was chasing behind them and incomprehension all the gates in front of them kept locked. But since all the people who peopled the day

thought the same thing and feared the same thing and in the same fluttering haste sought the way out of the confusion, brooding, harbinger of panic, the shimmering haze over the masses, which forces the blood to cry out, only a word tears, an intensification the spell. All at once the masses threw up their walls under waving flags, filled the cities with the pounding of their footsteps, and lashed the air with the murmur of their dull anger. Hundreds of thousands crowded together, thirsting for liberation, wanting to escape the immense pressure under which the act forced them. If they felt attacked, fine, then the vault was their weapon. But they were not allowed to be tamed by the busy people who were already standing on every street corner, the level-headed chatterboxes who were indignant because they didn't think the hour was ready. When I saw the masses whirling about in the squares, saw them marching, driven by the sudden collapse of their orderly world, the embers of extreme torment burned in me, the raging desire to intervene so that it could happen, to throw me in as a blazing wedge, to drive the rift to the bound core of the demon. I tremblingly reached for the weapon, but no worthwhile target offered itself among the mass of stubborn faces; I phoned the activists, jaws chattering, but the clandestine violence had engulfed them too; I ran through the streets with seething hatred, ready to murder my neighbor, myself and the world, but the fleeting seconds cheated me of the last compulsion. I wanted my sacrifice but the secret violence had devoured them too; I ran through the streets with seething hatred, ready to murder my neighbor, myself and the world, but the fleeting seconds cheated me of the last compulsion. I wanted my sacrifice but the secret violence had devoured them too; I ran through the streets with seething hatred, ready to murder my neighbor, myself and the world, but the fleeting seconds cheated me of the last compulsion. I wanted my sacrifice

popping out of the zone above the mass of the nameless, Ebert or Wirth, but then a single thought made my blood singe, and I stood pressed against a wall in a cold sweat, and I thought "Kern", all I could think was "Kern ». But Kern was missing.

Kern and Fischer went their dark way. They roamed through the world that was now inhospitable to them, they consciously wore the sign of Cain, with deadly seriousness, they were swallowed up by the shadows that their deed itself conjured up. Sparse messages came to her friends long after, a few harsh words passed from mouth to mouth and transformed. Sparse accounts told of those narrow, dead-end ridges they trekked, casting dim lights on the lonely path. But this is what we heard:

The car stopped a few hundred yards from the scene of the crime. Kern threw the submachine gun over a wall into a blooming garden. Techow threw up the hood of the "sick" car. They stripped off their leather caps, they took off their coats. The pursuers were already turning into the street. The cops, crouching on their clattering wheels, saw the peacefully waiting car and they all drove past.

At the demonstrations on Alexanderplatz, they stood wedged in the crowd cursing the murderers and watched the heavy vehicles with armed crews roll out of the gates of the Red House in pursuit. They listened to the threatening, echoing

Speeches of the exalted, which the moment lifted above the day for a few seconds, only to let them fall right back into little care. They got as far as the inspectors' rooms and disappeared again down the long, crowded corridors. They met again with Techow at Wannsee. They sailed far out and lay lonely and silent for long hours on the sunlit water. Then they disappeared from Berlin. The motorboat was to be waiting in a bay in a forest close to Warnemünde to take the outlaws to a yacht destined to cruise the high seas to take them on board and carry them to Sweden. On the agreed night, the boat was at the designated spot. But Kern and Fischer, seized by the incomprehension of their escape, were twenty-four hours wrong. They came a night early and found no one. Believing they had been abandoned, they turned back. And now that they knew they were doomed, they made the deadly resolve. They wanted to go back again. They wanted to venture again. They wanted to throw themselves at the last bit of bitterness, see an opponent fall once more before they fell themselves. They wanted to go to friends to arm themselves again. But fate denied them everything; nothing was granted to them more than the strength for the last boost. They got bicycles. They spent the night in lonely farmsteads in foresters' homes, with those who had disappeared

Comrades from happy naval times. But the time soon came when the people would be frightened when they knocked on the doors. Pale faces called out to them through closed windows to drive on, assuring them that no one would betray them, but that no one could help them. And a man walked through the village carrying a placard saying that the Rathenau murderers were in the village. And the inhabitants crept into their houses and locked themselves. They drove through the vast forests of Mecklenburg and the Mark Nobody knows where they got their used strength renewed. Nobody knows about the whispered conversations, about the secret camps in the thicket. Nobody knows the secret of those long nights under cool starry skies, of the delicate weaving of lost dreams, of the still softness of the approaching light. As the ferryman put them across the Elbe, the pursuers appeared on the bank just deserted, while already drifting in the middle of the river. The menacing mob shouted its "Stop!" to the ferryman, and Kern and Fischer sat tired and still on the benches and looked at the circling water. But the ferryman murmured his way to the other bank and put the fugitives down and rowed back lazily. So the pursuers lost the promising trail.

They begged for bread. They crept to the farms and stared through the windows into the lowceilinged rooms where people were milling about

collected lamps. They looked for berries and fruit, they dug the roots out of the fields and brushed the ripe grain through their fingers. A Landjäger shot them a load of buckshot in the small of the back. They lost themselves in the vast forests of East Hanover. And it became known that they lived in the woods, and there was the greatest police presence in history. The chain of sentries stretched around the forest. All the hundreds in the countryside, in the neighboring provinces, gathered. The forest was surrounded, man walked next to man, bush by bush suffered the patrol, wood by wood saw the armed men walking. The mighty ring grew narrower and narrower toward the center. But Kern and Fischer had escaped the net, and no one knows how that happened.

They lived like wild animals in the forests and they were hunted like that. They found friends who were surprised, who helped them further and who later said that Kern had an incomprehensibly free cheerfulness, without shyness and without the burden of an oppressive fear of guilt. They must have fled the hasty journey from the Elbe to Thuringia, because two days after they had been seen near Gardelegen they threw their bikes into the Saale. They came to the castle. The government offered Kern and Fischer a head price of one million marks. Many newspapers that have made it their sacred task to defend the commandments of humanity, human love and human dignity in their columns under all circumstances

maintain and maintain, did not shy away from the demands of the hour and were willing to renounce their noble ideals for this special case. They called for collection and set up collection points for the plentiful inflowing funds, which were offered as a reward for those who delivered the outlaws to earthly justice. In inverse proportion to the degree of salience of the principle of that duty of citizenship to be faithfully fulfilled, the price per capita reached the level of four and a half million marks. The Reichstag immediately decided to create a law to protect the republic and set up a special state court. An army of officials worked to identify the perpetrators. The police arrested all known and unknown activists in the Reich whom they could get hold of,

While the dead Walther Rathenau still lay in the open coffin, his sore face with the broken chin half hidden by a handkerchief, the Reichstag met. The dignity of death remained in the quiet house in Grunewald. Helfferich had to flee the rage of the raging representatives of the people from the parliamentary chambers, a process that basically took place on a different level and with other exponents than were valid for the deed. The rank of the Rathenau man was not able to withstand hate and

not to give face to the grief of his friends. He was lonely even in death. In the mad hope of finding the two friends, I wandered aimlessly through the city. I walked every street I walked with them, I visited every place I visited with them. I blindly passed the funeral procession that followed Rathenau's coffin, I saw the people like shadows, as if covered by a bluish veil. I leafed through the newspapers hastily for news of the perpetrators, and when for the first time the names bounced out of the tangle of small writing, I stood, eyes flickering and exhausted, in the midst of the tumult of the street, and leaned trembling against a tree and groped for the gun and then rushed off, somewhere, and wandered restlessly through the city until I couldn't take it anymore and ran to the train station. I begged money, I got Kern and Fischer passports, which were fake but real. I researched the reports issued by the Berlin police in the style of the Great War daily reports. When it was said that the two were in Mecklenburg, I traveled to Mecklenburg. I went to Holstein, to Thuringia, to Westphalia; I whipped up the troubled groups, I sent the activists to search. Usually, when I came to a town near which my friends were supposed to have been seen, the name of another, more distant town was already mentioned in the police report; a map had been found there, which must belong to the perpetrators, or

a collar button, or someone claimed to have recognized her. I never stayed longer than a few hours in any one place, I helped out with my comrades who lived scattered all over the place and researched, I despaired at the stubbornness of friends who had suddenly become cautious. In one day I tore down seven wanted posters. I stood bent over the atlas and drew in all the traces that had been found perfectly up to that point. I sent word to the stages of their supposed road. But no way led to them. No rumor met the truth. No help reached her.

Sometimes I changed routes during the journey, then sat at some small and obscure station at the tables in the waiting room, stained with beer and tabal, through the night and was disconsolate and bitter. I was obsessed with finding her. I murmured the name Kern to myself and thought I was getting new strength from it. By thinking intensely about Freud, I wanted to force myself closer to him spatially. I knew that I was inextricably linked to him. I thought desperately that it couldn't be possible not to get to him. I was afraid to sleep; perhaps at this irreplaceable moment he could roam nearby in search of help. I recalled every word I heard from him. I remembered every act that connected me to him. I imagined the most unlikely situations; I saw him come into the room, into the train compartment, I thought that the man in a blue jacket, who was walking in front of me and whose face I could only dimly make out,

turn around and core must be. For a long time I stood in front of a wanted poster showing his picture, him as a young naval officer with the white, cheeky summer cap, showing his handwriting, the steep, clear, simple handwriting. I carefully tore off the warrant and hid the bad rendering of his features in my breast pocket. I went to Erfurt. I wanted to see Dieter because it was said that the two had been seen in Thuringia. I went to Dieter's apartment, but the landlady said grumpily and suspiciously that he had moved out the day before and she didn't know his new address. I wandered through the city and looked on every street. I ventured into police headquarters, expecting to be arrested any second, but Dieter had not yet been re-registered. I bought a newspaper and read that the police action around Gardelegen had ended without success, but apparently Kern and Fischer had turned to Hanover. I got on the train to Hanover. I got on the train to Hanover and had the money and the passports in my pocket and the suits and underwear and boots in my suitcase, which I had now been lugging across the country for the two of them for three weeks. I drove through the mountains of Thuringia and looked out of the window without seeing. I got restless before Bad Kösen and Naumburg. I got up and rolled down the window and leaned out. I watched the Saale flow and peered at the mountain cone rising almost vertically beside the railway embankment and saw the two gray, massive, weathered towers of Saaleck Castle crowning the cone. And

I said hello to the castle, secretly remembering the days when Dittmar was sitting up there, freed from prison by Kern, and felt the burning desire to get off in Bad Kösen and visit the castle, to walk the paths that Kern had walked, who had to carry a touch of his nature in their defiant steepness. But I thought that I wasn't allowed to do that, that I had to go on to Hanover; I thought that perhaps now, right now, Kern was in dire straits and any delay must be irretrievable. Once again, when the train stopped in Bad Kösen, I had a great wish, but I looked back at the castle with infinite sadness and sent burning greetings and drove on. But at that hour Kern and Fischer were in the castle and were asking for help. At that hour Dieter held Kern's letter in his hands in Erfurt and had neither the money nor the passports nor the things that I now carried to Hanover with trembling heart in my heart.

It should not be.

Once again, lonely between wind and sky, they were allowed to find themselves. They lived scattered, abandoned and lost in the upper room of the castle. They gazed freely over the swaying trees, over the moving landscape, whose lovely lines are only interrupted by the hardness of the defiant walls in which they found their last refuge. They saw the Rudelsburg building itself out of the steep cliffs of the valley, they saw the Saale in its supple river between shimmering bushes, they saw the village that

gently nestles at the foot of the mountain. They heard the rustling and shaking of the trees, which are full of passion when the broad evening wind blows towards the castle. And just as the landscape knows nothing indolent and no haste, but only full expectation and echo of a great movement and deepest activity, so nothing else could grow in them than the merciful stillness in which every poor word must be human. Surely the last peace had already been laid over them, and all things flowed towards them in happiness. From stars, plants and stones, from the quiet words of gathering, from knowing devotion to the great unit that they served, they had to gain strength, buoyancy, joy at the confessing hour. They were very close to maturity, to union with the wafting showers from distant spaces, they were very close to the faithful harmony with the world for which they struggled. They had lived; and because they have walked through guilt and hardship, through torment and through loneliness, they knew how to despise easy resolutions and cheap ways out, so they greeted the flame, which was once action and at other times purification and last time dying. And her death was beautiful. But this is how they died:

Two unworthy men, who spit life on the lukewarm tongue, saw that the castle was inhabited in spite of the owner's departure; they crept around the towers, they recognized Kern and Fischer and betrayed them. Their names are not mentioned, they are not cursed and not hated, they are not worth avenging thought. The police who knew the trail

was lost, did not believe her statements. But they invoked their legal right to the reward. And two detectives from Halle were sent to the castle. And Kern and Fischer were discovered. The officials entered the inhabited tower. As they entered the stairs, the door at the top opened and Kern, pistol in hand, approached them. He drove the officers ahead of him, who fled into the open, and one of them begged Kern not to shoot and called out to him that he had family. And Kern murmured something, something about "cowardly pack," giving softness the cloak of pride, and disappeared into the tower again.

But the officials called for help. In a few hours, a whole hundred security police had surrounded the castle. This was July 17, 1922. Two days before, a storm had broken out, which was now culminating in shrieks of rage. The wisps of cloud raced low over the mountain, over the towers gray and bulky shrouded in howling, slapping showers. The storm snapped whole branches from the trees and ruffled the crested bushes of the mountain and swept leaves and bits of bush down the slopes in a mad whirl. Over there the Rudelsburg lay behind flying shadows. The landscape was overcast and lost in grey. But many hikers, villagers gathered around the castle. People surrounded the mountain, filled the low wooded slopes, strode around the towering towers, in one of which core and fishermen

knew about the end. They came out once more; they appeared on the battlement of the east tower. They leaned towards the curious, who stared up as if transfixed in the small satiation of their lack of merit. And in the face of the incomprehensible crowd, the shrill words of defiance, unleashed like the storm, urged to the final outburst. «We live and die for our ideals!» they called down to those waiting. They shouted: "Others will follow us!" They cheered for the man they loved as their leader and who was an outlaw like them. They weighed down scraps of paper, on which their last message must have been written, with stones and threw them from the tower. But the storm was so violent that not one could be found. They watched the flying stones. The detectives, however, "in order to prove their courage and determination," as they added to the files, now opened fire on the top window without being attacked from the safe cover of the uninhabited western tower. A shot hit the window. He was handed over by the civil servant who begged Kern for his life. But Kern must have been bent over at the window, because the shot that pierced the glass just above the ledge hit him in the head, between the right temple and the ear. He was dead instantly. Fischer tried to bandage his fallen comrade; he had torn canvas to pieces and stopped the blood from the dripping wound. When he saw it

was in vain, he lifted the dead man and laid him on the bed. Since the dead man's boots soiled the bedding, he carefully placed a sheet of packing paper under Kern's feet. He clasped his hands and stroked his eyes shut. Fischer sat down on the other bed. He raised the pistol and put it in the same spot where Kern had been hit and pulled the trigger. Escape

I had never felt so strongly that the two friends were so close to me as I did in those hours in the clear and somewhat boringly clean city. The fact that I didn't meet a single one of my Hanoverian comrades almost seemed like a good sign. Certainly Kern and Fischer were safe now. I walked the streets relaxed and with serene ease, knowing that I shall find her, and even the prison I passed, with its gloomy front and monotonous rows of low and dark windows, could give me no other sensation than that of one superior Schadenfreude. I was no longer restless, and for the first time since the day of the murder I went to sleep without the numbing fear that accompanied me with the certainty that life outside was going on with full pulse. banished the frizzy dreams to the limits of waking. But then the dream overtook me. Suddenly I had to flee from a narrow space in front of a creature with many arms, dissolving in indefinite forms, which was threateningly coming out of the

bare corner jumped at me. There was no other way out than the gorge of a steep, winding stairway that led into the bottomless pit. But the creature was faster than I, I could always see its arms reaching for me; I stumbled into the darkness with failing legs, felt the ground drop in stages beneath my feet, and thought I had to scream without being able to. At the moment of greatest danger, however, I remembered with exhilarating excitement that I could fly, that I had only to raise my arms and flap them, up and down, to lift myself above the ground and with flapping wings to fly. To be sure, my heavy body no longer had any excess; I had to draw strength from within, raise myself with the last rushing force of my will and entrust myself to the air. I took a few stumbling, swaying steps, as storks do before they take flight, but soon I lifted myself up and was soaring at breakneck speed through the dim air of the house, a few feet above the stairs. Suddenly I found myself out in the open, stroking a ragged landscape high above the enemies' heads into which the demon's form had transformed. Again and again my slanting body sank and threatened to fall to the ground, but with desperate severity I forced my arms to move again and immediately noticed how the burden of my body, willing but attached to the earthly, pushed forward in new thrusts . The air gathered beneath me, carrying me higher and higher. When I was over the dark sea I saw him before they swing into flight, but already I lifted myself and soared through the twilight air of the house at breakneck speed, always a few feet above the stairs. Suddenly I found myself out in the open, stroking a ragged landscape high above the enemies' heads into which the demon's form had transformed. Again and again my slanting body sank and threatened to fall to the ground, but with desperate severity I forced my arms to move again and immediately noticed how the burden of my body, willing but attached to the earthly, pushed forward in new thrusts . The air gathered beneath me, carrying me higher and higher. When I was over the dark sea I saw him before they swing into flight, but already I lifted myself and soared through the twilight air of the house at breakneck speed, always a few feet above the stairs. Suddenly I found myself out in the open, stroking a ragged landscape high above the enemies' heads into which the demon's form had transformed. Again and again my slanting body sank and threatened to fall to the ground, but with desperate severity I forced my arms to move again and immediately noticed how the burden of my body, willing but attached to the earthly, pushed forward in new thrusts . The air gathered beneath me, carrying me higher and higher. When I was over the dark sea I saw him but already I lifted myself and soared through the twilight air of the house at breakneck speed, always a few feet above the stairs. Suddenly I found myself out in the open, stroking a ragged landscape high above the enemies' heads into which the demon's form had transformed. Again and again my slanting body sank and threatened to fall to the ground, but with desperate severity I forced my arms to move again and immediately noticed how the burden of my body, willing but attached to the earthly, pushed forward in new thrusts . The air gathered beneath me, carrying me higher and higher. When I was over the dark sea I saw him but already I lifted myself and soared through the twilight air of the house at breakneck speed, always a few feet above the stairs. Suddenly I found myself out in the open, stroking a ragged landscape high above the enemies' heads into which the demon's form had transformed. Again and again my slanting

body sank and threatened to fall to the ground, but with desperate severity I forced my arms to move again and immediately noticed how the burden of m

demon in the shape of a horrible polyp moving at the bottom of the waters and sneering at me with one round eye staring in the middle of its spongy belly. Even though I was at high altitude, my paddling foot wet the turbulent water, and I felt the flesh of my limbs soak with the downing liquid. I attempted one last push to get airborne, also buoyant again as my body buckled in the middle and I plummeted vertically to the ground in a frenzied vortex. At the same time I heard wild screams, which faded away immediately and now came through the closed window when I opened my eyes with difficulty. Newsagents shouted out a message below. I got up quickly, my head aching, I dressed quickly, filled with a strange fear, and hurriedly went through the small hall of the hotel to the street. On the corner, many people were standing at the window of a newspaper office. I forced my way through and read the blue characters of a telegram announcing the deaths of Kern and Fischer. Although I didn't doubt for a moment the whole truth of the sober news, I didn't think I was torn from my choking dream. I was still falling, spinning at lightning speed around a crooked axis, and the force of the fall tore my clothes to shreds. At the same time, however, the friction with the turbulent air scorched my limbs, enveloped me in a frenzy of mad embers that slowly burned me. I felt the limbs with a tingling shudder

charred as the head detached and now, detached, tumbled its own course. It was also the head that found itself first. He lay on a bench, bedded against cool irons, and a policeman bent over him. I parried and staggered through the grounds, shoulders hunched. I stopped at a pond and thoughtlessly threw a few pebbles into the water. They fell wearily to the bottom, disappeared in the turbulent water, raising little dusty clouds in the mud. Small fish would join and then suddenly dart away again. When the policeman approached, I went on. I felt the pain gnawing at a very indefinable place, digging into the skin, which was frozen and numb as if from a local anesthetic, so that only the brain suffered at the thought of irreplaceable loss. This also drove me to make sure to read the message again and find in it the living torment I longed for. In the foyer of the train station, people were again faced with an attack, and I dug into the heap. But what was hanging there wasn't the telegram, it was a profile, my profile. I had trouble realizing that. It wasn't my name that was up there, but the one under which I lived in Berlin. But the suit and coat I was wearing at the time were described and relevant information requested. I slowly turned out of the crowd and was on the train half an hour later. A devilish grimace grinned at me from every dirty, half-blinded window of the station.

The shrill noises in the hall vibrated in me and made the desire to down a large bottle of highproof brandy at once almost swell to crazed greed. I stumbled over to the bar and asked for a bottle, ignoring the newspaper messengers who cried out their papers and shouted the deaths of friends into the roaring, indifferent tumult. But when I had uncorked the bottle in the semi-dark compartment, the smell of alcohol rose disgustingly to my head and I leaned back exhausted, and I thought I shouldn't anesthetize myself, I thought it was unworthy to help myself get over it like that , which now had to penetrate me. I threw the bottle into the luggage rack and sat dully in the corner until the train started moving. A plump gentleman unfolded the newspaper. I read the names, read them over and over again, they were in bold above the columns. I read them quite coldly, as if they were none of my business, and yet I waited for the fat gentleman with the little gold chain over his heavy belly to make even one disparaging remark about my friends. I almost felt sorry when he smacked his lips through the pages and immersed himself in the trade section. So I was cheated of the relaxation that must have come from slapping his shaking face. The three gentlemen, apparently business travellers, who were busily playing skat at the window, told jokes while the cards were being shuffled and dealt. "When Rathenau went to heaven," said the gentleman with the little black beard and the Saxon intonation, "he met there

the Erzberger. "But we have to celebrate that with a bottle of wine," shouted Erzberger and called Peter, but Peter said he wasn't allowed to serve any wine because the innkeeper wasn't here yet...»

"What dare you...?" I screamed and jumped up feeling it squirt inside me. So that's why Kern fell, so those slimy rags could crack their jokes, I thought, and I yelled, "You bastard, I'll smack that word back into your filthy gullet!" and jumped at him, while the red world was circling in my brain. It circled and jerked me around, and I was suddenly thrown up and then fell, falling with a rushing momentum and only heard: "He's drunk," and wanted to slur that I wasn't drunk, but I staggered and sank. "Lie still, I'm a doctor," said the gentleman, who pushed me back onto the bench, which transmitted the pounding of the rattling train to my pounding head. He said, "Man, you've got a high fever, you can't go any further, you have to get off at the next station and go to a hospital." I rolled aside; the compartment was empty, the window curtains were drawn towards the corridor. I resisted the doctor, took his pulse, struggled to get up. He spoke soothingly to me. But I shook my head and got up. The coat I was lying under fell to the ground and the pistol slipped out of his pocket. I snatched it up, fell back onto the bench, and holstered the pistol. The doctor saw the gun, gave me a searching look, and then let me go.

the privy, saw my chalk-white face with the red spots in the mirror and told me fervently. The whole trip I had to fight the fever. I stared at a spot until the dancing faces froze again. In the moments of complete collapse, all the images that gave my life content passed by. Now everything made no sense. Rathenau was dead and it was no longer worth fighting for. Kern was dead, so it wasn't worth living anymore. Now there was nothing I could do but end my life in a decent way. Everything had become worthless... The fever that never dried my bones seemed to me a symbol of reality that I dared not dare to evade without spoiling the task, I had never been ill, well, at the moment of my friend's death, it grabbed me. I burned myself to death because everything that was combustible had to burn. This satiated, disgusting world had to be exterminated. "Eradicate, eradicate," the train slammed down the rails. There weren't any more people. There were only grimaces. It's already there, the equality of everything that has a human face! banging in between. Destroy, cold and systematic. The earth can't take any more devils. It should fall to Satan like rotten fruit when he sets up his kingdom again. Why not sign the hellish contract? I wish I could become invisible. If only there were a remedy, a magic ointment, or a fine ring that you have to turn on your finger, a magic cloak that wasn't dedicated to Siegfried, to Hagen—perhaps the stone There were only grimaces. It's already there, the equality of everything that has a human face! banging in between. Destroy, cold and systematic. The earth can't take any more devils. It should fall to Satan like rotten fruit when he sets up his kingdom again. Why not sign the hellish contract? I wish I could become invisible. If only there were a remedy, a magic ointment, or a fine ring that you have to turn on your finger, a magic cloak that wasn't dedicated to Siegfried, to Hagen—perhaps the stone There were only grimaces. It's already there, the equality of everything that has a human face! banging in between. Destroy, cold and systematic. The earth can't take any more devils. It should fall to Satan like rotten fruit when he sets up his kingdom again. Why not sign the hellish contract? I wish I could become invisible. If only there were a remedy, a magic ointment, or a fine ring that you have to turn on your finger, a magic cloak that wasn't dedicated to Siegfried, to Hagen—perhaps the stone Why not sign the hellish contract? I wish I could become invisible. If only there were a remedy, a magic ointment, or a fine ring that you have to turn on your finger, a magic cloak that wasn't dedicated to Siegfried, to Hagen—perhaps the stone Why not sign the hellish contract? I wish I could become invisible. If only there were a remedy, a magic ointment, or a fine ring that you have to turn on your finger, a magic cloak that wasn't dedicated to Siegfried, to Hagen—perhaps the stone

the sage you put in your mouth to be invisible! And Kern was to light a torch, a beacon that would shine over the fields of rubble — firebrands in the cities, up and down the street, and plague germs in the wells. The god of vengeance had his strangling angels. I join this formation. No blood cross should help on the post. Explosives under this rotten, stinking mush, so that the dirt spatters to the moon. How would the world be without people? I would roam through the smoking rooms, through the pale, depopulated cities, in which the smell of corpses suffocated the last life, all the junk would then hang in sad shreds from the cracked walls and show the empty wishes naked. I'd turn on the machines in the dead factories that they shatter themselves in the rattling idling speed, I would heat up two trains and let them collide, that they rear and bend and tower and roll down the embankment in tatters; the ocean liners, the giant ships, the wonders of the modern world I would rush full steam ahead against the stones of the harbor walls until they rupture their glistening bellies and boil away hissing in the turbulent tide. The earth would have to be shaved clean until there was nothing left that was built by human hands. Perhaps from the moon or from Mars comes a new race, a nobler creature to inhabit the earth; Bring it on, the world should make sense again. — the wonders of the modern world I would chase at full steam against the stones of the harbor walls until they rupture their gleaming bellies and boil away hissing in the turbulent tide. The earth would have to be shaved clean until there was nothing left that was built by human hands. Perhaps from the moon or from Mars comes a new race, a nobler creature to inhabit the earth; Bring it on, the world should make sense again. — the wonders of the modern world I would chase at full steam against the stones of the harbor walls until they rupture their gleaming bellies and boil away hissing in the turbulent tide. The earth would have to be shaved clean until there was nothing left that was built by human hands. Perhaps from the moon or from Mars comes a new race, a nobler creature to inhabit the earth; Bring it on, the world should make sense again. —

Treskow, ensign of the infantry school and former cadet comrade, was standing in Munich Central Station. He saw my condition and guided me through it

the city into the barracks and laid me down on a light bed in his room. Comrades came over. I saw the uniforms and wanted to get up, grab a gun and fight back. They pushed me down. I screamed, glowing and twitching, the name Kern. They posted guards in the corridors so that no officer came into the room. Treskow brewed a mixture of pepper and alcohol, which they poured down my burning throat. — I woke up very weak, but very clear. I couldn't stay in the infantry school. The comrades risked position and profession. Treskow put me up with a family friend of mine. I slept somewhere else every night now. I could now sleep again, Treskow's infernal brew had radically chased the fever out of my veins.

What remained was the raging restlessness of flight. I knew that sooner or later the end would come; but for that very reason I snatched at the full grace of every single second, believed I had to cram the whole colorful range of sensations into the short time, and thus cheated myself of the peculiar content that I longed for. I walked the paths lean and with open nerves, expecting every miracle, as it were, but when I already felt its approaching shadows, in the incomparable blue of the air, in which the jagged lines of the distant mountains were painted shiny and snowy, climbing over the rocks Ever higher ridges, in the trickling hours between nocturnal trees and bushes, I pushed greedily for more distant splendor, in which the sound was purer and the tone deeper

had to swing glowing images. So, like the waters of the Isar, I tumbled over the shimmering stones and found myself there, where the whirlpool meets the whirlpool and the crystal tide stands over silent holes, in deep intoxications to which the whipping blow of consciousness could no longer penetrate. Not because I found the refugee's loneliness hostile, but because I didn't think I should allow myself the good fortune of sinking, I sought contact with my comrades again. But only a few did I meet, and these were fleetingly like me. The team, which Kern wanted to force into unity with his action, burst through her. Only slowly did they find each other again. But the scaffolding that had almost built itself during the months of fighting was destroyed. The Bavarian Wood Utilization Society no longer existed. Even if she never had any wood to use, she had now also lost the workforce, from the boss to the last henchman. The cover companies had lost their credit since the police tried to look into the unkept books. Such was the endangered group that lived in back houses,

Since Bavaria opposed the Reich's request to recognize the State Court of Justice for the protection of the Republic, the Prussian State Secretary for Public Order sent his spies

Translated from German to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.com

to Bavaria, who, known as the Weismannspitz, tracked down the activists even in the valleys of the mountains. The hunt had to be disturbed by hate, and I drove into the mountains and stalked around the farms and slept in the hunting lodges, and the others with me, everyone found his district. It soon happened that more and more of the outlaws joined the lost bunch and now lived in whole columns, shared the money, the supplies and clothing, except for the girls, and made the country unsafe from Lake Constance to Reichenhall. Many branched off, disappearing to Hungary and Turkey, only to return when the time came. Many also snuck back into the Reich, and many remained missing. One came and told of Kern's grave in the shadow of the castle. He reported that Dieter had faithfully packed two suits together to take them to the two friends, but that when he got to the castle he looked for them in vain. The tower was locked; nobody showed up when he called. So he put the pack in the west tower, where it was later found. And Dieter was arrested. Many have been arrested, almost all connected with the crime, plus whoever establishes a reputation as an activist. They were only still looking for the mysterious stranger who had been with Kern and Fischer up until the moment of the crime. And when the name Kern came up, I, who always thought of him but never dared to say it out of strange shyness, knew that my flight was one

Desertion was that I wasn't allowed to hide, that I had to do what he would have done. And I scraped together all the money I could give to my comrades in the mountains and drove back to Munich. And I ripped open car doors in front of travelers who wanted to go to the Oberammergau Festival, and carried the suitcases for the bespectacled scarecrows, and pointed the portly Dutchmen to nutritious pubs and the squeaking Americans to the Hofbräuhaus. And I speculated at the exchange offices and collected even the smallest sums, because the forged passport wasn't cheap, and the ticket to Berlin at least had to be paid for, including the cost of the stay in Bad Kosen. In the fluttering days of preparation, with no wish or thought dying away, I was perfectly clear that what I had to do was utterly senseless. I guess I had to get the right to do what Fischer did. And it seemed to me too snobbish to wander through the countries like the two whose shots in the Kniebis sought their victims. For that I acted too small a role on the stage of the time to be allowed to bear the full dignity of flight. The gentleman at the next table in the coffee house had been talking about balance sheets the whole time. It was right that the line should now be drawn under the bill. The gap between effort and result seemed too big to me. The swamp had bubbled under the detonation, but now all the little waters were seeping away. I had collected all the newspaper accounts of the murder. I would have

being able to bear it when hate sprayed on us, all the wounded, victorious pride of the attacked, but what was there didn't get to the heart of the matter, it was small, it was naked and ugly in all its routine Pathos, that was pure polemics against old enemies who were enemies because they died too much like the kind Rathenau did, and these respectable ones lived on, splashed on each other, and no gap remained. Rathenau was dead, and the others cleaned up their worn-out dummies for the hundredth time and put them in the shop windows. Rathenau fell, and those who called themselves his friends again took stock, but there were no novelties among the junk. Was it still worth attacking these districts? It wasn't worth it. So we had become redundant. So we had to leave. We had to disappear, and without a pose it had to happen. Out of. Ending. resign. The world wants peace to rot. The waitress came and whispered to me that Herr Treskow would order for me, two Weismann spies were standing at the door and watching me. I looked up and saw Treskow at a distant table. I persuaded the waitress to help me. She readily agreed to put me up in her room. I got up and followed her unobtrusively. Then I sat high up in her room with choking disgust in my throat, alone, hiding, humiliated. I was afraid that fear would grab me by the collar. In the last few days it had struck me as surprising that there were so many policemen. No, that's not how we snuck away. Should I ever ago

to flee from these subaltern figures, trembling to look around for my pursuers, to be at the mercy of their spying hunting instincts? Oops, cousin, the coup will continue. Was I mad to resign? Was I sick of agreeing with the others? Why did we have the efficient police? I was also a taxpayer. She had to have something to do. I counted the cash, it had to work. I had to keep the buoyancy captive, there was no more time to brood. It was so far. I was on the train. I didn't doubt for a moment that I was being unreasonable. To hell with reason! I sat in the crowded compartment and gorged myself with hatred and disgust at the smells of the others. They talked about their business, about making money. Here was a straight million to get hold of. If these sad fellows only knew about it. The track detective came to passport control, unfortunate for him my passport was in order. I got up and walked out into the hallway and opened the window and stood staring at the night the entire drive. I wanted to go home again. Because the shirt had to be changed, I'd had it on for three weeks, it was already yellow and brittle. I smiled faintly at my worries, but got off as the train pulled into the familiar station. Another young man was sitting in the kiosk changing money. I thought of Kern, who so often sat with me in the cramped wooden box. I went to my apartment and tore off my clothes and scattered them around the room, carefully hanging the coat with the pistol in the pocket over a chest.

As I was washing floods of water over me, I heard a noise at the door. I peeked under the arm and saw the officers standing on the threshold. And at the same time, a wild joy rose up in me. Then it was time. Then came the end. I shouted, almost jubilantly, "One moment, please!" and ran to the skirt and reached into the pocket. An arm slipped over my shoulder and twisted the gun out of my hand.

THE CRIMINALS For the heart, on the other hand, the old saying applies that the ruins cannot bury the fearless. ERNST JÜNGER

Sentenced

"... to five years in prison and five years loss of civil rights." Standing humiliatingly, we heard the verdict that left each of us dull and rigid for many years, and stripped us of civil honor. Without realizing it, we heard the murmur rising from the auditorium as the President of the State Court for the Protection of the Republic read the sentences from the crackling white sheet; we saw him look disapprovingly into the room with the mild severity that befitted him, and then calmly carry on with the monotonous recital, raising his voice slightly at each name and the numbers, each of which burdened us with torment , which was not yet measurable, giving to the silence as one passes a ball, with the quiet triumphant demand: "Catch!" We were doomed. And we didn't understand it, because there was no room for understanding within us, we didn't even feel tension, just green disgust and the need for fresh air. in days,

We saw grotesque court hearings in a ceremonial hall decorated with pictures of the German emperors, men dressed in shabby, old-fashioned black, sitting on stools adorned with golden crowns, men who were enveloped by the pungent scent of petty bourgeoisie and in their expressionless, musty faces, in their reddened, watery eyes flashed only the sparks of a cold, scornful hatred, nothing else. We heard the representative of the state, the Oberreichsanwalt, who gained power, honor and prestige in past imperial times, now wrapped in a pompous robe, hurling sentences into the hall in a razorsharp voice, which condensed in a brain that had no room for other than icy and smooth paragraph logic. In the auditorium we saw a crowd of people dressed with slippery elegance, of brilliant-bedecked women who only stopped sucking their chocolates at moments of excitement, who crossed their silk-stockinged legs in a requesting manner, and through lorgnons and opera-glasses watched the accused, whose fate was being diced, how to watch wild, beautiful and interesting animals lurking behind safe ones Crouch cage bars. At the press table we saw slender, boneless young men and dignified, bespectacled bourgeois, whose mumbling faces you could see as they wrote what grim and slime they had to tell a believing and self-despised readership about things they didn't understand. We saw witnesses appear in roast skirts and carefully plucked ties, who, in a voice trembling with excitement, to suck their chocolates, crossing their silk-stockinged legs in a request, and through lorgnons and opera-glasses to watch the accused whose fate was being diced, how to watch wild, beautiful, and interesting animals squatting behind secure cage bars. At the press table we saw slender, boneless young men and dignified, bespectacled bourgeois, whose mumbling faces you could see as they wrote what grim and slime they had to tell a believing and self-despised readership about things they didn't understand. We saw witnesses appear in roast skirts and carefully plucked ties, who, in a voice trembling with excitement, to suck their chocolates, crossing their silk-stockinged legs in a request, and through lorgnons and opera-glasses to watch the accused whose fate was being diced, how to watch wild, beautiful, and interesting animals squatting behind secure cage bars. At the press table we saw slender, boneless young men and dignified, bespectacled bourgeois, whose mumbling faces you could see as they wrote what grim and slime they had to tell a believing and self-despised readership about things they didn't understand. We saw witnesses appear in roast skirts and carefully plucked ties, who, in a voice trembling with excitement, whose fate was being diced, observed how to observe wild, beautiful and interesting animals perched behind secure cage bars. At the press table we saw slender, boneless young men and dignified, bespectacled bourgeois, whose mumbling faces you could see as they wrote what grim and slime they had to tell a believing and self-despised readership about things they didn't understand. We saw witnesses appear in roast skirts and carefully plucked ties, who, in a voice trembling with excitement, whose fate was being diced, observed how to observe wild, beautiful and interesting animals perched behind secure cage bars. At the press table we saw slender, boneless young men and dignified, bespectacled bourgeois, whose mumbling faces you could see as they wrote what grim and slime they had to tell a believing and self-despised readership about things they didn't understand. We saw witnesses appear in roast skirts and carefully plucked ties, who, in a voice trembling with excitement, what slime and slime they had to tell a faithful and despised readership about the things they did not understand. We

stuttered formulas of oaths, with or without God, and with shy glances at the dock, formulated statements that contradicted each other three times in one breath. We saw self-assured figures stamping ahead, exchanging understanding glances with the assessors and trying in vain to give their accusations some semblance of truth through loudness and determination. And we sat in our pews, looked at the brightly colored window panes, adorned with the coats of arms of the German cities, through which a gleaming ray of sunshine shone out in a friendly manner into the gloomy hall. We sat and listened to speech and counter-speech, answered only reluctantly and with choking disgust in our throats to questions that seemed so indifferent to us, so completely ignoring the essence of the matter, the real thing, all the strange tragedy, answered with a dull, aching head, tired , tormented, only occasionally playing a trump card in a spurt of enthusiasm for unspeakably silly questions, which earned us the moral indignation of all honest-hearted bourgeois.

We came from months of pre-trial detention. We came out of the silence that was almost painful as we were surrendered to it. As we were pushed into the exclusivity of the bare four walls, we each and every one of us, as soon as the door rattled shut, rushed to the window with the prisoner's first instinct to rattle the bars. But then the gray shadow fell upon us, from which the colorful images of the world flee from space

in order to find oneself again in us and to project oneself onto the inner surface of the closed gaze in more glowing colors and with more heated emotion. And what yesterday was still true and alive and full of demanding claims, that sank and only came to us like the confused noises that reached us over walls and courtyards when the lights went out and only the restless steps above us, beside us, in a tormenting monotony of people and life. Slowly the vortex in which we circled softened, and as we lost ourselves in brooding, we found ourselves at the new standards that the urgent day denied us and the stillness now offered. What was covered and torn apart outside by the noisy hustle and bustle that we served condensed within us; certainty and defiance bored through us.

The fox-faced gentlemen came, commissars, judges, prosecutors. And the gleaming friendliness with which they acted, speaking so humanely and so touchingly about our youth, about our ardent will, which is what distinguishes us, of course, but which would be dangerous in this world full of harsh realities, the anxious questions about ours Wellbeing, the faithful admonition, but trustingly to open ourselves up to them, roused all suspicious alertness, armed us with springy tension in which all nerves groped for the hostile underground, let us recognize exactly what was real, what was false, and

recognize lukewarmness in what is real, and the cowardly flight from disposition in what is false, the fear of fighting with open visors.

The examining magistrate came, an old friend of my father's, who once frequented my parents' house and now dedicated warm-hearted words to the deceased and implored me to tell him, my fatherly friend, the truth, the full truth, so that I might be lenient Judges found, And the gentleman with the face of the ruling class, infinitely honorable, clad in solemn frock coat, came to my mother and murmured heartfelt words of condolences and commended his faithfully caring help. And didn't say a word about being my coroner. But that he had to know the whole truth in order to be able to help, he said, and listened to what the old lady, streaming tears and gratefully pressing his friend's hands, told him,

We learned a lot in those days. We learned to see the prison as one of the possible spaces in which to escape from meanness through the latent security of strength that grew out of every silent hour. We learned to put every value on the scales and to do to cheap junk what did not exist before the naked demand of final abandonment. We learned to understand ourselves. When we wandered up and down in the cell during the long nights, six paces there and six

Step back, restless, then we knew we'll be restless forever. Then we knew that there was no salvation for us, that behind every barrier we break through with hope there is a new level, with new, richer hopes. And since we must grow with our path or perish along it, no trial should find us less than the guilt through which we walked. Because ours was the fault, it was the only thing that was ours. We were not allowed to let their possessions belittle us, we were not allowed to give them up in a light confession, we were not allowed to recognize the punishment that suited us to take a part of them. We had to submit to their law and not to the laws of the people who are striving to eradicate them. Forever we will be restless. Because it is impossible for us to escape, and it is impossible for us to find our way into a world that is terrified of itself. And just as within the old order the new flood was already standing in front of all dams and threatened to crush the petrified forms of life, so everything that moves our time dug itself into us indestructibly, penetrated every crack in our skin and penetrated the tissue of bonds with dangerous rivulets. We were sick of Germany. We experienced the process of change as a physical pain that was not lacking in the pleasure of the deep midnight. We always stood in the flickering light of the discharge, we always stood where the act of burning was taking place, we took part in this act. And so, placed between two orders, between the old one, which we are destroying, and

among the new ones we helped to create, without finding a place for our being in any of them, we became restless, homeless, damned bearers of terrible powers, strong through the will to blame and ostracized by it. Where should we ever take the last stand, when should we ever be content? We were a cursed race and we put a yes to it. And when we found out about this, with the hopeless certainty of brooding, wandering nights, we felt scornfully at the inability of those who wanted to judge us. We could not demand justice, since we never recognized justice as a moral requirement. No court of law in the world could dictate to us a burden that could hit us to the very core. What more could be done to us than we have done to ourselves? On the day of the trial we greeted each other with cheerful embarrassment in the corridors, took our places in the fenced dock and inquisitively examined the apparatus that had been set up to adjudicate a justice whose qualities we could not believe. Because it wasn't about the law, it was about the existence that was under attack. A wave of dull hatred hit us and we felt comfortable in it. For this hate did not have the strength to be open. We saw the judges appear, whose features were so grave and dignified that they looked like masks. And we felt that this was the mask of law that brute force put on, that force which we thought we could respect even behind the veil, without it

To extend respect also to the men who championed violence. For these misused the mask of justice; because they were afraid that someone would want to investigate the purpose for which the violence was being done, so it seemed to us that they put on their masks. We were safer than they were because we knew that there could only be justice where a community believes. But where was the community that could believe, that understood the law as a deep, mystically binding, ensouled and animating force in a willingness to take responsibility?

But then we let ourselves be captured by the well-oiled machinery. Although we knew that whatever we or the lawyers said would not change the result much more than if, instead of answering questions, we threw peas at the wall, although we knew this, we admired it. Here was an apparatus that was mastered and that had to be mastered. The machine ran in a hermetically sealed room, as it were, in power and movement as a selfcontained whole, as a thing in itself, shapely and safe. And the whirring of the flywheels drowned out every noise of the arrogant world, switched off the enigmatic as well as the conventional, let human weaknesses and human will become silent in the face of the breathtaking play with matter. The only second that we feared, unacknowledged of ourselves, the moment when the Rathenau man would stand up in the courtroom, a threatening shadow commanding silence, that second never came. The minister was that

indeterminate person whose death required atonement, nothing more. At one point it seemed as if, quite incorrectly, a low note called attention between question and question, but almost embarrassed, the judge brushed aside the embarrassing approach and the machine continued to work.

All this happened so remotely that we did not realize to which point, to which sentence the exact secret science bound the decision about our external fate. We sat and marveled, and the wish arose to learn the rules of the game so that we could grasp and shape these incomparable events in all their elegant energy. It never once crossed my mind that every word just spoken would decide years of my freedom. But the point was whether or not my trip to Hamburg to fetch the driver for the murder car was to be regarded as an aid within the meaning of the law. And the Supreme Public Prosecutor cited a Reich Court decision according to which it should be punished as an accessory if the fiancé of a girl who is about to have an abortion provides an instrument that is useful for the purpose, even if the girl does not use this instrument. and dr Luetgebrune, a descendant of a farmer from Lower Saxony, stood up and, with the polite superiority of an experienced lawyer, referred to a similar Reich Court decision, band so much, page so many, according to which what the senior Reich attorney had just said was true, but in the case where the girl did offered instrument

expressly reject that the act of aid has not been fulfilled. And Herr Oberreichsanwalt drank a glass of water and leafed through the files, But during the breaks, when the booming laughter of the political lay judges from the next room hit our ears, in the nights between the days of the hearing, when we stared, agitated and with aching eyes, at the narrow, barred square through which the blue air of the night the cell penetrated, we were overcome by the choking fear of the indefinite, which lurked in every corner. Whenever life came our way, we threw ourselves at its trembling apparitions, and when it threatened us, we were able to defend ourselves and had done so enough. But what came next, was that life at all? Wasn't it rather something totally outside of its forms, not death and yet death, not life and yet life? We had longed for nothing so much as freedom, and freedom was now taken from us, and no one knew for how long. Suddenly completely different demands were valid, and they had to be fulfilled with completely different means. Suddenly we were deprived of the possibility of choosing and with it the thousand possibilities that were at our service. Suddenly we were at our mercy, devoid of dignity, naked as human beings; number and without any other will than that of the warden, unless it breaks, the power that has hitherto flowed to us from without, now with redoubled power from within. Perhaps we have never been so much individual as we are now when we should be without individuality. We now had to face deadly isolation who were at our service. Suddenly we were at our mercy, devoid of dignity, naked as human beings; number and without any other will than that of the warden, unless it breaks, the power that has hitherto flowed to us from without, now with redoubled power from within. Perhaps we have never been so much individual as we are now when we should be without individuality. We now had to face deadly isolation who were at our service. Suddenly we were at our mercy, devoid of dignity, naked as human beings; number and without any other will than that of the warden, unless it breaks, the power that has hitherto flowed to us from without, now with redoubled power from within. Perhaps we have never been so much individual as we are now when we should be without individuality. We now had to face deadly isolation

exist — for whose sake? For our sake? We were not used to acting for our own sake. Now the action itself was taken away from us. Now we had to put up with it. But toleration is useless. Tolerance shames. We had to go through the shame. Perhaps shame made us strong! She had to make us strong. We were never allowed to succumb, not for our own sake, but for the sake of fulfilment. But wasn't defeat the last cup? So be it; so be this also; And damn we'll be if we take it easy on ourselves. That's how we heard the verdict. We were taken away. As we stood in the aisle, the officers suddenly handcuffed us for the first time. They tore us apart. I could still wave to Techow, who shouldered his fifteen years in prison as if he were carrying a proud burden, and still found time to knock over the camera of two sensation-hungry photographers. We were taken to our cell in the prison van. And the flashing Schupo officer, who was always stumbling around us in embarrassment, as if he still recognized our comrades in us, ordered our tightened security. We stood, wedged in a closet that could be closed by shutters, the product of the most sophisticated security technology, in which one could not move, thought one was suffocating and, with burning hatred in one's heart, was thrown against the walls every time the car bumped. In the cell we were immediately robbed of any property that we had in the long

Months worth of custody, triple locked and bolted, as pariahs, as wicked, as an inherently filthy and criminal gang, not worthy to see the sun and not worthy of the company of men. We were tied up. A chain was looped around our bodies, one end clasping the hand and the other held by an official who, together with a group of his colleagues, escorted us through the streets in the green carriage, to the station, to the train; Officials who assured us good-naturedly condescendingly that their hearts were with us, but that they had to do their duty—their duty— and then forbade us from smoking and indulged in hyper-patriotic tirades, passing the time in a pleasant manner for themselves and for us shorten. After an endless drive, after a last glimpse of wide, green fields and dark pine trees, we were taken to the penitentiary, received by indifferent officials, who rattled their keys and ate their breakfast with half a look at us. took our personal details and grinned scornfully when we said: "Profession: Lieutenant a. D » And then the cell door slammed behind us.

cell

'You are a prisoner now! The iron bars on your window, the closed door, the color of your clothes tell you that you have lost your freedom, God did not want you to abuse your freedom to sin and injustice any longer; That's why he took away your freedom, that's why he called out to you: Up to here and no further!

The punishment that the human judge awards you comes from the eternal judge whose order you disturb and whose commandments you transgress. You are here as a punishment, and all punishment is felt as evil, never forget that nobody is to blame for it but you alone!

But good things should come out of the punishment for you. You should learn to control your passions, get rid of bad habits, obey punctually, respect divine and human law, so that in earnest repentance for your past life you gain strength for a new life pleasing to God and man. So bow to the law of the state! Also bow to the order of this house, what it commands must inevitably happen. It is better, then, that you do it willingly than that your evil will be broken! You will feel good about it, and the truth of that word will prove itself to you: All chastisement, when it is there, does not seem to us to be joy, but sadness. But afterwards it will give a peaceful fear of righteousness to those who are trained by it. May God do it!» —

These words were at the beginning of the blue booklet of the house rules, which in countless paragraphs and not always in perfect German contained prohibitions on almost all human activities apart from breathing and work, prohibitions that I was determined to break or circumvent from the outset. The notebook hung next to the garbage shovel, the hand brush and the cloth on a narrow rail above the bucket, a brown clay container in a triangular wooden frame that was always damp. According to the house rules, the bucket, on the upper edge of which the lid floated in a water-filled channel, had to be cleaned with sand on the inside and outside every day. Under the bucket stood the spittoon and the cleaning kit. Opposite this shabby corner was the oven, a sloping brick structure which was heated from the corridor and which was unbearably hot on warm days and impossible to get warm on cold ones. Next to the stove hung the bed chained to the wall, an iron frame with brown, cracked boards, three seaweed mattresses and a headboard, covered with bluechecked linen; a woilach served as a cover. The bed had to be chained up to an iron hook during the day, and its use outside of bedtime was subject to disciplinary punishment». At the head of the bed hung a small cupboard at man's height, containing the bowl, the spoon, the saltcellar, the drinking cup, the soap dish, and the wooden comb. The narrow washbasin and the water jug made of pitched wood stood on the cupboard, the towel hung under it. Opposite the bed took a workbench Next to the stove hung the bed chained to the wall, an iron frame with brown, cracked boards, three seaweed mattresses and a headboard, covered with blue-checked linen; a woilach served as a cover. The bed had to be chained up to an iron hook during the day, and its use outside of bedtime was subject to disciplinary punishment». At the head of the bed hung a small cupboard at man's height, containing the bowl, the spoon, the saltcellar, the drinking cup, the soap dish, and the wooden comb. The narrow washbasin and the water jug made of pitched wood stood on the cupboard, the towel hung under it. Opposite the bed took a workbench Next to the stove hung the bed chained to the wall, an iron frame with brown, cracked boards, three seaweed mattresses and a headboard, covered with blue-checked linen; a woilach served as a cover. The bed had to be chained up to an iron hook during the day, and its use outside of bedtime was subject to disciplinary punishment». At the head of the bed hung a small cupboard at man's height, containing the bowl, the spoon, the saltcellar, the drinking cup, the soap dish, and the wooden comb. The narrow washbasin and the water jug made of pitched wood stood on the cupboard, the towel hung under it. Opposite the bed took a workbench covered with blue checked linen; a woilach served as a cover. The bed had to be chained up to an iron hook during the day, and its use outside of bedtime was subject to disciplinary punishment». At the head of the bed hung a small cupboard at man's height, containing the bowl, the spoon, the saltcellar, the drinking cup, the soap dish, and the wooden comb. The narrow washbasin and the water jug made of pitched wood stood on the cupboard, the towel hung under it. Opposite the bed took a workbench covered with blue checked linen; a woilach served as a cover. The bed had to be chained up to an iron hook during the day, and its use outside of bedtime was subject to disciplinary punishment». At the head of the bed hung a small cupboard at man's height, containing the bowl, the spoon, the saltcellar, the drinking cup, the soap dish, and the

wooden comb. The narrow washbasin and the water jug made of pitched wood stood on the cupboard, the towel hung under it. Opposite the bed took a

the whole length of the cell up to the bucket. Beneath this was the tool box, which had to be handed over in the evening at lockup, the wood to be worked lay stacked in rough blocks next to the bucket with the scouring pad and the low fourlegged stool. The Bible and the hymnal lay on the workbench, and above it hung the gas lamp under a protective net made of wire, which was lit in the evening by the calfacter, the prisoner who had to clean the corridors, heat the ovens and serve out the food, and seven on the dot clock went out again. This was the inventory of the cell, six paces long; not quite three paces wide, about ten feet high, and covered with worn floorboards. The door, a completely smooth surface nailed with a strong protective plate, was as thick as an arm and had a clumsy lock on the outside, to which a huge key fitted, a wide steel bolt in the middle, a locking bolt each at the top and bottom, and a small peephole with glass through which one could look from the outside in, but not could see inside out. The window was on the other narrow side of the room, which was whitewashed from bottom to top. But this was so high that you could just reach the ledge with your outstretched hand, and it was not more than a meter wide and about half a meter high. The bottom half of the window was ribbed glass, the top was clear; this could be opened halfway by means of a stick attached to it. The bars, six in number and divided twice across, were two fingers wide, square, of steel to which a huge key fitted, a wide steel bolt in the middle, a locking bolt at the top and bottom, and a small, glass-lined peephole through which one could see from the outside in, but not from the inside out. The window was on the other narrow side of the room, which was whitewashed from bottom to top. But this was so high that you could just reach the ledge with your outstretched hand, and it was not more than a meter wide and about half a meter high. The bottom half of the window was ribbed glass, the top was clear; this could be opened halfway by means of a stick attached to it. The bars, six in number and divided twice across, were two fingers wide, square, of steel to which a huge key fitted, a wide steel bolt in the middle, a locking bolt at the top and bottom, and a small, glasslined peephole through which one could see from the outside in, but not from the inside out. The window was on the other narrow side of the room, which was whitewashed from bottom to top. But this was so high that you could just reach the ledge with your outstretched hand, and it was not more than a meter wide and about half a meter high. The bottom half of the window was ribbed glass, the top was clear; this could be opened halfway by means of a stick attached to it. The bars, six in number and divided twice across, were two fingers wide, square, of steel a wide steel bar in the middle, a locking bolt at the top and bottom, and a small peephole with glass through which one could see from the outside in, but not from the inside out. The window was on the other narrow side of the room, which was whitewashed from bottom to top. But this was so high that you could just reach the ledge with your outstretched hand, and it was not more than a meter wide and about half a meter high. The bottom half of the window was ribbed glass, the top was clear; this could be opened halfway by means of a stick attached to it. The bars, six in number and divided twice across, were two fingers wide, square, of steel a wide steel bar in the middle, a locking bolt at the top and bottom, and a small peephole with glass through which one could see from the outside in, but not from the inside out. The window was on the other narrow side of the room, which

was whitewashed from bottom to top. But this was so high that you could just reach the ledge with your outstretched hand, and it was not more than a m

rods; before them stretched a close-meshed network of rusty wire. But in front of the window, set into the outer wall, hung a blinding pane of thick frosted glass, taller and wider than the window itself. It was impossible to see more than just a sliver of sky. The cell was always filled with a discouraging semi-darkness. It was as musty as the opening words of the House Rules, and the peaceful fear of justice didn't seem to be of very good origin; if ever, she was born in that cell stench in which the smell of gas mingled with that of sweat, faeces, dust, bugs and food. No sound of the outside world penetrated the thick walls. The house, built in the thirteenth century as a nunnery founded by St. Hedwig, stood with huge pillars gray and high in the middle of the town, a dark castle inhabited by five hundred outcasts, guarded by sixty subaltern saberbearers. The city, known to me only as the site of a glorious battle for the Prussian king in the Second Silesian War and as the birthplace and place of death of a poet whom I loved very much and whose works I looked for in vain in the prison library, was foreign and far away. And even if the waves that the pressing wind of transformation threw up to her, they didn't reach my cell. Nothing reached my cell but the faint scent of a completely unreal and absurd order,

to be able to get an agreement with her. I had not the slightest relationship to any of the things that surrounded me, I could neither understand them through me nor understand myself through them. I've been lonely to a bottom well below zero on the temperature scale.

I paced. I grabbed an object as I passed and put it down again. I threw myself into short, sixstep dreams that I woke up to when a key rattled in the hallway, forgotten when I turned the cell door. I waited and didn't know what for. I sat at the table and dozed off, I stood in front of the window and stared at the patch of cloudy sky. I count the floorboards and the steps I took on them. From the angle of incidence of the sun's rays in the cell, I calculated the time of day. I looked forward to lunch even though I knew it wouldn't taste good. I looked forward to the walk, although it was an ordeal under the suspicious eyes of the armed guards. I looked forward to the night even though I knew that I couldn't sleep. I welcomed the slightest interruption. When the barber came to trim my short-cropped hair even further, the pleasure of being able to exchange a few furtive words passed over the disgust of the cold, soft, and damp fingers tracing my face and neck. I fervently longed for the prisoner in the library, and yet I knew that this time too the selection of wellread books would be a

will be disappointment. If the calfacter swept by in the aisle, I hoped he'd slip me the Kassiber I was expecting, or the srind, which I rolled in toilet paper and lit over the lamp when it was burning, and when it wasn't, made it glow with a flint, a steel button and a fuse, I pushed on the door so that it released the narrow gap at the top through which small objects could be stuck, as a sign for the calfactor, to whom I left the bar of good soap for his favors, that I had smuggled in, or to whom I was writing a plea for clemency or a complaint, or to whom I had given a bit of my carpenter's pencil. Every thing, no matter how worthless it seemed to the eyes of the people out there, acquired great importance for me, who was forbidden it.

The work was not forbidden, it was commanded. And that wasn't what made me touch them only rarely and reluctantly, that I got five pfennigs for the day's work, a sum of which only half was available to me for the purchase of stamps, toothpaste and chewing tobacco, while the other half was retained and credited to my account so that it could pay for the trip home later when I was released, it wasn't that what made me avoid work like the plague, that it was so cleverly ingeniously dull, as if it were designed to make me go silly, but that it as God-sent means for wholesome education and improvement was smackingly praised and commanded threateningly.

I always jumped up again after doing five minutes and raced through the cell with an indescribable disgust, not for the kind of work, but for the work in general. The daily drudgery in the cell seemed to me like everything that wasn't done from a burning heart, like everything that wasn't driven by an inner calling, as unworthy as the feeble feeling of satisfaction after a job was done seemed contemptible to me. Not for a moment did I doubt the hypocrisy of those who said work was a blessing and then dictated work as a punishment. The cell taught me to loathe things that were made that could not grow, taught me to understand the hatred that compelled the oppressed to stake everything, every value, on liberation from slavery, to think materially,

where they should think metaphysically to dream happiness, where they would have to dream fate. I awoke every morning from wild dreams to a tired day, which seemed to me far more unreal, far grayer than the formations of the night, which came to me and made me happy in spite of their confusion and in spite of their tormenting fears. Dreams, at least, conveyed to me the exciting images of great fertility that cell day cheated me of. When in the evening, after walking for hours in the oppressive darkness, I lay on the always damp sheet, my head on the hard wedge, my arms changing position every moment, when the wall with the gently peeling limestone rose steeply in front of my blowing nose , announced the dreams that gave me the peculiar joy of terror. Because the consciousness of being nailed to the bed by the cell, unable to escape from the pressure of the four walls, slipped me into sleep without absolving wakefulness, thus distorting the gentle gift of night into a tattered succession of chasing shreds of dreams. No dream let me free myself from the cell, it always stood as the inevitable background on the long roads I traveled, it always carried the steaming fears into the wild happenings, fears that I welcomed because they were powerful, because they were represented the swing of the pendulum to the night side, the only swing of the pendulum that the cell allows the heart. Often, when the tinny sound of the hated bell that regulated the day and whose piercing tone I will always carry in my ears, me from the strangers and thus distorted the gentle gift of the night into a tattered succession of chasing shreds of dreams. No dream let me free myself from the cell, it always stood as the inevitable background on the long roads I traveled, it always carried the steaming fears into the wild happenings, fears that I welcomed because they were powerful, because they were represented the swing of the pendulum to the night side, the only swing of the pendulum that the cell allows the heart. Often, when the tinny sound of the hated bell that regulated the day and whose piercing tone I will always carry in my ears, me from the strangers and thus distorted the gentle gift of the night into a tattered succession of chasing shreds of dreams. No dream let me free myself from the cell, it always stood as the inevitable background on the long roads I traveled, it always carried the steaming fears into the wild happenings, fears that I welcomed because they were powerful, because they were represented the swing of the pendulum to the night side, the only swing of the pendulum that the cell allows the heart. Often, when the tinny sound of the hated bell that regulated the day and whose piercing tone I will always carry in my ears, me from the strangers because they were powerful, because they represented the swing of the pendulum to the night side, the only swing of the pendulum that the cell allows the heart to swing. Often, when the tinny sound of the hated bell that regulated the day and whose piercing tone I will always carry in my ears, me from the strangers because they were powerful, because they represented the swing of the pendulum to the night side, the only swing of the pendulum that the cell allows the heart to swing. Often, when the tinny sound of the hated bell that regulated the day and whose piercing tone I will always carry in my ears, me from the strangers

and yet near districts, I felt reality as a confirmation of the mysterious escapes I wandered through. The dreams did not erupt from the room as gleaming rays, they carried the weight of the cell with them, they circled wildly on the walls, looking for a way out and on their way encountered the adventures that brought them to life. I ran through populous cities, past greenish lanterns and blooming gardens, I lived on tropical islands, I climbed sheer gorges, roamed through echoing castles, I saw people like shadows, houses like castles, trees like threats, and I I never forgot for a moment that I was in the cell, that I was a prisoner, that I had to put out the bucket punctually when I was woken up. I was on the run climbed over fences and walls, stole into backyards and into attics, saw the flashing officials hurry past, come back, didn't give me a full minute, felt them racing behind me - and when they grabbed me, then wild joy rose in me, because I had cheated her, I was in the cell, and her effort had been just as useless as my escape. Soon I saw physically what the cell wanted me to see physically. All desires took refuge in the dream, just as all terrors took refuge in it. I fought the battles the cell forbade me to fight, I walked the paths it forbade me to walk. And the gray square, divided by the bars, through which the night pushed its broad waves into space and which I, in moments of brief awakening, between image and image stole into backyards and into attics, saw the flashing officials hurry past, coming back, not giving me a full minute, felt them racing behind me - and when they grabbed me, then wild joy rose up in me, because I had cheated them, I she was in the cell, and her effort had been as useless as my escape. Soon I saw physically what the cell wanted me to see physically. All desires took refuge in the dream, just as all terrors took refuge in it. I fought the battles the cell forbade me to fight, I walked the paths it forbade me to walk. And the gray square, divided by the bars, through which the night pushed its broad waves into space and which I, in moments of brief awakening, between image and image stole into backyards and into attics, saw the flashing officials hurry past, coming back, not giving me a full minute, felt them racing behind me - and when they grabbed me, then wild joy rose up in me, because I had cheated them, I she was in the cell, and her effort had been as useless as my escape. Soon I saw physically what the cell wanted me to see physically. All desires took refuge in the dream, just as all terrors took refuge in it. I fought the battles the cell forbade me to fight, I walked the paths it forbade me to walk. And the gray square, divided by the bars, through which the night pushed its broad waves into space and which I, in moments of brief awakening, between image and image saw the flashing officials hurry past, coming back, not giving me a full minute, felt them racing behind me — and when they grabbed me, then wild joy rose in me, because I had cheated them, I was in the cell and theirs Effort had been as futile as my escape. Soon I saw physically what the cell wanted me to see physically. All desires took refuge in the dream, just as all terrors took refuge in it. I fought the battles the cell forbade me to fight, I walked the paths it forbade me to walk. And the gray square, divided by the bars, through which the night pushed its broad waves into space and which I, in moments of brief awakening, between image and image saw the flashing officials hurry past, coming back, not giving me a full minute, felt them racing behind me — and when they grabbed me, then wild joy rose in me, because I had cheated them, I was in the cell and theirs Effort had been as futile as

my escape. Soon I saw physically what the cell wanted me to see physically. All desires took refuge in the dream, just as all terrors took refuge in it. I fough

newly recognized and carried over into the following dream, intensified the charm of the visions; it gave me the certainty of living in two worlds, a certainty that forced me to make choices that life rarely offered. Once upon a time I grew into an indifference that ignored the little things, because the struggle I devoted myself to snuffed out what didn't fit into the heroic environment. In the cell, however, I sank into an indifference that was depressing and corrosive because it arose from the lack of great things, because it was gray and feeble and dictated not by struggle but by resignation. But I couldn't slip. Woe if I submit. Woe to me if I crouch. I no longer had any goal other than to protect myself. And I could only protect myself through defiance, through rigidity, through a small war against the disgusting, entangling network of paragraphs and against the people who served these paragraphs. Since I didn't keep the prescribed distance on the walk, the officer yelled: "Get out of your way! — Don't you hear? — Do you have dirt in your ears? — disobedience! That gives a message. Wait my friend! » I was introduced. The officials' conference had met. The chief sergeant asked me to enter the room and showed me the place in front of the horseshoeshaped table where the senior officials were sitting. There sat the director, a short, portly gentleman with a broad, basically good-natured face and

small glasses, the volume of files in front of him. There sat the pastor, who had been a prison chaplain for seventeen years, the coldest Pharisee, with whom only one category of prisoners was worth dealing with, the Poles. There sat the treasurer, a member of the local singing club, always morose, pedantic like his job, arrogant like the war merit badge he always wore. There sat the work inspector, a dry creep, long, tough and skinny, with a melancholy hanging beard over a wrinkled neck. There sat the economics inspector, clumsy, good-natured, called "Graupensplitter" by the prisoners. There sat the senior secretary, brutal, square, hypocritical, with a red face and bulging eyes. There sat this collection of subaltern existences

And the director said: 'You've been reported again; this time for insubordination. This is the fourteenth report about you in the three weeks since you've been here. Stand up straight and take your hands off your back. What are you thinking? "Do you think you're here for fun?" - Shut your mouth. You only speak when asked. — I'll have you arrested immediately if you don't shut up. If I have not hitherto subjected you to the severest punishment, it was out of consideration for your youth. Remember that you will be in this house for five years. -Quiet! To me

seems you don't want to. But I will break your will, even if I have to put you in irons for months! Count on it, I'll break your will!" I said, "Please break up."

1923 Night after night a prisoner sang the Internationale in the cell house. The song echoed in the corridors, swelled across the yard, and rose like a promise over the accursed burrow. It was always just one voice that sang, and often enough a prisoner yelled that he wanted to get his night's rest. The one who sang was Edi, a communist and an unrecognized person of conviction.

What a hard, oppressive day it was when I first met him. When I was off I walked the narrow, bumpy, paved path, lined up in a long line, eight paces behind the man in front of me. The wind whistling around the corner, coming from all corners, whirling up the black dust from the coal yard and the white sand from the lime pit, which carried with it all the smells of the washing cells and those of the kitchen and the vegetable cellar and the work rooms, the wind, that blew the black flakes of the gasworks on our pale faces, chilled us and pushed against the high wall, it made me turn, fighting against its force. Then I saw him over the

Asylum shuffle. He was struggling to haul a large black bucket. The officer waved, I took hold, and we both carried the swaying burden, both of us, watched over by a uniformed man with pistol and saber and bunch of keys, in equal, humiliating drudgery, panting, the huge cauldron of fetid feces. In brown convict clothes, he and I, both thrown together between the wall and the bars, at the dictate of a right we never recognized, at the dictate of a state that wasn't ours, under the compulsion of a force that we one day wanted to break had same call of blood. When we found out about each other, we hesitated at first, and barriers wanted to be erected between us because we were both still too caught up in the prejudices of a world to which we no longer belonged. But the voice of the official who scolded us surly and sent each one to his cell liberatingly wiped away what wanted to rise, liberating yet infinitely depressing; for so we, who were destined to clash in free struggle, met each other as obedient and subdued people, pushed into the deepest filth, subdued and degraded by powers that we despised, that we hated, that were an obstacle to our struggle and an obstacle to any combative development at all. We lived in a world where everything was hostile to us. And we came together to drown out the boundless loneliness, to find one in the other man in the midst of a desert of stone and

Iron. And there came a time when nothing separated us but the wall between his cell and mine. In the evening, as soon as the Ronde had left the cell house, I heard his pounding. I heard him jump onto the stool and ledge and the rattle of the window. And I sat clinging to the bars and pressing my head between the bars, and speech and counter-speech flew back and forth in whispers. I learned about the life of a miner in the Ruhr area, about life underground in blackness, dust and sweat, in constant hammering worry, about the grueling life with bread and potatoes and schnapps and a few meager hours of joy, and I learned to understand the boundless bitterness , the defiant pride, the tough, resilient willingness to fight against everything that wasn't a worker.

And I told him why I, the soldier, felt connected to him, why my fight was the same; how he put a yes behind his life in the community with those who stood with him on site, who fought with him against the black stone and against the pulpy, incomprehensible, all-choking layer, at whose command he did not see the sun, so I put a yes behind my destiny and behind my fellowship with the gray mass of nameless ones who once marched on the same orders of the same class. We had strange conversations. I learned about his comrades' way of fighting, which was alien to me and didn't seem powerful because it reckoned with the masses, with and for the masses, and the force of the deployment therefore fluctuated. But he referred me to the unconditional unity of the

theoretical system, from which it was not easy for the masses to break out; he referred to the wellstructured organization, which could endure even inadequate leadership in the long run. But I praised him for the battle of the individuals who, precisely in their loneliness, were allowed to experience the higher happiness of community and could therefore drive the wedge deeper than all the onslaughts of the disenfranchised ever could. We talked as if we had to lead the armies of the revolution to battle, and found ourselves in the incomparable lust of Napoleon dreams, of Lenin visions, our hot heads pressed between the bars and rattling off our stools as soon as news came.

But Edi had been involved in the fighting of the Red Army in the Ruhr area, as the leader of a band that had been drummed together. When the Reichswehr advanced against the position of his department, he was to report to his comrades at headquarters, and as time was of the essence, he dragged a horse out of a landowner's stable and sped off on it. When he no longer needed his war horse, he sold it off and drank the money. And because this was robbery and plundering and a shameful act in general, he was sentenced to six years in prison and had a loss of honor and police supervision and was by no means recognized as a criminal of conviction. We were only separated when our first attempt to break out together had failed. We were separated not so much because they feared another excursion—the only thing we could do was on purpose

of our actions, but not the course and the depressing end of the first attempt - but because any relationship between man and man apart from that of mutual betrayal could not be tolerated in this house. Only occasionally did I meet Edi, while showering in the steam-filled, bacon-walled bathroom, at the demonstration in the office, in the hospital room, in the church, in the householder's room when exchanging defective clothing. We could only exchange a few words at a time, shy and embarrassed, because we both felt how much we were at the mercy of the little harassment, of the burden of the hopeless years that lay unimaginably ahead of us. Only in the evening did the faint tones of the Internationale still penetrate my new cell, which was in a different building, in a dark corridor,

If the bitterness of the first year of support made itself felt again and again in the few weeks of the happy agreement with a person, the demands of the cell now hit me with all its pedantic and crushing force. Thoroughly hostile to any rule of comfort, the cell possessed a sobering violence that tolerated no components within the four unrelated walls. The assimilation process began from the very first second. none

of the things that had their place and purpose in the cell showed a trace of their own life. And just as every object in its bare way, prepared solely for the purpose, underlines the character of the cell as an instrument of punishment, so was man as an inventory item, a mere number without claim and without wish and without will, man transformed from subject to object undoubtedly the desirable product of the cell, to the production of which the whole order incessantly aimed. I could not evade this calculated effect insofar as it resulted in a certain course of destruction. I have always had a special pleasure in destruction. So, in the daily pain, I could well feel the pleasure of watching how gradually the storehouse of quickly acquired ideas and sentiments diminished, how the arsenal of idealisms and demands was ground up bit by bit, how desires, dreams, and hopes evaporated until nothing more what remained was a bundle of flesh with exposed nerves, the equally taut strings now whirring to repeat every lost note, vibrating twice as hard in the thin air of isolation. I caught myself more than once with the strange thought of the mercy to which I was subjected, now also experiencing this, this unique process of the cell, through which I learned again in relaxed hours that I could not fall,

The mindless activity, now confined within confines from which it could trickle without emanating but drop by drop, directed the elements of the attack against the same stock from which it was born. Whatever didn't stand the test of the naked violence of the cell, I certainly found it very difficult at first, but then I was more and more inclined to doubt it as a value and to throw it behind me as ballast. But with that I consciously performed an act that I practiced often enough with a light mind during the mad years, as well as everything that moved me at the time, now that it was no longer happening in the moment of the whirling sequence of tensions and discharges covered and torn apart, glowing, logical in process and full of piercing urgency. I experienced twice and with increased force. Often I was still leaning against the door when the first pale gray streak in the sky filled the cell with a milky glow. And I couldn't stop myself from the gloomy shadows that appeared amidst the colored, moving shapes and made my throat suddenly thin and dry. There was still too much of what my efforts to reduce every phenomenon to its simplest content failed, because I felt that I couldn't take it easy on myself, so as not to lose myself in the end. There was the friend's picture, the only picture the director left me when he realized that I was ready for any explosive measure on his behalf. There wasn't a minute of wakefulness that the picture didn't speak to me with a degree of commitment,

Eliminating any poor and cheap sense of sadness. My friend was dead and I hadn't been able to follow him, I had crossed the zero point in which he became a flame in the supreme liability of his will, which was a will to perfection, just as he groped in the whirlpool of the most unconditional destruction for distant goals, through which his actions became meaningful for him and many others. How could he have endured walking in the footsteps of the humiliated, how could I endure staying where he found an end that was no end to him but that of himself? And if his death was perfection, continued activity and symbol, admonition and necessity, if his death was everything except one thing: atonement - what was left for us, to whom he died not last, but to always be that what we cannot and want to be otherwise? There was nothing that could separate us, and so his death in this cell was the only thing that always reached beyond my day and beyond my desire into those fields from whose zone the strength arose to add to my strength and always there to find a beginning where I greeted an end. And so I didn't shy away from the visions of the long night hours, when, alongside the indomitable eyes that looked at me every day, those other eyes came out of the darkness. I snapped out of the dreams when they came to me, standing before me without threat in an enigmatic, narrow face. I wished for those eyes because of the harshness with which I rejected them. I sensed a battle that had to be fought here, mine

Life long, and who must remain without a victory if he was to retain his fertility. Often I could hear the soft voice of the nurse who jumped into the car with the dying minister and who, in the dusty air of the painful proceedings, reported in low, halting words that he had opened his eyes again and the helper looked very strange, I knew this incomprehension in her eyes - I had met it on the fields over which we ran to attack, it lay behind the half-closed lids of friends who were saying their last farewell, it must be in the castle tower from Kern's face persuaded his friend to dab the wound with scraps of canvas. I could hardly bear it. I could hardly bear to answer those eyes. I was able to get the answer from the few gasped out sentences of the friend who died this man and the friend who died with him. But I only had what was sparse and broken through, I didn't have anything to say about what was forming in him on a long, inexorable path. I was guilty and would rather be a judge or an executioner than a murderer. Now there was nothing left for me but to say dully what was on my mind, and to get the security of the poor hour from the will to an answer, the first argument of which always had to be: if it was wrong, then it was ours, But in those hours, when behind all doubts there was despair, burying every crack, the estrangement between the cell man and the man of the day made itself felt

must occur; a peculiar kind of pride made me feel this alienation, a pride of strength, of being exposed to powers that the others could not attain. The sweaty body, the brain tormented by overheated images, the heart in which addictions and demands fought the fiercest skirmishes, everything experienced in concentrated form. What the indifferent judge called simply five years, the span between one date and another, now rolled back and forth in insane arithmetic. I was frightened when I felt back the years: five years ago I was still a cadet, a junior second, starving in the war and in the dignity of the royal uniform a small, pale, slender boy, of mediocre talent and, like my comrades, fearing the war would like to end without me witnessing it. It is inconceivable that the same time that led from that unreal figure to the prisoner, beyond the crazy, urgent images, now spread out before me. Five years imprisoned, five years without doing anything but waiting. And outside, life went on with hasty pulses, friends faced the tasks that make this life valid for us in the first place. The urgent restlessness of the fear of not being involved in a decision let the sparks fly through the crust, when after half a hint of envious officials, after reading a tattered newspaper page that the wind blew across the yard, after the report of the every two Months of permitted letters came from the

what was moving outside. Then it came to the stragglers in the darkest desolation like the blinking of the distant light of marching columns, telling him that the connection had not yet been broken. And this, precisely this resonating of all inner chords, which happened so far from the focal points and independently of the force of the facts, conveyed the high degree of satisfaction that made me feel the cell as a tool for enhancing my experience. Still the unit to which I professed had not discharged me from its service, and doubtless no thought, no feeling, no experience, could nothing that now formed apart and under such pressure could be without meaning and without later validity be. And because I went on step by step with the comrades of the recent past, because the same force that drove them to jump now led me in the same direction on other levels, whatever ever happened could not have been the product of a band of obsessed people nothing could be lost what once worked, nothing happened that was not prepared to happen according to incomprehensible laws. But it was bitter to experience a special position, and nothing I encountered could stifle my desire to participate in the operation. I wanted to be free, wanted to get out of the strict walls of the cursed house that bound me, that told me to wait, because waiting was the only crime that friends, and with them I, could commit.

The confused letters left me with enough guesswork. Time passed, it burned and consumed what left me still able to act. As the year progressed, the pace of events that sprang from our doings was determined by our doings. I knew that a grinding stone was irresistibly pressing for any movement, and I sat here and hoped, brooded, sank. How long was the day! For all his monotony, he was filled with a whirlpool of foaming realities that escaped from the musty silence into the heart. The minutes stretched into long ribbons, and when I measured the time in which I had already been handed over to the cell and compared it with the one that still awaited me, then I was able to be frightened without feeling indecisive draw. When the letters came that reported between the lines what was worth reporting, I looked at the stamps, which each time had a different overprint. As the face value of the stamps rose from the hundreds of thousands to the millions, from the millions to the billions, I combined the pleasure I felt with the satisfaction of watching the bewildered officials, who often rattled their keys in the yard or the aisles stood looking at bulging wallets full of tattered bills with an expression that strangely reflected intoxication, despair, and utter incomprehension. If they spoke of anything that couldn't be explained in service jargon, it was inflation, a word

and a concept that was certainly not much more understandable to them than to me.

I had only experienced inflation in its first, harmless and technically explainable beginnings. Now she seemed to be an independent magical force. Was the money worthless? Excellent! The rule of numbers showed the abyss of their utter futility? Excellent! If the powers of this time, having conquered everything they could conquer, now in their mad expansive urge thrust into the empty space in which they had no choice but to attack and consume themselves, how could this demonic behavior be , does not this ultimately hopeful sign please the one who always refuses to submit to these powers? Small wonder that, I learned, the civilized world leaned on the rotting carcass it first made to snatch a piece of the spoils, then backed away in fear of the stench of the plague, then threatened to demand a halt ! One should, I mused, and was very annoyed that this indefinite "one," carrying the source of the disease to the four winds, shouldn't let the weapon out of our hands. How, wasn't finally loosened up, And if fear was already penetrating the small brains, which now stared rigidly at the evaporating of their idol, how did it have to get in first?

pierce the temples where the idol proudly enthroned? Life has never tolerated a vacuum, it builds itself into the empty spaces. What came next, so thought

me, that will ripen our fruits. The patrols of the uprising find blank field and find behind them the crowds that sated victory. And this victory seemed to be announced on that evening in the first days of November 1923, when suddenly, after the roundabout had clattered down the aisle, Edi's voice yelled my name. I rushed to the door. The call came from a cell opposite and I answered it. And Edi screamed, he was in prison, his escape had failed. He shouted that he had news and now it was finally starting. He shouted that something was brewing in Bavaria and that the comrades were sure to be mobile. We called the words to each other through the closed doors, across the echoing corridor. We were both full of insane hope. We argued, mouth and ear pressed against the iron doors, about Marx and Bismarck, about masses and personality, about distribution and organization, about world revolution and the uprising of nations. We yelled insults at each other in hoarse voices, half laughing, half angry, and finally he belted out the Internationale and I sang the Ehrhardtlied to myself— until the officials rammed their butts on the doors and yelled something about reporting and arrest and sucking cast out So we said good night to each other, sobered up, and I kept pacing up and down for a long time. The officials really reported. But when the director explained with a mild smile that he had always wanted what was best for me, I knew that the uprising

broke loose—and when three days later he snapped at me in a harsh voice that I was the most stubborn prisoner he had had in the house for twenty-five years, then I knew that the uprising had failed.

letter

The foreman, whom I surprised one day stealing shirting from the workroom, must have helped me to establish secret contact with my comrades. Since it is one of the essential principles of every orderly execution of sentences to keep the prisoner strictly away from the harmful influences of his previous environment for the purpose of his moral purification, I was only allowed to correspond with my closest relatives by letter, and every question in my letters and every message in the letters to me that touched on things that in their distant reality were closer to me than those of the small order to which I was exposed was well-intentioned erased, painted over with ink, or pasted over. So I sent, without giving the director the trouble of censorship,

official letters intended to give me a hope I did not desire. The letters said I would be free soon, and that I should be patient, and our cause was making good progress. But I sensed the pity in these statements and I had no use for this tasteless commodity. In February 1924, the foreman came into my cell with pompous secrecy, carefully looked around the hall once more, and then quickly stuffed a sealed envelope under my jacket, which contained a bundle of papers. That was shortly before lockup. I ran hastily up and down the cell, clutching the letter under my waistcoat, and no sooner had the duty officer creaked his "Good night," than the door slammed, the bolts rattled, and it went out the light as I rushed to the window, tied the mirror to the mesh of the trellis so that it caught the light of the courtyard lantern and threw it in a small square on the stool; I knelt down and, hands fluttering, tore open the envelope and read: «... When the French occupied the Ruhr, the groups were ready. We considered the German proclamation of passive resistance to be an infernal joke, not a lack of strength. But we soon realized that all government orders sprang from the very essence that we attack after all for this one compelling reason, because without its destruction our actions must forever appear meaningless. So we decided to lead the resistance as we are used to

were. There was a prospect that our action, in accordance with an idea that had not yet died out in any heart, would entrain all alert forces and people and thus, in ever more heated escalation, finally bring about the transformation of the German situation.

We were only a handful. We all knew each other. The most active fellows came from all over the Reich, an unbelievably combative selection, including wild lads, old combatants from the front and from the post-war period, each of whom had already passed his or her test. There wasn't much to organize. Every day had its special task, which almost offered itself. Schlageter said to his men, who came from OS when they called: "Upper Silesia was a mess in comparison." As unemployed Upper Silesian miners, we stalked from colliery to colliery, auditioned for work and took the opportunity to steal explosives. We lived in workers' quarters, in singles' hostels and taverns. We pushed weapons and brought refugees across the new border into the Reich. We spied on the spies, we exercised harsh jurisdiction.

as soon as the blast went off. We derailed the coal and transport trains and sank a steamer in the Dortmund-Ems Canal and a coal barge in the Rhein-Herne Canal. I had just got back to Essen with Gabriel — we had blown up the junk where the canal crosses the Emscher in a bridge river bed, cut the power supply to the lock gate and thus lowered the water level to the point where it was impassable — when we heard that that the Schlageter sabotage column had gone up. The police authority — the German police authority of Kaiserswerth — had issued a warrant behind Schlageter because of the bridge blast at Calcum. That didn't come as a surprise to us. When we crossed the borders, the German authorities were just as eager after us as the French in the combat zone. There were mayors who had people of ours who were stopped by the German police, searched and found with explosives or weapons arrested and handed over to the French. There were German gendarmerie commandos working hand in hand with the French to arrest us. Schlageter was betrayed by the Germans to the French. He was seized and with him Becker and Sadowski and Zimmermann and Werner and two others. Hauenstein was arrested and detained by the German police. We tried everything to get our comrades out. But who had all the connections in hand, the funds, the plans, everything, Hauenstein,

was not released, especially not when he repeatedly demanded to be released from prison at least to free Schlageter. We were out day and night. When we finally spotted our comrades in Werden and concentrated all our strength there, they had already been transported to Düsseldorf. We heard of ruthless mistreatment in the Essen coal syndicate, the French headquarters. We heard of whips and butts. We were already in the prison yard in Werden, we couldn't get to Diisseldorf because we were being watched more closely by the German police than by the French. We wanted to organize a mass assault on the prison and Gabriel called for help from the Krupp workers, thirteen of whom had been gunned down by the French in March. It was all in vain. We turned to mayors, whose waistcoats wobbled when we arrived; Gabriel traveled to Berlin to the government, On May 26, 1923, Schlageter was shot dead by a French peloton on the Golzheimer Heide near Dusseldorf, three hours before we were about to launch a last, desperate, mad storm on the prison. The other comrades were transported to the island of St. Martin de Ré and should be taken to Cayenne from there... . . . Gabriel took the direct lead throughout

occupied territory. Heinz sat in Frankfurt, Hauenstein in Essen, and Treff in Cologne. But I had to meet in

replace Cologne. Because he was suffering from a serious hand injury, which he got in February when he visited the Cologne separatist leader in his apartment and shot him down, throwing himself through a light shaft while trying to escape. He went "to rest" in Spandau, in the citadel, where a battalion of the Black Reichswehr lived and trained all the exhausted fighters of the Ruhr struggle for new work. He didn't stay there long. In June, he and the others got the captain out of the Leipzig Imperial Court prison. It was as if everything was going to work out for us in the end. The empire was in complete turmoil. What held it together was nothing but fear of the final hard and dynamic compulsion of chaos out of which the German revolution was bound to grow. But inflation, the rapid fall of the mark, of value, which still tied the individual of the masses to the things that guaranteed his existence, to daily bread, to secure order, created an atmosphere in which what this was a belief became fatalism, and fatalism became despair. Soon everyone was on their own, the Reich formed a pulverized mass, the raw material for departure, whose slogan everyone seemed to be waiting for, whose signal everyone seemed to want to follow. But we, God's friend and the enemy of the whole world, had to relentlessly smash everything that wanted to push its way into the existence of what was to come. If we had been completely alone for many years before, what still had hope gradually crystallized on us. There were moments when we made decisions

Saw crowds behind us as we advanced. In Düsseldorf, in Aachen, in Krefeld, in Bonn, the separatists were to feel the effects. A shot fired by us was enough to mobilize the masses. With water hoses and truncheons, with stones and hunting rifles, we attacked and killed, fired upon by the French, dominating the rebellion until all who opposed us were exterminated. It was in the area around Honnef and Aegidienburg, in the narrow strip between the bridgeheads of Koblenz and Cologne, free from French garrison, that Gabriel struck the main blow. There he had maneuvered a group of about 1,500 separatists from the occupied territory by various maneuvers, and we sat in the woods and watched their approach. Then the guys came strolling Rifles with muzzles in the dirt, ragged, sloppy, filthy figures with battered faces. And they rushed into the villages, banging, hooting, dragging the cattle out of the stalls, slaughtering them on the open road, looting, drinking and setting fire to them. So we summoned the farmers. The bells rang out to the storm, the fires blazed on the hills, and we broke out of the woods, mad bunches with scythes, pitchforks, and flails. Suddenly the whole valley was alive, the farmers, sweaty, blood-spattered, rushed into the fencing knots, killed them, hunted, raged — for a long time to come the farms of the Westerwald will be talking about the battle of the peasants in the seven mountains. slaughtered in the open street, plundered, drank and burned. So we summoned the farmers. The bells rang out to the storm, the fires blazed on the hills, and we broke out of the woods, mad bunches with scythes, pitchforks, and flails. Suddenly the whole valley was alive, the farmers, sweaty, blood-spattered, rushed into the fencing knots, killed them, hunted, raged — for a long time to come the farms of the Westerwald will be talking about the battle of the peasants in the seven mountains. slaughtered in the open street, plundered, drank and burned. So we summoned the farmers. The bells rang out to the storm, the fires blazed on the hills, and we broke out of the woods, mad bunches with scythes, pitchforks, and flails. Suddenly the whole valley was alive, the farmers, sweaty, blood-spattered, rushed into the fencing knots, killed them, hunted, raged — for a long time to come the farms of the Westerwald will be talking about the battle of the peasants in the seven mountains.

The signal for a final effort was the government's abandonment of passive resistance. Everything

urged to march to Berlin. The secret army had formed almost by itself. The pressure of waiting became unbearable. The Black Reichswehr vegetated in the casemates of poor fortifications, in the dark of grueling concealment. And the pentup energies allowed the forces to turn against each other in quiet, nagging self-destruction. The men that had gathered there had learned to be ruthless against traitors. Buchrucker in Küstrin bounced forward. At Koburg the black formations, the brigade as a tribe, were already ready to march into Thuringia in the direction of Berlin. In Bavaria, the armed and uniformed squads marched unhindered on the streets.

On November 8th, Gabriel and I came to Munich. The city was in indescribable excitement, Hitler proclaimed the national republic. Hell, it happened in the Bürgerbräukeller. And at the Feldhernhalle on November 9, the police and the Reichswehr shot at the approaching train, and thirteen men died, fellows who just fought with us on the Ruhr.

The devil had a hand in that. it was over It was all over. National anthem forth and flag cloth — but the dirt will never be able to be covered. There was an hour such as a people is offered only once in a hundred years of its history - and we and we? Gabriel let no raw. We wanted to collect, but everything had burst. Suddenly there was no one there. In the Palatinate there were a few more in a group led by Gabriel. He seemed burned out inside. What he did, skinny and hollow-eyed, that

seemed to do a machine. His precise methods, which, applied without any passion, almost always guaranteed the absolute certainty of success, had nothing in common with the wild, revenge-seeking defiance of his early days as an activist. He was almost scary to us. Only ideas give courage. But he rejected any idea for his actions. He only laughed when we sat together and again, as he said: "Germany saved". He said coldly in the debate, in which the most bizarre plans rose from the steaming brains, that we were bound to fail, and that he welcomed that. He grinned scornfully when we said "Germany." But he ordered the group to shoot Heinz-Orbis, separatist leader and Prime Minister of the "autonomous Palatinate". Who sated the evening in Speyer in the Wittelsbacher Hof with his friends and with French officers and drank. The place was crowded when we entered, when we raised our pistols and the gentlemen French officers obediently stretched out their arms. It was dead quiet in the room and a thousand eyes stared at us. Then the shots rang out and Heinz-Orbis and five of his companions collapsed. We smashed the chandeliers and were out, but Treff had a shot in the small of his back and when he died Gabriel said, "Yes, yes, we can all get it." Those who went with us to Pirmasens knew about it. Death had not yet come to terms with the devil about us. All hell broke loose in Pirmasens. God with us - but we always had each other close to Satan

found most comfortable. Irony of fate that we now had to exorcise him. We had fought for law and order before. And we swore we'd never do it again. Now we did it again. The big vomit rose up on us. But as long as there was still fighting, we wanted to be there We met the citizens of Pirmasens in the right mood. The separatists had looted grocery stores, had the roof over the heads of some citizens, stormed City Hall and occupied the district office. Their headquarters were in the district office. From there they banged cheerfully in the area. On February 12, 1924, the time had come. The Separatists received a phone call telling them to leave Ja's building. They refused. Then we marched up, a handful of boys, many Pirmasensers with them, but mainly Gabriel's people. The separatists shot, threw hand grenades; we couldn't kick them out on the first try. Now Gabriel mobilized the city. A storm was rung, the fire brigade arrived. We raced through the streets and yelled at the Pirmasenser to fight. We gathered around the square in front of the district office. The fire brigade sent jets of water against the windows, but could not even break them. Well, at six o'clock in the evening we put out the streetlights and started shelling the building. As we charged, Gabriel fell. He was shot in the head and died instantly. Yes, yes, it's our turn. We cried out the news of his death and there was nothing to hold us

could. I saw many, foaming at the mouth, roaring from chalk-white faces as they raced forward. We hit the building, smashed the windows. We threw paper, tow, wood, petrol and hand grenades into the ground floor rooms. We threw firebrands into the rooms so that an ammunition store rattled up. We banged on the heavily bolted door till it burst, and dashed up the stairs and took them out one by one, and what escaped us alive the mob in front of the house slew to death. We stood in the smoke, intoxicated, panting, possessed, rampaged through the rooms, found the leader and killed him. And the French stood outside and didn't dare to move. And then, for the first time since November 1918, we learned that there was nothing left for us to do. Even the question "what now?" amazed us. We parted, embarrassed. We don't want to fool ourselves. It's over. It was nice and it's over. Never again will we march as we used to. Our great crowd no longer exists. Somewhere in the country there is one or the other who was there, and soon we will know nothing more about each other than what once bound us. Perhaps, no certainly, the great score will be settled again. And the few men who are left will be there again as individuals, each for himself, or each with a new group. Maybe — but then it's a new fight, with new laws.

I could count them on my fingers, the old comrades. Anyone who hasn't fallen, who isn't in prison or leads a roving life across the border, has now buried himself in the dirt that still lies over everything that is alive. Many have passed away, degenerated, many also fit into new forms and wage a bitter struggle in new places. They're dragging Heinz from prison to prison, they've booked Jörg because he wanted to overthrow the government with ten men and was already setting about occupying the Ministry of the Interior as his future domain. The two in whose fire Erzberger fell still circle around Germany on desperate journeys and stare at the country for which they took the banishment upon themselves. None of Kern's comrades has escaped the gray walls. And Techow wrote from the Sonnenburg penitentiary on behalf of all of you, you refrain from being taken out as long as there are more urgent things to do. There is nothing more urgent to do, but there is no one left to help you. help yourself alone Perhaps the penitentiary will be the best way to help you get over the big phlegm. Put your passion on hold. Preserve your useful hatred. Only a few will be able to feel once again that nothing is in vain in this world. Preserve your useful hatred. Only a few will be able to feel once again that nothing is in vain in this world. Preserve your useful hatred. Only a few will be able to feel once again that nothing is in vain in this world.

And for the time being I let myself be torpedoed into the air every day on the Rhön air base at Wasserkuppe with a few square meters of cloth and wood using a rubber rope. A week after Pirmasens for the first time. And later? Sitting in Morocco

Nigger sheikh named Abd-el-Krim, he's supposed to be planning an uprising against France — and aviators are useful everywhere...»

1924 The time came when I was overcome by the raging terror, the raging fear of the senseless, when the gray walls of the accursed house turned their ghosts against me and I listened to the wind that whipped around the buildings. In the first year of my imprisonment I still felt in tune with the things that were happening outside and in the course of which I still had a secret part, I still felt attached to what was happening, to what was moving, what was real, of unity, everything what was full of higher dignity, I was now alone. I was never so alone as in those days; I was so alone that I couldn't bear it when the director tried to approach me with human effort, that I couldn't bear the admonishing sympathy of the chief constable, the soothing tone of rare letters, not the secret questions from fellow prisoners and not the balancing warmth of the first early spring days. I crept into the cell that was hostile to me, which I followed

dull walk without feeling a nameless disgust; I built myself into the four walls and hated the clerk who opened the door, and the calfist who brought the soup, and the dogs who fought outside the window. I jumped at the joy. The almond tree at the entrance to the yard, which began to bloom, which was covered with pink blossoms and filled the yard with an indescribable splendor, was a nuisance to me, as was the large chestnut tree in the middle of the walk, with its buds bursting, and the row of stunted linden trees in its branches now starlings and finches perched. Because every joy seemed to me like a falsification, like mockery of what I had to deal with, and of all pleasures I only accepted the one that came to me when the living background appeared behind things full of boredom, when through the little day and through the little order and through the little struggle the law suddenly broke through and the inkling of its deeper meaning. That came to me at night when I heard the footsteps of the Ronde echoing through the corridors in paralyzing beats, when in the pale light of the moon the wood of the table began to crack menacingly, roused me from my confused sleep with a whipping crack, when screams erupted from the cells ruptured and filled the trembling air to bursting with their shudders; it cut me in the gut when in the gray haze of morning the ringing bell shattered the night, when the calfactors chased along the lined doors and hammered back the bolts, with a thunderous roar the house suddenly opened to its shadowy life when at night I heard the footsteps of the Ronde echoing through the corridors in paralyzing beats, when in the pale light of the moon the wood of the table began to crack menacingly, roused me from my confused sleep with a whipping bang, when screams broke out of the cells and the trembling filled the air to bursting with her shudders; it cut me in the gut when in the gray haze of morning the ringing bell shattered the night, when the calfactors chased along the lined doors and hammered back the bolts, with a thunderous roar the house suddenly opened to its shadowy life when at night I heard the footsteps of the Ronde echoing through the corridors in paralyzing beats, when in the pale light of the moon the wood of the table began to crack menacingly, roused me from my confused sleep with a whipping bang, when screams broke out of the cells and the trembling filled the air to bursting with her shudders; it cut me in the gut when in the gray haze of morning the ringing bell shattered the night, when the calfactors chased along the lined doors and hammered back the bolts, with a thunderous roar the house suddenly opened to its shadowy life when screams broke from the cells and filled the trembling air to bursting with their shivers; it cut me in the gut when in the gray haze of morning the ringing bell shattered the night, when the calfactors chased along the lined doors and hammered back the bolts, with a thunderous roar the house suddenly opened to its shadowy life when screams broke from the cells and filled the trembling air to bursting with their shivers; it cut me in the gut when in the gray haze of morning the ringing bell shattered the night, when the calfactors chased along the lined doors and hammered back the bolts, with a thunderous roar the house suddenly opened to its shadowy life

awakening when the very life of this house triumphed over the order it was attempting to force it into, when the commotion simmered in the workrooms, stools slammed against the doors and screaming officials ran with carbines and water hoses. Then I stood at the door or at the window, thrown from an extreme tension of all muscles, with exposed nerves, listening, panting, in a sticky sweat, and tasted the full content of the moments that gave evidence of a deeper and more moving layer like this Prisoner's Knock of Hidden Life in Stone. I did not fear the rattling horror that came cold from the walls, nor the raging scream of the night and the visions that rose from the brooding loneliness with pale gleams, nor the nameless terror, that sprang from the rattling of the keys, and not the terror that seized the unarmed heart at a lurking hour—what I feared was great deceit, it was the shameful falsification into which the statute of the house forced my alert instincts. I didn't want any protection from myself and from the things that are real. I had never shied away from intoxication, for it tore to shreds the shield that custom and law stretched around me against the demons, it burst the bastions, the ramparts into which I crept like the others; but now, imprisoned and guarded, not for a minute without the look of envious inquiring eyes, surrounded by prohibitions and with pale trembling like a schoolboy when caught, but now I was looking for what the raging which attacked the unarmored heart at a lurking hour—what I feared was the great deceit, that was the shameful falsification into which the statute of the house compelled my alert instincts. I didn't want any protection from myself and from the things that are real. I had never shied away from intoxication, for it tore to shreds the shield that custom and law stretched around me against the demons, it burst the bastions, the ramparts into which I crept like the others; but now, imprisoned and guarded, not for a minute without the look of envious inquiring eyes, surrounded by prohibitions and with pale trembling like a schoolboy when caught, but now I was looking for what the raging which attacked the unarmored heart at a lurking hour—what I feared was the great deceit, that was the shameful falsification into which the statute of the house compelled my alert instincts. I didn't want any protection from myself and from the things that are real. I had never shied away from intoxication, for it tore to shreds the shield that custom and law stretched around me against the demons, it burst the bastions, the ramparts into which I crept like the others; but now, imprisoned and guarded, not for a minute without the look of envious inquiring eyes, surrounded by prohibitions and with pale trembling like a schoolboy when caught, but now I was looking for what the raging into which the statutes of the house compelled my keen instincts. I didn't want any protection from myself and from the things that are real. I had never shied away from intoxication, for it tore to shreds the shield that custom and law stretched around me against the demons, it burst the bastions, the ramparts into which I crept like the others; but now, imprisoned and guarded, not for a minute without the look of envious inquiring eyes, surrounded by prohibitions and with pale trembling like a schoolboy when caught, but now I was looking for what the raging into which the statutes of the house compelled my keen instincts. I didn't want any protection from myself and from the things that are real. I had never shied away from intoxication, for it tore to shreds the shield that custom and law stretched around me against the demons, it burst the bastions, the ramparts

into which I crept like the others; but now, imprisoned and guarded, not for a minute without the look of envious inquiring eyes, surrounded by prohibitio

Translated from German to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.com

tensions of my freedom, I now sought myself, myself completely, alone and yet I knew that I would find myself in harmony with a world of which I saw only the pale shadows and which still had to be of a beguiling reality, more mature when the world was broken for me after constant fighting. The time came when I felt I couldn't hesitate any longer, when I tried to read the deeper meaning of the coincidence of my imprisonment from the phenomena that presented themselves to me every day.

Over time I had many opportunities, even in prison, to enter into a more intimate relationship with those creatures of this earth who still represent the best medium for the revelation of the really determining forces, with people.

The director often came to my cell; but it never lasted long, and the crowded conversation had progressed to a point that seemed essential to me and dangerous to the director. Then he had a sobering way of tipping his bowler hat on his head with a quick jerk and leaving my room in a friendly manner with a dignified greeting. There were many officials who stopped for a few minutes at the opening to exchange a few words with me. But what they said came from such a small circle of thought and experience that I considered their speeches much more appropriate to the atmosphere of the house than those of the prisoners, and was basically glad if I was spared, spared, the humiliating condescension of their sympathy the

benevolent admonition not to get involved with criminals; and I sensed that they too regarded me as a criminal, perhaps more incomprehensible to them, but no less contemptible. No less contemptible and certainly more dangerous. Because I was under double control, and whatever I did was the subject of long deliberations. Yes, I was a criminal in their eyes, nothing else, and if I resisted at first, if I thought I had to flee to the ramparts of Phariseeism like them, with the same contempt for the prisoners, of which I was supposed to be one, so I was always a stranger to them, the pensioners, the honorable, just as I was fundamentally a stranger to the prisoners. I resisted the thought of being a criminal for so long until I read Goethe's statement: "There is no crime that I cannot think of as the author of." I was shocked by this sentence, I read it twice, three times, I memorized it, and I subjected myself to a self-control that was painful because I didn't want to lie to myself, because with this will to inner truthfulness I felt so frighteningly easily the possible willingness to commit any crime. No, there wasn't a crime I couldn't think of as the author of, and I endured this thought solely in the conviction that it couldn't grow out of a basic humanitarian mood, the pathos of which would have to culminate in the unbearable statement that everyone understands too means to forgive everything, but from one "I was shocked by this sentence, I read it twice, three times, I memorized it, and I subjected myself to a self-control that was painful, because I didn't want to lie to myself, because I was so frighteningly easy with this will to inner truthfulness I had to affirm the possible willingness to commit any crime. No, there wasn't a crime I couldn't think of as the author of, and I endured this thought solely in the conviction that it couldn't grow out of a basic humanitarian mood, the pathos of which would have to culminate in the unbearable statement that everyone understands too means to forgive everything, but from one "I was shocked by this sentence, I read it twice, three times, I memorized it, and I subjected myself to a self-control that was painful, because I didn't want to lie to myself, because I was so frighteningly easy with this will to inner truthfulness I had to affirm the possible willingness to commit any crime. No, there wasn't a crime I couldn't think of as the author of, and I endured this thought solely in the conviction that it couldn't grow out of a basic humanitarian mood, the pathos of which would have to culminate in the unbearable statement that everyone understands too means to forgive everything, but from one because, with this will to inner truthfulness, it was so frighteningly easy for me to accept that I was prepared to commit any crime. No, there wasn't a crime I couldn't think of as the author of, and I endured this thought solely in the conviction that it couldn't grow out of a basic humanitarian mood, the pathos of which would have to culminate in the unbearable statement that everyone understands too means to forgive everything, but from one because, with this will to inner truthfulness, it was so frighteningly easy for me to accept that I was prepared to commit any crime. No, there wasn't a crime I couldn't think of as the author of, and I endured this thought solely in the conviction that it couldn't grow out of a basic humanitarian mood, the pathos of which would have to culminate in the unbearable statement that everyone understands too means to forgive everything, but from one

strong sense of the totality of all effective elements. I was told more than any coroner ever heard. But the word "criminal" was considered the ultimate insult, and wherever it was used among the prisoners, on walks in the yard or in the workrooms, in the dormitories of communal detention or in the three-man cells for the psychopaths, the one who was insulted always jumped at the insult the neck and tangled knots formed around the fighters, and the fuss only ended in the detention cells, after the director imposed the same punishment on everyone involved. Nobody wanted to be a criminal who didn't stumble blindly and stupidly over the snares of the law, who didn't talk about their crime with cold cynicism, and who didn't defend a not always lucrative and in any case dangerous profession. One had acted out of necessity and the other out of passion and the third because he wasn't used to it any other way. But no one felt their actions subject to the compulsion of a higher will, felt obliged to fulfill a stronger law than the one that forbade their actions and imposed punishment. None of them felt guilty! Yes, they all claimed innocence, they claimed it even if they confessed. There was not one who did not feel guilty when he confessed his guilt in the face of various pressures; because nobody was there who knew about the guilt. Therefore they all bore the yoke of punishment with wrath, they bore the arrogance of judges and officials with hatred, they measured the saber-bearers as well But no one felt their actions subject to the compulsion of a higher will, felt obliged to fulfill a stronger law than the one that forbade their actions and imposed punishment. None of them felt guilty! Yes, they all claimed innocence, they claimed it even if they confessed. There was not one who did not feel guilty when he confessed his guilt in the face of various pressures; because nobody was there who knew about the guilt. Therefore they all bore the yoke of punishment with wrath, they bore the arrogance of judges and officials with hatred, they measured the saber-bearers as well But no one felt their actions subject to the compulsion of a higher will, felt obliged to fulfill a stronger law than the one that forbade their actions and imposed punishment. None of them felt guilty! Yes, they all claimed innocence, they claimed it even if they confessed. There was not one who did not feel guilty when he confessed his guilt in the face of various pressures; because nobody was there who knew about the guilt. Therefore they all bore the yoke of punishment with wrath, they bore the arrogance of judges and officials with hatred, they measured the saber-bearers as well they all claimed to be innocent, they claimed it even when they confessed. There was not one who did not feel guilty when he confessed his guilt in the face of various pressures; because nobody was there who knew about the guilt. Therefore they all bore the yoke of punishment with wrath, they bore the arrogance of judges and officials with hatred, they measured the saber-bearers as well they all claimed to be innocent, they claimed it even when they confessed. There was not one who did not feel guilty when he confessed his guilt in the face of various pressures; because nobody was there who knew about the guilt. Therefore they all bore the yoke of punishment with wrath, they bore the arrogance of judges and officials with hatred, they measured the saber-bearers as well

scornful looks, and they took a bitter delight in knowing that if they were put in the same brown robs they would be of the same type as themselves. They felt subjugated and trampled on by people, not by God, by a wicked system, not by a living law. But I was and remained a stranger to them.

The time came when I saved myself from the confusion of daily doubts into a strange haughtiness. For since everything I encountered on my whimsical paths could only serve to clarify the content of ideas and goals and to rearrange them again and again, I believed that the increasing security of my strength was the confirmation of the correctness of my actions. There was no pain that did not turn into wakefulness, no fear that did not give the beginning of new courage. And it wasn't the peculiarity of my position as a man of conviction that raised me above my fellow prisoners from the outset, nor was it the greater harshness to which I was subjected, since the small order curtailed me more than the others, it was something different, something I basically felt every moment of my life. They all, with whom fate thrown me together experienced the same thing as I did. But that's it: the experience is never decisive! It can come to anyone, it hits people blindly, whether they are armed or not. It is always decisive how the experience is sublimated in detail. And that raised me above them

others that I wasn't afraid to draw my own conclusions, that I had the courage to want to be a criminal. There was not a thought I thought that was not an attack upon the very foundation of mores and morals which justified this House and its statutes. And there wasn't a single decision that didn't already harbor the germ of overthrow in its core. The mass of those imprisoned, however, had submitted. She lived in dull, animal lethargy; Individuals who jumped up in furious hatred, who responded to a humiliating word by smashing everything within reach, were nevertheless connected to the masses, supported by them with brief roars or betrayed with canine obsequiousness and handed over to them for the sake of small, shameful advantages. What was vegetating around me in the cells and workrooms was not entirely the dregs of an orderly bourgeois world, but rather bourgeois to the point of direct consequence, was comfortable, attached to order, whining in fear of every decision, and too like the society that had first bred this kind of criminality and then crushed it between stone and iron to dare the grandiose slap in the face. There was no spark of seditious power in these people, no idea filled them, no defiance, no pride of the outcasts gave them impetus. But it seemed to me that the characteristic of the crime was that it was aimed at destroying the dominant order, not at establishing oneself in it by illegal means. than that it could dare the grandiose slap in her face. There was no spark of seditious power in these people, no idea filled them, no defiance, no pride of the outcasts gave them impetus. But it seemed to me that the characteristic of the crime was that it was aimed at destroying the dominant order, not at establishing oneself in it by illegal means. than that it could dare the grandiose slap in her face. There was no spark of seditious power in these people, no idea filled them, no defiance, no pride of the outcasts gave them impetus. But it seemed to me that the characteristic of the crime was that it was aimed at destroying the dominant order, not at establishing oneself in it by illegal means.

The time came when rumors swept through the asylum, whispered from mouth to mouth, carried from cell to cell. Hopeful murmurs, well-fed with half-hints from officials who felt authoritative and merciful, rose in the dormitories and workrooms. It began on the day the flag flew at half-mast on the top of the tower. The President of the Reich had died, the pastor announced from the pulpit, and no sooner had he said this than there was unrest in the room. There wasn't one of the prisoners who didn't think the same thing, who couldn't communicate with the others with half a glance. When the Reich President died, a new one was elected—and then there would certainly be an amnesty. And soon it was said that the Reichstag was already negotiating about it. The court clerk hissed it at me: a third of the penalty should be waived for everyone, no matter what crime they were penalizing for. The hospital attendant had it from the most reliable source: on the day the new president took office, anyone who had already served two-thirds of his sentence was to be released at once. The prisoner told everyone who wanted to hear it: The officials were already busy compiling the lists, but it was not a third, but a quarter of the prison time that was to be released. But Edi slipped me a newspaper clipping, it said in black and white: he was considering the forthcoming presidential election

The Reichstag committee passed an amnesty bill, according to which the now consolidated republic was to draw a line under the events in the most generous way.

Ed was full of hope. We met, he and I, exchanging work trousers in the householder's room; but this was crammed with prisoners who crowded together, and the musty air of the narrow room, which was mixed with the smells of the laundry room, the boot racks and the piles of clothes, with the exhalation of men undressing, a musty gas of sweat, dust and moth powder , weighed heavily. We stole up the creaking staircase until we came to a window that looked out over the countryside outside the walls. We stood and looked out in silence. Edi had clenched his fists around the Tralljen and pressed his head against the bars. His face was frighteningly emaciated from prolonged confinement, and his reddened, feverish eyes were set deep in the sockets of his yellow-grey skin. We started talking softly.

Edi talked about the amnesty and I laughed. I didn't want to believe in this amnesty; and when it came, it must taste bitter. Have mercy on us, thrown down, as now a piece of bread is thrown down to a dog! "Yes, if I could respect her," I said to Edi and grabbed his arm. "And I could respect them if they had sentenced us all to death as we stood there before their specially appointed court, as we had sentenced them if we had been the judges! Then could

respect them,' I said, and I said, 'And now accept mercy from them?' — Edi turned his head to me, he said softly: "I've been here for four years now." We were silent. The little town, with its tangle of low red roofs dotted with the green of dense trees and tangled bushes, lay impossibly peaceful in the gentle valley. Hardly a sound could be heard, only from afar, blown away, a dull sound sounded in time, as if drums were being beaten somewhere. It came closer and closer, we listened, in between the scraps of shrill melody faded away. The houses caught the sound, did it come from the right, from the left? Suddenly there was a loud boom, we held our breath, and then it erupted around the corner. The Reichswehr marched past. I could just glimpse the round helmets and rifles towering over the unseen ranks. But then there was a muffled drumbeat and the music rushed up. The reverberation went up to the sky like a scream, the blare of blazing trumpets hit the air clenched against wall and wall, the Hohenfriedberger, the march of the Prussian king yelled, the march with all the tough dirt of the battlefield stuck to its boots and above it the captured flags and standards of the Bayreuth regiment. That was the jubilation of a warlike deed, the jubilation of the last courage to make sacrifices, that was victory, it was departure at the same time. And again and again the drumbeat hammered, taming the last bit of energy through it, never all the fanfares above the bells of the Schellenbaum ...

But I, I, pierced by every sound, staggered, toppled against the bars, agitated, torn—to be there, I thought, to be there, to be free—all of a sudden what I had worked so hard to build collapsed on me. Out there, there they marched, and I, and I? — Cursing, the head of the house cried and shouted. We stumbled down the stairs.

Now, like the others, I lusted after every news of the amnesty. Soon it was said that instead of an amnesty law, acts of mercy should be used to set free whoever proved worthy. And then came the first, unsuccessful election. Then it was said that only certain crimes should be included in the amnesty. And the day came when the field marshal assumed the highest office in the new empire. We waited in hot anticipation. It was said that at least the political should be pardoned. It was said that perhaps the criminals would also be considered to a certain extent. It was said that the decision would be made at the discretion of the prison directorate. Anyone who behaved well could count on it... It was said that the old gentleman wished... It was said that to a large extent... Many have already arranged their things. The civil servants' conference was overwhelmed with requests. The director was hassled. The officials smiled promisingly. And when, long weeks after the presidential election, the feverish excitement, the trembling expectation had risen to the last ardent height, then at last, at last, the decree came.

And not one, not one in the whole accursed house fell under that ridiculous, that grotesque amnesia. We sat, Edi and I, in the pale autumn sun behind the woodshed and talked about freedom. A branch peeked over the wall.

The scattered sound of distant music came over the wall. The scolding of the chief sergeant and the pounding of many heavy steps echoed from the yard. Edi said: "I've been here for four years now." He said: 'My wife is waiting for me; she goes to the factory." He said: "If I were free now..." And I listened as he told me about the modest happiness, about a stuffy apartment, there, far away, in the middle of gaudy, high-edged blocks of houses, in the middle of a tangle of towering chimneys, under smoke , noise and tightness. And suddenly he jumped up, ran against the wall, raised both fists and pounded the rigid stone with furious force and cried out: I want to be free, I want to be free! And I, whipped up, rushed with hissing agony, rushed to him, braced myself against the wall, senseless, torn apart, panting,

Scream

There was no one present when what the chief secretary called "assaulting an official" happened, I could have lied. Certainly my testimony weighed nothing compared to that of the officer. But there was no one present but my opponent and I, and I could have asked to be proved. I didn't lie. I admitted immediately and without hesitation. As a matter of principle, I don't lie as long as I'm in the institution. I don't lie to avoid responsibility. Yes, if it's a fight between an equal opponent and me, a fight with all intellectual weapons, with finesse and firm legal rules! Sneaking up on the enemy, dodging and groping, measuring strength, in short a fight: why shouldn't I lie? But here and so? It's prisoner manner Never, under any circumstances, tell the truth or admit it other than brutally coerced. I am careful not to descend to prisoner level. I am careful not to recognize the official as an equal opponent. I tell the truth, and the astonished faces of the conference show me that we are faced with a novelty and that novelty inspires respect. I want to take responsibility for what I've done. Despite, that's my stance. Denying would be too cheap if there had been an escape I want to take responsibility for what I've done. Despite, that's my stance. Denying would be too cheap if there had been an escape I want to take responsibility for what I've done. Despite, that's my stance. Denying would be too cheap if there had been an escape

"I'll punish you with seven days' arrest with all the aggravations!" says the director, and I am taken away.

We walk down long, dark, echoing corridors. My spiked shoes clatter on the flagstones and I swing my arms as carelessly as possible. The official leaves with an arrogant official face and emphasizes measured distance. I quietly hope I can get into one of the front cells, they are warmer and higher up and on the corridor where the cells of the other prisoners are, so that you can at least hear noises and life and tell the time from a variety of sounds. The other detention rooms are in the basement, deep down and at the back. They are only heatable from the outside and now it's December. The official walks past the cells on which my quiet wishes hang, and I am ashamed of my differentiating emotion. We go down stairs, the officer closes doors, removes security locks.

The room is small and white, the lime walls and the gray iron bars make you shiver. The window is covered with a thick, whitish, ribbed pane, criss-crossed with wires, through which the bars of the grate can only be seen gleaming like shadows. In the semi-darkness the rods that enclose the cage stand straight and menacing. The cage, because in the middle of the room it's partitioned off, against the darkest wall — certainly not the one that's heated from outside, from the corridor — and as far as possible from the window and door, a second room, surrounded by bars, as long as the bunk, let into the floor, is the only piece of furniture, and as wide as it is long. The cage door

flies up with a bang. I step inside. The officer takes off my suspenders and scarf and smashes the grille shut. It closes once at the top and once at the bottom with rattling keys. He pushes forward an iron bolt and fastens another security lock. He walks around the cage and taps on each one with a key. rod, testing it for durability. He goes to the cell door and back, feels the window pane and checks the thermometer on the wall that I can reach. He goes out and shuts the cell door, once, twice, up, down, bolts and picks the security lock. I hear his footsteps traipsing down the aisle. The corridor door slams shut. The keys rattled again. Then there is silence. I sit on the low bunk for a long, long time without moving. I can't think, it's too cold to think, it's too quiet to think. There is nothing alive in the room. And I, am I alive? I look down at my hand, white and bony on my knees. It's a dead hand. The black stripes on the bluish nails! I think I smell decay. I am the center of the room. If I am not able to radiate my being into the furthest corners of the oh so small space, then I am crushed. I'm supposed to live here for seven days. Seven days and seven nights. As long as an ocean liner travels from Germany to America. I sit on the bunk and try to imagine a steamer trip. I associate it with a world of well-being, speed, a wide view and freedom. Freedom I get up and

lean against the bars. You're freezing cold and I take a step forward. I have to hold on to the trousers or they'll slip down. I go in circles. I dream of being on the promenade deck. I am exquisitely dressed, I listen to music and the lapping of moving waves, and I converse with elegant women and smart men. i dream But every dream is only two steps long. Each thought is only two steps long. Then it is interrupted and a new one, quite different, appears. I live at an insane pace. I rise above myself. I don't forget for a moment that I'm a prisoner, that I'm sitting in tighter confinement, that I'm walking in circles between the bars of the cage and clutching my pants, If only it were a little warmer! I stick my arm through the bars and try to reach the heated wall. It's in vain, and I don't feel any warming breath on my fingertips either. I sit back down on the bunk. How long have I been under arrest? Is it almost lunchtime? I am hungry. At nine o'clock I was taken away. I dig my fists into my eyes and hold my breath. I want to know how long a minute is. I count the pulse. A minute is long, infinitely long. When was it that I once sat and measured a minute's breath? Haven't I once sat in a narrow, dull room and been afraid of the time? I sat in the bunker and fire hailed outside. A grenade slammed into the ground—too far. A second came and burst menacingly. Too short. The third, the third had to be a hit. I sat and listened to my pulse. The third didn't come It's in vain, and I don't feel any warming breath on my fingertips either. I sit back down on the bunk. How long have I been under arrest? Is it almost lunchtime? I am hungry. At nine o'clock I was taken away. I dig my fists into my eyes and hold my breath. I want to know how long a minute is. I count the pulse. A minute is long, infinitely long. When was it that I once sat and measured a minute's breath? Haven't I once sat in a narrow, dull room and been afraid of the time? I sat in the bunker and fire hailed outside. A grenade slammed into the ground—too far. A second came and burst menacingly. Too short. The third, the third had to be a hit. I sat and listened to my pulse. The third didn't come It's in vain, and I don't feel any warming breath on my fingertips either. I sit back down on the bunk. How long have I been under arrest? Is it almost lunchtime? I am hungry. At nine o'clock I was taken away. I dig my fists into my eyes and hold my breath. I want to know how long a minute is. I count the pulse. A minute is long, infinitely long. When was it that I once sat and measured a minute's breath? Haven't I once sat in a narrow, dull room and been afraid of the time? I sat in the bunker and fire hailed outside. A grenade slammed into the ground—too far. A second came and burst menacingly. Too short. The third, the third had to be a hit. I sat and listened to my pulse. The third didn't come and I don't feel a warm breath on my fingertips either. I sit back down on the bunk. How long have I been under arrest? Is it almost lunchtime? I am hungry. At nine o'clock I was taken away. I dig my fists into my eyes and hold my breath. I want to know how long a minute is. I count the pulse. A minute is long, infinitely long. When was it that I once sat and measured a minute's breath? Haven't I once sat in a narrow, dull room and been afraid of the time? I sat in the bunker and fire hailed outside. A grenade slammed into the ground—too far. A second came and burst menacingly. Too short. The third, the third had to be a hit. I sat and listened to my pulse. The third didn't come and I don't feel a warm breath on my fingertips either. I sit back down on the bunk. How long have I been under arrest? Is it almost lunchtime? I am hungry. At nine o'clock I was taken away. I dig my fists into my eyes and hold my

breath. I want to know how long a minute is. I count the pulse. A minute is long, infinitely long. When was it that I once sat and measured a minute's brea

One minute is infinitely long. I look up and count the bars. It's fifty eight. I get up and feel the planks with my feet, There are sixteen. I put foot in front of foot, seven times, and then comes the trellis. I'm happy about the seven. I add up 58 + 16 + 7 = 81. Cross sum 9. Good luck or bad luck? Is there no relationship between the number and me? I was born in the ninth month of the year and the cross sum of my discharge date is also nine. I smile and feel embarrassed, This is silly. i am silly I console myself that most people are silly when they are alone, really alone. I'd like to see the chief secretary, the same one I'm here about, if he were in my position. Ah, what a stubborn, red, square face he has. The head sits squarely on the shoulders. The mustache, perpetually ruffled, on the bulging upper lip emanates subaltern displeasure. How I hate this face! Well, "assault"! I am happy. I don't regret a moment. How stunned he looked at me! He gasped and shrieked, "I'll have you taken away!" He had me taken away. He crept around me with embarrassing whining, with ever false friendliness, stabbing here, emphasizing condescension there. Covertly brutal and openly cowardly. Now he's triumphant, I think, now he's patching his battered self-confidence with a sense of power. No, I don't hate him I guess. If I hated him, I would acknowledge him. I laugh. I really laugh - and the sound echoes in the cell. It breaks at the corners, and it giggles in between

the bars. I listen in amazement. I laugh again, fake and cramped. The cell answers. This is mockery. I am silent and shiver. Isn't it lunchtime yet? Not a sound to be heard except my breathing. The breath is steaming in the air. I pump my lungs full and blow a faint cloud into the air. I breathe on my hands. I button my pants as best I can and do squats. One two three four. By the rules. I do fifty squats. Then my legs tremble. How high is the cell, I think, and try to measure it with my body length. I climb up one of the bars, I quickly jump down again; because how was it suddenly - I felt like a monkey in the zoo. Hanging from the bars, legs apart, arms grasping, It's degrading. The man who sees the monkey feels a burning shame. Is it true that we come from monkeys? I believe the man, the lonely man abandoned and lost in narrow space, becomes monkey again. I was reading a book in the cell the other day. "Tarzan the monkey," they said, I think. It disgusted me. It was unspeakably silly. A man, a blond man, coming from man, gets among the apes and becomes one himself. Become aware and boast of it. Can you escape from people among monkeys? Woe to us if we can. Well, I live among criminals. I live with them, talk to them, speak their language, have their worries. I obey the keeper, although I despise him. I start thinking. Isn't it lunchtime yet? falls among the apes and becomes one himself. Become aware and boast of it. Can you escape from people among monkeys? Woe to us if we can. Well, I live among criminals. I live with them, talk to them, speak their language, have their worries. I obey the keeper, although I despise him. I start thinking. Isn't it lunchtime yet? falls among the apes and becomes one himself. Become aware and boast of it. Can you escape from people among monkeys? Woe to us if we can. Well, I live among criminals. I live with them, talk to them, speak their language, have their worries. I obey the keeper, although I despise him. I start thinking. Isn't it lunchtime yet?

Up and down—up and down—round and round in circles. I have to get tired. I haven't been able to sleep for three years. How will it be tonight? Ah, once again feeling a blissful nothingness, once again completely? sinking under, diving under— being able to sleep! The tired day can't make me tired. The brain is dull and dull. But the body is awake. The legs twitch to the beat of the pulse. I can't put my arms down. I have to move her, it's unbearable not to move her. How will it be tonight? I won't be able to sleep. I wish the long night was over. I wish seven nights were over! Still not lunchtime? How slowly the day goes! What can you do in one day? How have I used my days! You didn't have enough hours for me. At that time I was living in a storm. At that time I served an idea. How come? Haven't there been times when I've fared worse than now? Never, I say, I say consciously: Never! Be it as it might, be in roaring fire, be in unbearable tension, pistol in hand, ready to destroy my opponent, the world and myself, be before the tribunal, the state court, etc let my fate be gambled on: there was always something that was stronger than me, that lifted me above the painful moment, that gave my actions a purpose and a goal, a meaning, maybe a terrible one, but a meaning - this here, that makes no sense. I sit and endure. Tolerate, that makes no sense. Atonement makes sense. do not tolerate. I tolerate.

Wasn't it wrong that I told the truth? No, it wasn't wrong. Because I can't bear the thought of looking like a liar and a coward in this person's eyes, I put up with it. It's sweet to tolerate. Hell take it, how pathetic everything is. I'm pathetic; this brooding is killing me. I love unbroken people men. Those who don't know any problems. Those who are self-contained, powerful, calm. what about me I call out to myself: Wimp! Yes, I'm sensitive! I laugh to hear the giggles between the bars. But it must be lunchtime soon! Why am I waiting for lunchtime? Do I long for the piece of dry bread? Am I happy to see someone? I'm looking forward to the turning point of the day. The outer corridor door is closed. footsteps are getting closer. The cell door rattles. The official opens it and the calfactor slips inside. I stand rigid and calm and don't look. He pushes a piece of bread between the bars. He passes a jug of water through the gap. The official now condescends to unlock it. The calculus puts down a dirty bucket with a poorly closing lid and adds a few sheets of paper. I see with half my eyes, it's printed, it's cut out of newspaper for use. I have to hold myself in order not to fall and grab the rags. The keys rattle vigorously. I'm alone again. I leaf through the pieces of paper.

Advertisements, advertisements, newspaper head. Wait, the back. I stand and read. The sentences are only half. The tear runs through the middle. I spread the sheets on the floor and look for what belongs together. Disappointment: many sheets are double. But I can get half a newspaper together. and read. It's a local newspaper. It's nothing earth-shattering. It's always the same quark, dragged through the newspapers day after day. But how long have I not had a newspaper? This is from last year. I read. I read from the first line to the last and start all over again. I read the ads. A breeding bull is for sale. There is dancing at the Gasthof zum Deutschen Kaiser. It invites you obediently: the host. Rosenblum recommends its stock of cutting-edge spring costumes. In the cinema for the last time Pola Negri. Mem eye gets stuck on a line. "Write to me, write to her, write on MK paper." I read the rhyme once, twice, enjoying its pleasing and rhythmic naivety. "Write to me, write to her...", the thing has a melody of its own accord. I sing how I think it will be sung. I can't get rid of the rhyme. He has momentum; the tune I found is full of rousing violence like a Prussian military march. "Write to me, write to her..." I walk in circles in the cell again. I whistle the tune to myself. I take the bread in my hand and try to get at the triangular, unwieldy edges. I chew to the rhythm. That's silly, I think. But the man knows something about advertising. I think I will never forget the verse. Now she has you wrote to her, you wrote on MK paper." I read the rhyme once, twice, enjoying its pleasing and rhythmic naivety. "Write to me, write to her...", the thing has a melody of its own accord. I sing how I think it will be sung. I can't get rid of the rhyme. He has momentum; the tune I found is full of rousing violence like a Prussian military march. "Write to me, write to her..." I walk in circles in the cell again. I whistle the tune to myself. I take the bread in my hand and try to get at the triangular, unwieldy edges. I chew to the rhythm. That's silly, I think. But the man knows something about advertising. I think I will never forget the verse. Now she has you wrote to her, you wrote on MK paper." I read the rhyme once, twice, enjoying its pleasing and rhythmic naivety. "Write to me, write to her...", the thing has a melody of its own accord. I sing how I think it will be sung. I can't get rid of the rhyme. He has momentum; the tune I found is full of rousing violence like a Prussian military march. "Write to me, write to her..." I walk in circles in the cell again. I whistle the tune to myself. I take the bread in my hand and try to get at the triangular, unwieldy edges. I chew to the rhythm. That's silly, I think. But the man knows something about advertising. I think I will never forget the verse. Now she has twice and delight in its pleasing and rhythmic naivety. "Write to me, write to her...", the thing has a melody of its own accord. I sing how I think it will be sung. I can't get rid of the rhyme. He has momentum; the tune I found is full of rousing violence like a Prussian military march. "Write to me, write to her..." I walk in circles in the cell again. I whistle the tune to myself. I take the bread in my hand and try to get at the triangular, unwieldy edges. I chew to the rhythm. That's silly, I think. But the man knows something about advertising. I think I will never forget the verse. Now she has twice and delight in its pleasing and rhythmic naivety. "Write to me, write to her...", the thing has a melody of its own accord. I sing how I think it will be sung. I can't get rid of the rhyme. He has momentum; the tune I found is full of rousing violence like a Prussian military march. "Write to me, write to her..." I walk in circles in the cell again. I whistle the tune to myself. I take the

bread in my hand and try to get at the triangular, unwieldy edges. I chew to the rhythm. That's silly, I think. But the man knows something about advertis

Lunch time brought something pleasant. So humble are my joys. The one interruption gave me strength. I have to think of Techow's letter, which he wrote me from the Sonnenburg penitentiary. He wrote of the visit he received and said: "It gave me strength to push into the dark again!" the good guy I'll have visitors soon too. Soon, right after I was released from the holding cell. Christmas is in eight days. Christmas, Christmas! It's the third Christmas I'm celebrating in the asylum. I don't like to think about it. Certainly the director made an effort. He wanted to help the prisoners forget that one day. But I don't want to forget. I'll be damned if I forget. I want to keep in mind each day and each hour always and always. That gives a strong hatred. I don't want to forget any insult, no crooked look, no haughty gesture. I want to think of every mean thing that happened to me, of every word that tormented and should torment. I want to remember every face and every experience and every name. I want to burden myself with all that disgusting dirt, with this piled-up mass of disgusting experience, for the rest of my life. I do not want to forget; but the little good It has grown dark in the cell. December day ends early. The long night begins. I walk in circles. My head is spinning. I sit back on the bunk and bump painfully against the ring,

forged into the wall. The chains in which recalcitrant prisoners are placed are fastened to it. I feel a cold anger. That's how you deal with people. In an age dripping with phrases about humanity and philanthropy. I can understand it when, in hard times, the rebellious, the criminal, is met with icy violence. But today people commit violence and speak of love. Today one is brutal and claims to understand psychologically. Today one puts in chains and champions pedagogical principles. Violence is never so mean as when it is embellished with hypocrisy. They didn't put me in chains. It's enough if they lock me five times. I was spared the last increase in punishment. I am convinced because I freely admitted it. But the prisoner locked up in this cell and then put in chains, he's supposed to wear down. Does that have anything to do with security? This iron ring in the wall is the final, sophisticated chicane. It is the last resort to destroy what remains of dignity. I believe the prisoner who was chained to him will forever be a cold hater. This is mature pedagogy! "The prisoner is to be treated seriously, fairly and humanely" is one of the first sentences of the penal code, I lie stretched out on the bunk and wait for the piece of bread that will be handed to me in the evening. The head lies hard on the wooden wedge. I can't turn it without my whole body hurting. The cell is very dark. A faint glow of light penetrates through the window. It probably comes from the lantern

outside in the yard. I lie and ponder. The silly verse that I like so much in the first place always comes to mind.«You write to me, you write to her...», that's driving you insane. I once read about the Japanese method. The convict is stretched under a faucet, from which a drop of cold water falls at regular intervals onto his shaved head. Who is going to endure this? Well, there is no comparison. That harmless rhyme and the ever-recurring drop! Still, a hunch dawned on me. As stupid as this connection of thoughts is - yes, am I still able to connect thoughts at all? Isn't it all a tangled mass of incoherent ideas flashing through me? I'm in prison for two years, two years! What chaos is gradually awakening in me? The officer comes. How I hate that icy tone with which the key goes authoritatively into the keyhole. I hear him every day. I will never get used to him. The calf shuffles in and throws a crust of bread into my cage, the way wild animals are thrown. What's the boy up to? This is a vagrant, a tramp with a seventeen record. His disgusting visage appears forever in the corridors of the penitentiary. He has the well-worn physiognomy of the old, hardened convict. He bullies the prisoners who put up with it. He insinuates himself into the confidence of the approaches and carries word for word, twisted and distorted, forward. This subject: he feels master. He is highly protected. He can bully, he knows he can. I'm lying on the bunk and looking at him. He goes

into the hall and searches under a pile of old, damp, musty blankets. I am entitled to a blanket for the cold night. He chooses the worst, the most pathetic, the most tattered. I can see it clearly in the light that shines from the corridor. He grabs the blanket and stuffs it through the trellis. I get up and say: «You rascal, give me another blanket!» - "What do you want?" the officer interjects, "we don't have any other blankets." The calf grins scornfully. I'm seething with anger. The inspector says: "What, sit in jail and still have a big face?" I jump towards the bars and raise my fist: "God have mercy, dude!" He jumps back and smirks, The officer pulls him out. The door slams shut and I hear the calf swearing at me outside. I grab the bars and shake them in impotent rage. Those pigs, those pigs, those pigs! Tomorrow he will heat the cell as little as possible. Tomorrow he will choose the worst bread. Tomorrow he will turn the water brackish before handing it to me. And I can't fight back. He's covered, he can't be caught, he's right. What's the use if I meet him, He's never alone. The officer is with him at all times, and the officer will intervene immediately and immediately, and I... Arrest. Complaints? To laugh, do I have something tangible on hand? I called him "Lump". He's right, that ridiculous right that chokes my throat and demands that I put up with it. Tomorrow he will heat the cell as little as possible. Tomorrow he will choose the worst bread. Tomorrow he will turn the water brackish before handing it to me. And I can't fight back. He's covered, he can't be caught, he's right. What's the use if I meet him, He's never alone. The officer is with him at all times, and the officer will intervene immediately and immediately, and I... Arrest. Complaints? To laugh, do I have something tangible on hand? I called him "Lump". He's right, that ridiculous right that chokes my throat and demands that I put up with it. Tomorrow he will heat the cell as little as possible. Tomorrow he will choose the worst bread. Tomorrow he will turn the water brackish before handing it to me. And I can't fight back. He's covered, he can't be caught, he's right. What's the use if I meet him, He's never alone. The officer is with him at all times, and the officer will intervene immediately and immediately, and I... Arrest. Complaints? To laugh, do I have something tangible on hand? I called him "Lump". He's right, that ridiculous right that chokes my throat and demands that I put up with it. he is right. What's the use if I meet him, He's never alone. The officer is with him at all times, and the officer will intervene immediately and immediately, and I... Arrest. Complaints? To laugh, do I have something tangible on hand? I called him "Lump". He's right, that ridiculous right that chokes my throat and demands that I put up with it. he is right. What's the use if I meet him, He's never alone. The officer is with him at all times, and the officer will intervene immediately and immediately, and I... Arrest. Complaints? To laugh, do I have something tangible on hand? I called him "Lump". He's right, that ridiculous right that chokes my throat and demands that I put up with it.

Bitterness overcomes me. I'm at the mercy of everything mean. That to me—that to me! This sputum

Mankind, he triumphs over me. He mocks me in that disgusting rabble that is always looking for something lower than it is itself in order to be able to tyrannize. Away with the thoughts. I take the blanket and wrap myself in it. It's bitterly cold. I'm lying on the bunk. Christmas is in eight days. I'll have a visitor in eight days. I get a visitor once a year. The blanket that I pulled up to my sleeve stinks horribly. I think of the delicate scent that I could still feel for days after the last visit. The book she brought me retained in its pages a touch of cultivated existence, a touch from another world. I hear her voice, see her eyes. A year ago... oh god, if you knew! Oh God, if you suspected! I had lied. I had explained bramar-based in a brisk voice, I would be fine. She shouldn't worry. Everything would be fine. I had laughed and joked. I stroked her hand with crazy fingers and lied, lied. She looked at me doubtfully. In the silence that lasted for a few minutes, the soft word fell: "Why don't you tell me the truth?" I looked despairingly at the officer, who sat expansively and apparently unconcerned. "I'm telling the truth," I lied, trying to calm down under a torrent of untrue words. If only she knew! So am I humbled! So I'm humiliated! You shouldn't know! In eight days... I will lie, I will lie!... In the silence that lasted for a few minutes, the soft word fell: "Why don't you tell me the truth?" I looked despairingly at the officer, who sat expansively and apparently unconcerned. "I'm telling the truth," I lied, trying to calm down under a torrent of untrue words. If only she knew! So am I humbled! So I'm humiliated! You shouldn't know! In eight days... I will lie, I will lie!... In the silence that lasted for a few minutes, the soft word fell: "Why don't you tell me the truth?" I looked despairingly at the officer, who sat expansively and apparently unconcerned. "I'm telling the truth," I lied, trying to calm down under a torrent of untrue words. If only she knew! So am I humbled! So I'm humiliated! You shouldn't know! In eight days... I will lie, I will lie!...

It's pitch black. The bright images do not want to be held. I look up and consider. Already my bones are lame and bruised. Maybe if I use the ceiling like a hammock

span between the bars? We often used our canvas as a hammock out in the field. I try to wrap the ends of the blanket tightly around the staff. If I lie all bent over, maybe it will work. I lie down in it, the crumbly cover tears with a hissing sound, and I fall hard to the ground. That will not do. I bang the blanket against the bars angrily. And I am ashamed that I let the dead object pay. It is to despair. The long night, the long night! When I think back how long was the day. And it was a seventh, no, a fourteenth of the time I still have to spend in this room. How come it is so dark! Wasn't there a ray of light coming through the window earlier? Oh, I see, the caulker has put the wooden casements in place. they rattle in the wind, who howls around corners in the narrow yard outside. They rattle unbearably. Sleep will be out of the question. There used to be dark arrest as well. Hence the window sashes. – Dark Arrest! In the dark for days, for weeks! I read of a man who, in the time of Louis XIV, lay imprisoned in the dark for sixty years. He had got himself twelve pins. He scattered all the needles through the cell and looked for them again, crawling on his knees and feeling every spot, every corner, every crack with his fingertips. He searched day and night while he was awake. — It took him months to reunite all twelve needles. Then he threw her back across the cell and started the search all over again. — It's an old report, and he goes on to say that's the only way the man kept himself from going astray. They rattle unbearably. Sleep will be out of the question. There used to be dark arrest as well. Hence the window sashes. – Dark Arrest! In the dark for days, for weeks! I read of a man who, in the time of Louis XIV, lay imprisoned in the dark for sixty years. He had got himself twelve pins. He scattered all the needles through the cell and looked for them again, crawling on his knees and feeling every spot, every corner, every crack with his fingertips. He searched day and night while he was awake. — It took him months to reunite all twelve needles. Then he threw her back across the cell and started the search all over again. — It's an old report, and he goes on to say that's the only way the man kept himself from going astray. They rattle unbearably. Sleep will be out of the question. There used to be dark arrest as well. Hence the window sashes. – Dark Arrest! In the dark for days, for weeks! I read of a man who, in the time of Louis XIV, lay imprisoned in the dark for sixty years. He had got himself twelve pins. He scattered all the needles through the cell and looked for them again, crawling on his knees and feeling every spot, every corner, every crack with his fingertips. He searched day and night while he was awake. — It took him months to reunite all twelve needles. Then he threw her back across the cell and started the search all over again. — It's an old report, and he goes on to say that's the only way the man kept himself from going astray. There used to be dark arrest as well. Hence the window sashes. – Dark Arrest! In the dark for days, for weeks! I read of a man who, in the time of Louis XIV, lay imprisoned in the dark for sixty years. He had got himself twelve pins. He scattered all the needles through the cell and looked for them again, crawling on his knees and feeling every spot, every corner, every crack with his fingertips. He searched day and night while he was awake. — It took him months to reunite all twelve needles. Then he threw her back across the cell and started the search all over again. — It's an old report, and he goes on to say that's the only way the man kept himself from going astray. There used to be dark arrest as well. Hence the window sashes. – Dark Arrest! In the dark for days, for weeks! I read of a man

who, in the time of Louis XIV, lay imprisoned in the dark for sixty years. He had got himself twelve pins. He scattered all the needles through the cell and lo

What thoughts are going through my head? How much longer will I be able to hold out? I am a coward. Techow will be in prison longer than me. three times as long. Everything I experienced, he also experienced. And he will live to see it long after I've been free. I am cowardly and faint-hearted. I shout out my misery to myself. I am ashamed. And still, still — no, I can't bear it. I can't take it, This is horrible. How dull is my head, how dull is my destiny. If I could break up They took my suspenders. The underpants remain. A rope could be twisted out of it. It could be attached to the top of the trellis. When I clung to the staffs if I put the noose around my neck and then suddenly let myself fall? I lie on the bunk and think it over. I'm seriously considering it. And I know I won't do it. I'm too cowardly. I don't even have the strength to do it. Yes, I have the strength to do it — but I don't have the drive to do it. How rabulistic I juggle the words! And yet, and yet, should I do it? Then I'll be found tomorrow, with my pants sagging, or in my shirt, my head stuck in that clumsy, dirty noose... no, no, no! Not so not! That's not honest! Not in despair! How rabulistic I juggle the words! And yet, and yet, should I do it? Then I'll be found tomorrow, with my pants sagging, or in my shirt, my head stuck in that clumsy, dirty noose... no, no, no! Not so not! That's not honest! Not in despair! How rabulistic I juggle the words! And yet, and yet, should I do it? Then I'll be found tomorrow, with my pants sagging, or in my shirt, my head stuck in that clumsy, dirty noose... no, no, no! Not so not! That's not honest! Not in despair!

I'll make it through this night I will persevere in the coming days and nights. I'll hold out for all these long years. Ugh, that thought could have occurred to me. Never!

I'm getting calmer What's next? Tomorrow the day will pass like today has passed, like so many have passed. Tomorrow I shall walk for a quarter of an hour in the narrow yard. I shall have a warm meal the day after tomorrow—no, in three days. And a bed in the evening. I will get a bed in this cell in the evenings in three days! It's ridiculous that I'm looking forward to a warm meal and bed. How often as a soldier have I made deprivations and gladly made deprivations! As a soldier, yes! But today is punishment! Where did they get their right to dispose of me like that? Who gave them a right? Did they get it from the sky? Did they acquire it through personal commitment, through sacrifice, through outrageous deeds that went beyond human statutes?

It's her job, her petty bourgeois occupation. You get paid for it. You get a title and rank for it. They don't tolerate danger. You bear no responsibility. I'm up to my neck in disgust. The bourgeois order! I have violated her. That's what they say. You are right. I spit on the right.

I toss and turn. The night is long It's dead quiet. Only now and then a window sash slams. What time might it be? Then I hear a scream. He's in this aisle. The scream echoes through the burrow. He penetrates through all the cracks to me. Doesn't he come from the Highest Holding Cell? There again! Long, shrill. It shatters all nerves. I jump up and bang on the wall like mad. It's pounding again. It screams. It echoes. I

take all the air in my chest and roar out. I scream, pound, roar. Eg has to get out. I scream and it relieves me from the tense body. I scream wildly, orgemd, beyond measure, a lust scream, a lust scream, it breaks on the walls, he braces himself against them. Ah, how good that feels! Ah, how that redeems! I chase the night, the torment, the disgust back to its dull corners. I scream and I grow strong.

1925 On the morning of New Year's Day, 1925, I awoke in a state that seemed so desperate that I didn't bother to think about it. The feeling of having a blown-out brain, hollow bones and a deaf genitals, the sudden incapacity for any kind of hope, the nagging intuition of my lost position, gave me the certainty that from that hour onwards it would be impossible for me, the leaden rhythm of the penitentiary I felt an unspeakable disgust at the thought of having to get up now without knowing what for, having to get dressed now, walking back and forth, waiting, sitting at the table, standing at the window, at the door

to listen, to do everything that I have been doing with the same regularity day in and day out for more than two years now, without knowing why.

I made no effort to get up from the bed, convinced that any attempt to do so would be futile. I stayed dull and willless in the sweat-soaked sheets, staring at the green and purple circles forming confusingly before my eyes. The calfacter ran into the cell to turn on the light, nudged me, yelled "Get up," and clattered out again with his sooty lantern pin, leaving the cell in the stinging pallor of the lamp. The officer came and yelled something through the open door. He came into the cell and grabbed my arm. He snarled, "Don't play the theatre!" and shook me. He left the room growling. Then the sergeant came on duty. He cautiously touched my forehead before addressing me, he gave a lengthy speech, of which I only understood snippets, snippets of "Don't make fools of yourself" and "Short process" and "Lockup cell." He went out hesitantly and came back with the director. He stood by my bed shaking his head and his words tiptoed, as it were. "You have to pull yourself together," he said, he said: "A young man like you mustn't let himself go like that," he asked suspiciously: "You don't do any obstruction, do you?" The director disappeared and the hospital sergeant slammed open the door, stood on the threshold and yelled: "Herr Medizinalrat!" The medical officer looked at me

motionless for a few minutes, then he said: "Prison psychosis." Turned and walked away.

The two infirmary clerks came, giggled secretly, loaded me onto a stretcher and transported me to the infirmary. "Man, you might be able to push a vial!" said one, and the other said: "You just have to give the ball the right moves!" I stayed in the hospital for eight months.

For three weeks I lay in bed completely listless, without fever, but also without wanting to smoke, although the srinds in the hospital were more plentiful and of significantly better quality than in the cell. When I finally made up my mind to get up, I was astonished at the wonderful ease with which life suddenly came to order for me. All rumination had fallen away from me, and I was gradually gaining an interest in the busy little section of the hospital. The Medical Council wanted to keep me as third orderly. I was put in the calf cell, which was open during the day. I was able to move freely within the hospital. I helped distribute the food, clean the septic tank, bandage and move the sick; I helped cook the sick food and prepare the baths, wax the floors and flush the hallways; I ran from infirmary to infirmary, from the room for the pulmonary to that for the invalid, from the ward for those separated for mental observation to the ward for the epileptics. For the first time in the

In detention I could speak freely and unobserved, move about without being bound to the six steps of the cell. And if before I was looking for the meaning of my days in tormenting self-reflection, I now found it in the possibility of tracing the peculiar tension that wherever a number of people act in a small space under the same pressure, the smallest stirrings of life crystal-clear sharpness gives.

I was put in charge of the care of the prisoners who were sequestered for observation in the hospital. They lived, about twelve in number, in a not very spacious room, the door of which had a window pane secured by a strong latticework, and as long as they thought they were not being watched they lay around on the beds smoking and playing skat with cards they had made themselves or smuggled in , always ready, when the time came, to prove the indubitability of her mental illness through crazy and mostly very funny statements and activities. I was surprised by the natural composure with which she immediately included me in her plot. They discussed with much yelling among themselves which "phial" they would push, but then, trying to play their part well, they worked themselves up with an incomprehensible fervor so that they soon lost themselves completely in their self-chosen illusory life and the boundary between the awareness of their actions and their will was abolished. As different as the mask was, the process was almost always similar. Those simulants were really sick: The one with guards

Resolute decision to escape from the vacuum of isolation into a grotesque dream meant breaking one last fuse, and the elements had to turn against each other. I was frightened by the consequences of this process, in which every purposeful consideration was canceled out again; The desperate game was intended to free oneself from the insanity of the cell, and it only led into the insanity that the cell was paving the way for.

I was shocked when I saw Edi entering the infirmary one day. He approached me laughing, then stretched majestically and, to the cheers of the patients, said: "I am the Sultan of Morocco!" and suddenly went on with angry zeal: "I don't borrow money from anyone!" I jumped up to him and shook his arm. "You're crazy!" I yelled at him and the others laughed and slapped their thighs. Edi looked at me in astonishment. The sergeant came to lock the room again.

But every free minute of the day I stood at the door window, which could be half opened, and whispered to Edi. "Gosh, if you could slap all that junk together!" said Eddie. 'But what's the use? It's unbelievable what is destroying us. I want to know where I'm at again. I want to lead a life that I determine myself, even if it goes to the dogs." But I couldn't put into words what I had to say to Edi. The inner processes were still too close for me to have any knowledge of them

can testify. They were so close to me, and so strong was the compulsion of the crazy community, that I was often swept up in the mad dance, that I shouted along, cheered along, and with a solemn seriousness, of which I always accused myself too late, was assigned to me and recognized role of an Arab sheik. But one night I was woken up by the hospital clerk, someone in the "Dollbrägen Hall" was seriously ill. Edi was suffering from a high fever, from time to time would jump up roaring and gasp fragments of revolutionary songs with a hoarse throat. The others scampered around his bed, holding him when he tried to rush off camp, and goading him into singing again when he let his head bob over the edge of the bed, exhausted and face burning. The night guard let me in and I dragged Edi to the room for the seriously ill. I moved my bed into the same room and lay half asleep that night and the nights that followed, listening to the creaking footsteps of the Ronde, to the groans from the sickroom, the rumbling from the madman's room, to the lonely click of the faucet in the sink, to Edi's irregular breathing. When things got better with Edi, the first infirmary clerk took over from me. But in the middle of that night he came to my bed, shook me and said, "Up! There's cognac tomorrow." I started up, startled. Because there was cognac for the orderlies when a prisoner died and the body had to be washed, "Edi?"

I asked, clutching the sleeve of his linen tunic. "No," the calfactor shook me off. 'Tomorrow we'll have two cognacs. Old Fritz died and old May." On the day I was taken to the penitentiary I had to go to the hospital to bathe. In the bathroom stood an old prisoner bent over, who was lying in the tub with the water. It was old May. He looked up at me with watery eyes. "How long do you have?" asked he. I said dejectedly, "Five years." Then he began counting busily on his crooked, gouty fingers, raised his hands and said: "Look, I've been here six times as long." In 1875, however, old May had been sentenced to fifteen years in prison for having killed a rival with a beer bottle. When he was released from prison in 1890, he went back to the woman who had cheated on him before. They lived together again until old May discovered that she was cheating on him again. Then he, who had hired himself out as a coachman, got the man who stood in his way drunk in a tavern, tied the senselessly intoxicated man to his wagon by the legs at the back and dragged him to death at a mad gallop. He was sentenced to death and commuted to life imprisonment. When he had been in prison again for twenty years, he was to be released. But nobody wanted to take him in, so he stayed in the institution, which seemed more comfortable to him than a retirement home.

By the time he died, he had spent a total of 49 years in prison and had lived to be 74. He was not popular with the prisoners, and in order to improve his position he reported everything he heard and saw to the officials. Because of his extraordinary physical strength, he is said to have brutally tyrannized those who were forced to live with him. There was one prisoner in particular who kept coming back after his sentence was over, whom old May maltreated wherever he could, old Fritz, an Upper Silesian miner with twenty-seven previous convictions for theft. The two hated each other beyond measure, they fought whenever they could. It was impossible to tell them apart, since both of them always knew how to get back together. When old May suffered a stroke, old Fritz got sick too. Now they lay side by side alone in a room. Old Fritz had rudely refused to submit a petition for clemency. At the age of 72 he suffered from dropsy. Once, when I was passing the door of the infirmary, old May rattled something at me. The room wasn't locked, I went in and saw that old Fritz was lying stiffly in bed and his eyes were staring at the ceiling, I called for the hospital sergeant to the sneering giggles of old May. He came, took one look at old Fritz and ordered his shirt off: as a measure of economy, deceased prisoners were put shirtless in the anatomy box. But as the first nurse

pulled the shirt over the head of the corpse, the dead man sat up again and murmured angrily to old May: "Well, well, it's a long way from that." The director responded to the news that the two of them were coming to an end. He spoke encouraging words to the elderly and then asked if they had any wishes that he could fulfill. Old Fritz wanted some hay for his cow and pointed it out. a chewed tobacco pipe, which he mischievously took out from under the covers. Old May, on the other hand, wanted a decent piece of liverwurst. Both refused to let the pastor come to the last rites. During the night the first infirmary caulker, who kept watch over Edi's room next door, heard a constant murmuring from the two old people's room; he got up and crept over and listened at the open door. But old Fritz babbled, groaning, over to old May: "You rascal, such a bad fellow, when you lived you'll die too!" And old May said, "You rascal, dammit, you've been stealing all your life, and now you're stealing for your own happiness." Then there was rattling from the half-dark room for a while, and then there was silence. When we got there, the two of them were lying dead, their faces turned towards each other, and old May still had a bite of half-chewed liver sausage in his toothless mouth, and old Fritz's pipe had fallen out of his mouth, along with a few glowing crumbs of tobacco

lay scattered on the Woilach and gently smoldered on. We washed the corpses and then laid them out side by side in the washing-up cell, in the middle of the faecal buckets.

When Edi recovered, he never mentioned the Sultan of Morocco again. He remained in solitary confinement for a few more weeks, and when he was about to be released from the hospital he told me he was looking forward to getting his hands on rough work again. I asked the Medical Council to relieve me of the care of the mentally ill, and I was now allocated the room for the epileptics.

Among the epileptics was one by the name of Biedermann, sentenced to fourteen years in prison for aggravated robbery, the son of a respected official. "The little demons destroyed me," he told me. He suffered from his attacks more than the others, who took them as if it had to be. He often spoke of the little demons that got into him and were up to mischief: they wouldn't have let him achieve anything great in life. In fact, his first offense coincided with his first seizure, which he had while bathing in the Oder. He controlled himself very closely, kept records of his seizures, and tried to record the inner workings of the seizure. He was able to prove that before his arrest he had had about eight seizures a year on average,

In the corner of the hall stood a cramp box, a large bunk made of strong boards, thickly padded on the inside. If one of the sick had an attack, he was grabbed and simply thrown into the box, where he could let off steam without getting hurt. Biedermann asked me not to throw him in the crate, but rather on a quickly laid out mattress and then to hold his arms and legs; the uninhibited spinning in the box exhausted him too much. Whenever possible, he came to see me in the calf cell—the epileptic room was always open during the day—squatted on a bed and began to talk. The nearer the attack drew, the more eager his speech became, gaining in vibrancy by the minute and a strangely visionary diction, the clarity of which was astounding, he spoke quickly and quite uninhibitedly, he threw himself into his speech with unconscious zeal, stood up slowly and paced back and forth, gesticulating sparingly. He drew individual sentences insistently with his finger in the air, but then forgot to kiss his head for an answer or confirmation, grabbed objects that were nearby as he passed them, put them down again after a few moments, began to shake his head softly, twitching his fingers, his face reddened, suddenly he broke off his speech, walked back and forth faster and faster, stared straight ahead, stopped listening to calls and began to tremble violently and with a decidedly lustful expression on his face . Then I got the mattresses off a bed and put them on the floor. Biedermann paid no more attention to anything and began to eat stood up slowly and paced back and forth, gesticulating sparingly. He drew individual sentences insistently with his finger in the air, but then forgot to kiss his head for an answer or confirmation, grabbed objects that were nearby as he passed them, put them down again after a few moments, began to shake his head softly, twitching his fingers, his face reddened, suddenly he broke off his speech, walked back and forth faster and faster, stared straight ahead, stopped listening to calls and began to tremble violently and with a decidedly lustful expression on his face . Then I got the mattresses off a bed and put them on the floor. Biedermann paid no more attention to anything and began to eat stood up slowly and paced back and forth, gesticulating sparingly. He drew individual sentences insistently with his finger in the air, but then forgot to kiss his head for an answer or confirmation, grabbed objects that were nearby as he passed them, put them down again after a few moments, began to shake his head softly, twitching his fingers, his face reddened, suddenly he broke off his speech, walked back and forth faster and faster, stared straight ahead, stopped listening to calls and began to tremble violently and with a decidedly lustful expression on his face . Then I got the mattresses off a bed and put them on the floor. Biedermann paid no more attention to anything and began to eat kissing for an answer or confirmation, in passing grabbed objects that were nearby, after a few moments put them down again, began to gently shake his head, twitch his fingers, his face reddened, suddenly he broke his speech walked back and forth faster and faster, staring silently in front of him, stopped listening to calls and began to tremble violently and with a decidedly lustful expression on his face. Then I got the mattresses off a bed and put them on the floor. Biedermann paid no more attention to anything and began to eat kissing for an answer or confirmation, in passing grabbed objects that were nearby, after a few moments put them down again, began to gently shake his head, twitch his fingers, his face reddened, suddenly he broke his speech walked back and forth faster and faster, staring silently

in front of him, stopped listening to calls and began to tremble violently and with a decidedly lustful expression on his face. Then I got the mattresses off a

staggered, swayed, raised his arms and fell forward. I caught him and threw him onto the bed, clutching his limbs to hold them firmly to the ground. Suddenly he jerked upright, his contorted mouth opening in a mad, shrill scream, wisps of foam flew from his blue lips, his limbs worked with all his might against my grip, his body twitched like a fish, his head banged open in time with the screams and down, he bit me and threw the foam in my face. I had to use all my strength to hold him; the attacks sometimes lasted up to a quarter of an hour. Finally he lay exhausted and calm, I released him and gave him water to drink. Then he lay for a long time, half unconscious; I immediately rushed to the epileptic room, for when the screaming was heard there, three or four of the other patients regularly fell into convulsions too, so that the convulsion box was not enough. Each of these attacks put me in a state of extreme excitement. Long later, when Biedermann was busy spinning a skrind again, I ran up and down the long, coconut-matted corridor of the infirmary. I felt how much I was involved in these fits; almost didn't surprise me what Biedermann once told me shortly before one of his attacks: why he had asked me not to throw him in the box but to hold him tight. Each of these attacks put me in a state of extreme excitement. Long later, when Biedermann was busy spinning a skrind again, I ran up and down the long, coconut-matted corridor of the infirmary. I felt how much I was involved in these fits; almost didn't surprise me what Biedermann once told me shortly before one of his attacks: why he had asked me not to throw him in the box but to hold him tight. Each of these attacks put me in a state of extreme excitement. Long later, when Biedermann was busy spinning a skrind again, I ran up and down the long, coconut-matted corridor of the infirmary. I felt how much I was involved in these fits; almost didn't surprise me what Biedermann once told me shortly before one of his attacks: why he had asked me not to throw him in the box but to hold him tight.

Through his speech, in which he was involved with all his senses, he increased himself into a state of pleasure that went to the core. Then

but he felt as if his veins were bursting, and the demons that had been raging in them long before were released and rushed, spurting out every drop of blood, to rape him. He felt the supreme pain of weakness and passed out in it. Now, if he knew in advance that I would throw myself at him and hold him, he believed that the demons possessing him could be banished by me during the act of rape, or swallowed by me through some mysterious process . The medical councilor advised me to continue to hold Biedermann firmly in mind that the cramp box was an almost medieval instrument. But Biedermann's seizures kept getting worse. He often had two attacks in one day. He grew closer and closer to me. When he told me for the first time that he wanted to commit suicide, I found many factual counter-arguments against such a beginning. Biedermann fought a tough fight for his release or at least for transfer to a hospital. But he had only served two of his fourteen years in prison, and he knew that if he were forced to serve even a fraction of his sentence in prison, he would be broken for every life. The director, the medical council could not help him, epilepsy was not a reason for his dismissal. When, after a six-month struggle, Biedermann asked me to get him some poison from the pharmacy in the infirmary, I knew for a long time

before that this request would come; and had already agreed with me. It wasn't difficult to steal the bottle from the cupboard. I gave him the poison.

The next night the medical councilor had to be fetched. Biedermann had a severe attack with completely new symptoms. The attack lasted several hours, was accompanied by vomiting and an inexplicably heavy frothing. Biedermann screamed shrilly and, while conscious, doubled over before going into convulsions. Everything inside him is burning, he roared. The doctor couldn't do anything, he was obviously very relieved when the seizure finally took its normal course.

The next morning the Medical Councilor had me called to the infirmary. I saw that the pharmacy cabinet was open. The medical councilor said it would probably be better if I went back to the cell house. Some time later, Biedermann was transported to a prisoner's hospital. I was back in my old cell towards the end of the year. Every morning I felt an inexpressible disgust at the thought of having to get up now without knowing what for, having to dress now, walking back and forth, waiting, sitting at the table, standing at the window, at the Listening through the door, doing everything that I have been doing with the same regularity day in and day out for almost three years now, with the exception of my time in the hospital, without knowing why.

small fight I have read almost all of the books in the prison library. Now I want to break the rigid order and have a book in the cell that has in its pages and between its leaves the touch of another world, a book that will not be placed in my cell indifferently and stamped with subaltern permission like a dead object , but that flutters to me like a gift, a greeting that is personal and not burdened with the musty night spirit of all things that have been stored within these walls for decades. The chief constable is my special friend. I recognize his step in the corridor and the way he inserts his key into the cell lock. He brings me the letters that come for me at long intervals, and I know that he is one of the few I can talk to without fear that my words will be weighed against the scales of strict service. He comes in and says hello to me. He goes through the cell and checks. He reaches for the glass of water and wipes his finger across the table as the order dictates. In his hand he has a stack of letters and a book. And a book! It has a red leather binding and gold lettering on the spine. My eyes are on the book. I know it's meant for me. I tremble with joy

and desire. I want to take it in my hand and stroke the red leather with my horny fingertips. The sergeant's hand is clumsily stretched around the book. He says: I don't have any mail. He says: There has come a book for you. He says: I don't know if you'll get it. He says, almost consolingly, when he sees my frightened eyes: The director will decide about it. He leaves and I hold him by stepping in front of him, almost choking on my excitement: "Mr. Sergeant, the book... when will the director... can't the decision be expedited?" The sergeant still has a lot to do today, he's a little reluctant, he doesn't understand why I could be interested in this book, he looks at the row of books that I have in the cell with a reproachful look; a book, this book, I must be able to be patient: he's not interested in books. Dear God, what does it say: Well, he would tell the director my wish, today is Friday, I should register on Tuesday, then the director would come for an audience on Thursday, so I could ask for it myself. He goes, slowly and with dignity, a little disapprovingly, and a little impatiently, but with the best of hearts. The door closes slowly, I can still see the hand, the ball of the foot that is pressed against the red leather cover of my book. I'm alone. I forgot to ask who wrote this book, I don't know the title, the author, the content. I don't see the short row of grey, worn library volumes

on the table. I rise and ah, almost feverish and surging with trembling joy and trembling with burning impatience. I must have the book, now, immediately, tomorrow at the latest. Today is Friday and the next audience is on Thursday, but that's impossible, it's been a week and then the decision will be made, and then I'll have to wait days until I have it in my hands. I must see that I can speak to the chief constable again. I need to know who sent the book. I have to catch this greeting now and salvage it, shut it up inside myself, savor it completely as a sign that I'm not abandoned. The book in the officer's hands is the only burning focal point. Something has entered my day that gives it meaning. Here is a caesura that breaks through my dull time that is a beginning, a shining mark. I stand at the cell door and listen to see if the officer's footsteps can't be heard, I jump to the high, narrow window and peer through the bars into the courtyard and see him, him in all his dignity, just through the door of the hospital disappear, a red, glowing spot in his hand. I knock on the door. dead silence. I tap my knuckles hard. Keys rattle in the hallway, the officer closes grumpily. I ask when the chief constable will be back. Not today. Well, not today! The day goes by, I wait, I know it's pointless. But when could the choking feeling of waiting be curbed by this knowledge? Again and again

I hear footsteps, again and again hope whips me up. After being locked up I lie down on the bed and try to remember how often it has happened over the years that after going to bed the door rattled open again and an officer finally brought it up, after which I spent the whole paralyzing day waited. Nobody comes. I am tired. I'm insanely angry. Those walls, that iron door! You prevent me from the simplest action in the world. Why can't I confidently go to the director with a few words, everything would be settled in two minutes. It's dark, I lie awake a long time and ponder the book. Yes, if I had it now! How often had I fastened the mirror to the top window so that it absorbed the light from the lantern outside and reflected it onto the table. In this sparse glow I read through long, sleepless nights, books that I had almost memorized. Today I would bring the book in red leather close, very close to the mirror and leaf through it and throw myself into a world that is unspeakably far away—and yet already begins beyond the walls

I fall asleep and my last thought is the book. I wake up and my first thought is the book. I wasn't aware of its existence until a few hours ago. But now it's flung within my perimeter, captivating with magical force. The day goes lazily. I signed up for the demonstration, first thing in the morning. But I can be demonstrated as well on Monday as today. When I walk in the narrow, dusty yard, I peek around every corner to see if he is

The main constable doesn't come and catches the eye of the supervising officer, who is watching me closely, ready to intervene immediately if I try to talk to the man behind me. I squat on the stool in the cell and nervously and angrily work at every wispy end of raffia I can get my hands on. Midday passes. The afternoon passes. Countless times I stand at the window. Countless times I listen at the door. I ask the officers who keep watch in the musty corridors; no, the sergeant hasn't come by yet on his daily rounds. It is evening. Tomorrow is Sunday, none of the senior officials will be there. I shall be driven about by the same chasing unrest through Sunday. No, I cannot submit to the immutable. The book means a lot to me, is everything to me at this moment. I'm telling myself to see reason. What's the deal with the book? I should be able to do without. I had to give up a lot. I won't be able to have the book today and not tomorrow, maybe in a week, what next? No, it has nothing to do with the book. But the absurdity of this system is what excites me. Why should I wait, since this waiting has no, but not the slightest, sense. Why is there a wall erected between me and the little wish, which is superfluous and tormenting? The whole day is ruined for me I talk myself into a senseless exasperation. I see a simple process - these people make a complicated thing out of it. I'm helpless, yeah that's it, I'm helpless to everything with

is done to me. I am at the mercy, rendered willless, emasculated, I am not a human being, I am a thing, a number that must have no will and no dignity. I, who in the cell am the only living thing in a world, outside of it I am nothing. Number 149 wants a book? Why? Number 149 is in the cell. Number 149 can be indifferent to the world. Sunday. Upstairs in the church they sing the Te Deum. The organ roars and its tones tremble through all the walls. I don't go to church. I'm sitting at my table and leafing through the old volumes of the Gazebo from 1886, shivering and grumpy. Mold and dust are rising from the leaves. The pages are yellow and worn. I've held the volume in my hands countless times. Lost pictures, childishly naive, sentimental to the point of vomiting. A novel of startling triviality, some news from around the world as bleakly indifferent as the prisoner of 1886 can be indifferent to the world of 1886 reflected in a gazebo. I close the book in disgust and wander off. Tomorrow is Monday, tomorrow maybe I can be brought in. If I had my book now the Sunday book in the luxury binding, if I could now box myself into a fate that is not mine, if I now felt a hand pushing mine and leading me away from the cell, from the layered mess of exasperation and hopelessness - mine It would be Sunday, it's Sunday in the penitentiary. And this day is more weary than all weary days.

How slowly the hours creep! Monday. The officer comes, I'm brought in. I'm standing on the long corridor in a line of fellow prisoners. We stand three paces apart and the officer pays attention to every look we give each other. We stand shivering and wait, everyone has their wish ready and quietly works on the words with which they want to express it. There are some who have been reported for punishment; they stand with anxious or defiant expressions and nervously twirl their caps. The sergeant comes with a stack of files. He examines the row. He asks me what I want. I want to speak to the director about the book. He says that's nonsense. He says I must be aware that important requests that cannot be postponed can be put forward to me for an extra audience. He says, it will be settled on Thursday. He thinks I shouldn't be like that. Now, if everyone came because of a trifle like that, on Thursday, wouldn't they... "Sergeant, the man can be taken back to his cell." What kind of book is it, I quickly ask, and who sent it? He doesn't know that, he has other things on his mind, I should finally be content, he'll give a report to the director. He goes. The officer leads me back. The prisoners watch me curiously. The cell accepts me, the door slams, and I feel a frantic desire to smash everything to pieces. the man can be taken back to his cell." What kind of book is it, I quickly ask, and who sent it? He doesn't know that, he has other things on his mind, I should finally be content, he'll give a report to the director. He goes. The officer leads me back. The prisoners watch me curiously. The cell accepts me, the door slams, and I feel a frantic desire to smash everything to pieces. the man can be taken back to his cell." What kind of book is it, I quickly ask, and who sent it? He doesn't know that, he has other things on his mind, I should finally be content, he'll give a report to the director. He goes. The officer leads me back. The prisoners watch me curiously. The cell accepts me, the door slams, and I feel a frantic desire to smash everything to pieces.

Tuesday. Gray, gray day. I'm waiting. I sign up for an audience.

Wednesday. The decision will be made tomorrow. If all goes well, I can have my book on Saturday.

Thursday, I tidy up the cell well, I put on my heavy shoes, I tie my scarf again and again, I wash my hands two or three times. I listen at the door, I stand at the window. Hour after hour goes by. I pick up work and throw it down again. My spiked shoes are bouncing up and down. The barber comes to shave me. I have to take off my coat and scarf again and sit patiently on the stool. The officer at the door steps aside for seconds. I quickly ask the barber where the manager is. In department 1, says the barber who gets around the whole building. He whispers to me that the "old man" seems to be worse off. The two carpenters from Section IV who had recently fought have been arrested and relieved. The official comes, the barber is finished. I'm alone again. The director must come soon. He comes. ET is not in a bad mood, he greets jovially; "How are you! Well, what do you want?" The sergeant opens the book and puts his pencil to it. I would like the book, I say, and could it be given to me in a hurry? «Yes, the book, yes, I will present it to the pastor for his approval. Good day" -

Days go by. Three days pass. I ask the chief sergeant three times. The pastor has the book. The pastor took the book home with him and is currently unavailable. The pastor goes on vacation for a few days after the Sunday service. The chief constable waves

annoyed when I get close to him. When I knock on the cell door, he hurries on down the corridor outside.

I'll report for an audience on Tuesday. The director is coming on Thursday. The pastor still has the book. I would be notified. I don't get any notification. I live dull and joyless. I wait hour after hour for a message. I am lazy and grumpy at work. Every free hour is a reason for me to protest anew. I hear from the clerk that the pastor has returned from vacation. I let the priest sign me up for the screening. Days pass, I wait. I will be presented. The pastor is standing in his room, somewhat surprised that I, entered in the books as a dissident, want to speak to him. He looks over the glasses. Oh, the book, yes, he hadn't read it yet. He will report to the Herr Director. He wraps, at the desk, turned away, his breakfast bread off; i am fired I'm waiting. i am loaded

stuffed with bitterness. In the evening I go to the wall next to the cell next to me. He climbs on the table and comes to the window, I whisper to him. Yes, that's the way it is, he says. He says I shouldn't be surprised, I've been under construction long enough. I'm supposed to go to the audience every week and keep reminding myself of it. The old man isn't a bad guy, he can't do as he pleases either. It's the system, system. Didn't I have a book in my cell anymore? Tomorrow when putting out the water jug, he wants to put a book down for me under my dustpan.

It was a fine novel, "The Horseman's Daughter." No, I say, thank you, I say, I've already read that book, I don't care about reading either, but I want my book, the one with the red leather cover, it's a greeting from home. Yes, yes, he says, he can understand that and — "Attention fifteen," he says. The officer comes with the dog and shouts: "Quiet up there." It's Thursday again. The director comes for an audience. Yes, the book, well, he must inform me that I will not receive it. The pastor didn't think it was suitable for prisoners. It is immoral. I wake up. I listen intently. I ask, with deliberate politeness, whether the director might be able to tell me who sent me the book. The director looks questioningly at the chief constable. He clears his throat and says yes, it's from a lady who's very close to me. I have the director assure me that the lady who is very close to me is to be regarded as a "relative" according to the penal code. I say and consider every word with cold calm; I must regard it as an unjustified insult to the pastor towards my relatives, if the pastor describes a book that they send me as immoral. My relatives do not send me immoral books. My relatives are morally at least on the same level as the pastor. I would also like to ask myself why the pastor has authority over me, the dissident. Yes, says the director, that's not what I meant. God,

immoral! In the pastor's opinion, the book was not suitable for prisoners. He must agree with this opinion. He knew the book, it contained passages that would arouse me, the prisoner, unnecessarily. According to the house rules, this must be avoided. The pastor acted in his capacity as a civil servant, not as a pastor. Yes, the director says, you must be sensible. Look — and he's a little embarrassed — look, we only want what's best for you! You're a young person, aren't you, and books like that... I say I see that and I'm asking for my transfer to a youth welfare home. I, as a young man, must endure fully everything that concerns punishment, if I am too young to be able to read such books without harm, then I am too young to endure the full severity of the punishment. The director is injured. He turns around briefly. Well, I can't give you the book, he says, and the sergeant makes a note of it. I pick myself up. I ask for a complaint. Good, the director says to the chief constable, good, the man gets his complaint form; and goes. And the sergeant goes with him and has a stern, official face. The door slams harder than I was used to. I'm alone. And the sergeant goes with him and has a stern, official face. The door slams harder than I was used to. I'm alone. And the sergeant goes with him and has a stern, official face. The door slams harder than I was used to. I'm alone.

I write my complaint on the slate. It has to be short. It must not be offensive in any way. It must be in the form of a request. The Correctional President is very precise. The regulation states: "Unjustified complaints are subject to disciplinary punishment." Is

my complaint unjustified? No doubt the director can refuse me a favor. He can even do it without giving a reason. What remains is the pastor's insult to my relatives. But the director said it wasn't meant that way. The complaint is unjustified Can I go back? I'm writing them. The chief constable will come in two days and bring me a bow. He doesn't bring pen and ink. The sergeant no longer has an official face. The sergeant sits down on the table, smiles and dangles his legs. He says I'm a hothead, he says I should reconsider. He says he's going to talk to me off-duty. What was the point of all this? Dear God, I should get that stupid book out of my head. I still have to stay in the institution for years, I could forfeit all sympathy; I would like to be pardoned too. He says my complaint is nonsense, because the prison president cannot undermine the director's authority by making a counter-decision. Here is a bow but I should think twice about it. Because of a book like that! He thinks I'm a reasonably reasonable person, I claim to have a certain education. Well, he gives me time, he means well with me. He walks around the cell without a glimpse of trial.

I sit undecided for a long time. Yes, the complaint is nonsense. But I want my book. This book was the focus of everyone's thoughts for weeks

turned. I crave the book. What kind of thing can it be? Immoral? What does the pastor call immoral? What does the corrections officer call immoral? I must, I must have the book. Should this whole struggle have been in vain? I know I won't rest until I feel the red leather in my hands, until I've turned the pages. I'll write the complaint anyway. I have ink and pen brought to me and write each word, thinking about it, putting letter after letter, not forgetting the prescribed margin and not the “really” and not the sneering grin at this “really.” And I'm waiting for the sergeant to fetch the bow.

Days go by. I'm brought before the chief constable. I stand in a long line with other prisoners in the corridor. It's my turn and I step into the room. The chief constable is sitting at the table and writing. At his feet lies the sharp watchdog. The sergeant makes me wait. I let my eyes wander around the room and see - my book. On the shelf for done things. Without a doubt, it's my book. The red glows enticingly. I look spellbound. I'm indescribably excited. I'm trying to decipher the title. The chief constable makes a movement and I feel like I've been caught. He asks about my cash balance. He asks about this and that. He doesn't ask a word about my complaint. He notes various things. Then the tip of the pencil breaks off. He gets up, goes to the window,

turns his back on me, eager to sharpen the pencil. I take a deep breath, I step sideways. My chest is pounding furiously. I grab the book, the red book, and stuff it under my jacket. And with your left hand, tuck the tails of your jacket together and pump your chest full of air to hold the book. The guard dog looks at me with attentive human eyes. I stole my book. I step back, pale, shivering, frightened. The sergeant turns. I look in the corner, he says; 'It's fine, you can go. The next." I stagger to the door and clutch the book under my brown jacket and stand in line, feeling an immense, redeeming joy. The officer goes back into the cell with me, he unlocks it, he locks it. I rush to the table pile up the library volumes and, with numb fingers, pull out the book and place it behind the pile, ready to cover it at any moment. I shyly stroke the cover with the back of my hand. I open the title page and read: "Stendhal, Red and Black."

1926 The face of time was formed from the little mosaic stones of daily small deviations like a painting on its dusty gray background

rigid lines and pale colors did not allow depth dimensions to emerge. The sluggish flow of the days was so unreal that it seemed to have no beginning and no end. There were often moments when I thought I couldn't resist the thought that this would always have to go on like this, that I would never be free. Of course, there was one day, fixed by the court's verdict, on which I had to be released at three ten in the afternoon. But this date, given as the end point of a certain time, had become incomprehensible to me, because I had become incomprehensible to the idea that outside of my stony boundaries, space was vast and time was full of movement. I found my existence in the cell shadowy because everything that happened in it was tied to a middle line. The cell tolerated no deviations from this line, no tensions, no exaltations,no fervor, nothing that makes life fruitful. Their pressure smothered the will in an ever surging attack through constant destructive scorn, through the brutal suppression of every personal impulse, inhibited the impulse, undermined the passion and left as the only point of reference the vague, the treacherous hope of a freedom that gradually lost its mirror face and which the cell once made the prisoner unable to endure. If the purpose of this incredibly consistent process was punishment, then the punishment made no sense. No one could force through it' in serious remorse

win', no one can attain the 'peaceful fear of righteousness'. And none of those who decreed this as the meaning of punishment believed in it. It was the case that the director and the pastor and every single official and even the prison president himself cautiously evaded when I asked them in a conversation that I had kindly granted me whether they really believed in the sense of the punishment, that they cautiously referred to paragraphs and laws were withdrawn, and unanimously declared that they were merely doing their duty, and just as unanimously betrayed how uneasy they were in the sphere of that duty. Something was wrong here. The punishment was not legitimate. It might be practical or convenient for those who imposed and enforced it, it might be sanctified by tradition or confirmed by experience—and neither was even any of that—one thing it was not was: it was not the vengeful force of an ethical principle, acting in the name of a higher unity than that of the ununited people is announced and carried out. That's why the punishment wasn't legitimate, that's why it was fruitless and meaningless. That is why the order in which it took place was so unbearable that any resistance to it sprang from the most natural instinct. Basically, this order existed for its own sake, and every measure that was taken in its name was justified solely by an imaginary and apparently constantly threatened security that had to be preserved. So she might well give a reduced, but therefore sharpened, true mirror image of that other order, because of that which is proclaimed and carried out in the name of a unity higher than that of the ununited people. That's why the punishment wasn't legitimate, that's why it was fruitless and meaningless. That is why the order in which it took place was so unbearable that any resistance to it sprang from the most natural instinct. Basically, this order existed for its own sake, and every measure that was taken in its name was justified solely by an imaginary and apparently constantly threatened security that had to be preserved. So she might well give a reduced, but therefore sharpened, true mirror image of that other order, because of that which is proclaimed and carried out in the name of a unity higher than that of the ununited people. That's why the punishment wasn't legitimate, that's why it was fruitless and meaningless. That is why the order in which it took place was so unbearable that any resistance to it sprang from the most natural instinct. Basically, this order existed for its own sake, and every measure that was taken in its name was justified solely by an imaginary and apparently constantly threatened security that had to be preserved. So she might well give a reduced, but therefore sharpened, true mirror image of that other order, because of that so unbearable that any resistance to her sprang from the most natural instinct. Basically, this order existed for its own sake, and every measure that was taken in its name was justified solely by an imaginary and apparently constantly threatened security that had to be preserved. So she might well give a reduced, but therefore sharpened, true mirror image of that other order, because of that so unbearable that any resistance to her sprang from the most natural instinct. Basically, this order existed for its own sake, and every measure that was taken in its name was justified solely by an imaginary and apparently constantly threatened security that had to be preserved. So she might well give a reduced, but therefore sharpened, true mirror image of that other order, because of that

Translated from German to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.com

I found it useful to become a destructive element. For a long time there were rumors in the institution of a fundamental reform of the prison system. The focus should no longer be on punishment, but on education. No one was able to give any more precise information about the nature of this upbringing; It took officers a long time to pronounce the word "progressive," even longer to get a vague idea of what it meant; they could never make friends with him. When the first provisions finally came out, one had to be careful not to give biased information about their meaning and content. Yet enough transpired to fill the workrooms and dormitories with eager conversation. The assumptions went so far, the hopes rose so high, that later it was bitterly disappointing when the conference slowly and cautiously decided to put at least part of the provisions into force. One of these provisions was that every prisoner who was newly admitted was to be classified in the first stage of the progressive prison system; if he conducts himself immaculately during the first nine months, he may be promoted to the second stage by decision of the conference; prisoners could get into the third only if they had no criminal record, if they had served half their sentence, if they had been classified in the second tier for at least nine months, if they had behaved so well that not the slightest censure against them it existed when the conference unanimously reached the firm and irrefutable view to be classified in the first stage of the progressive penal system; if he conducts himself immaculately during the first nine months, he may be promoted to the second stage by decision of the conference; prisoners could get into the third only if they had no criminal record, if they had served half their sentence, if they had been classified in the second tier for at least nine months, if they had behaved so well that not the slightest censure against them it existed when the conference unanimously reached the firm and irrefutable view to be classified in the first stage of the progressive penal system; if he conducts himself immaculately during the first nine months, he may be promoted to the second stage by decision of the conference; prisoners could get into the third only if they had no criminal record, if they had served half their sentence, if they had been classified in the second tier for at least nine months, if they had behaved so well that not the slightest censure against them it existed when the conference unanimously reached the firm and irrefutable view

had reached the point where they could no longer relapse. The first tier should wear one green stripe, the second - two, and the third - three on the sleeve of the jacket. The first action taken by the prison administration was the order to produce green stripes. And everyone got a green stripe. Nothing else happened for nine months.

At the end of the nine months I was summoned before the conference, and the director informed me that, at his suggestion, I had been promoted to the second stage; although my conduct was not impeccable, the manager said seriously, but he immediately added the emphatic assurance that he did not consider me bad. A second green stripe was sewn onto my sleeve. Nothing more happened for three months, except that I was allowed to invest a larger part of my earnings in chewing tobacco than the first-tier prisoners were allowed to do. To take full advantage of this perk, I started prying. Of the 350 prisoners, about 30 had been transferred to the second tier with me, including Edi. I contacted Edi through Kassiber, and we informed all the prisoners on the second tier that they should each report for an audience and tell the director in the same words, if possible, that they were lucky enough to be transferred to the second tier. quite tolerable. The director, however, strictly adhered to the decree that the privileges should not be granted all at once, but gradually according to merit.

And Edi and I persuaded the others to report for an audience every Thursday and ask for a new perk. When the nine months of the second stage were up, the Herr Director was able to proudly point out to me that I was enjoying all the perks provided for the second stage. I had an hour more light in the cell, I was allowed to write and receive a letter every month instead of every two months, I was allowed to have visitors more often, and I was allowed to keep a limited number of books of my own. To a limited extent, that is, only specialist literature that was suitable for training the prisoner professionally. I informed the director that I had found the profession of a writer to be fruitful and expedient, and that I had decided to devote myself to it assiduously. But then it happened that the conference met in a solemn act to bestow the extraordinary dignity of the third degree on six prisoners. The third stage, said the director, is the transition to freedom. We should prove ourselves worthy of the high grace and trust of the officials, he said, he particularly expects, and he gave me a searching look, that anyone who is transferred to the third stage on the basis of his or her convictions should not forget that who claims to be treated as a decent human being, must also behave as a decent human being. The third stage, he said, is an attempt to awaken the noble in the prisoner. It's up to us to prove

that this is possible. We could always turn to him directly if we had special requests. I immediately turned to him in confidence and asked that Edi also be transferred to the third level. If I were considered a perpetrator of conviction, he too could claim the same right. Then I heard that Edi had been pardoned. I met him in the officials' corridor. He rushed past me breathlessly. "Pardoned!" he swallowed and waved at me with an infinitely helpless hand movement. He ran on, trembling and headless, laughing, stuttering, shouting at every prisoner and every official, picking up a thousand things and putting them down again and again, in haste and in fear. In fear, he was afraid of freedom, he had to be afraid of it, just as I was afraid of it, like something completely incomprehensible, uncanny, to which one must be more unconditionally at the mercy than one's cell. So did he get free? I asked myself immediately. He came out of a cramped cell into a dusty workroom, he came out of clinging chains, only to be immediately forced into other, no less oppressive ones. He walked down the aisle, and before entering the office, he turned around once more, raised his hand and waved for the last time. That was the last I saw of him. Years later I read his name in a newspaper, listed under a number of other names as one of the victims of a clash between police and the unemployed. A letter he wrote me after his release was about me

«offensive and obnoxious expressions» not handed over and filed. A time began for me that was a shade lighter than the past four years. The director was serious about the new regulation, as he was serious about any regulation. By far the majority of the officials didn't mean it seriously. Indeed, it was a grotesque desire to expect pedagogical skills from them. These staid men, in the service for decades, attached to the penitentiary as to their bent sabers and huge bunch of keys, grumbled and shook their heads as the third-degree prisoners jumped a rope during the weekly gym class, did squats and jump over the box. They murmured angrily as the rascals learned how to walk over a prison wall and how to run away from the gendarme. They growled when forced Turning off the lights on six cells an hour later, they scoffed at the timid pictures and threadbare curtains in the third-tier dayroom where the chosen six were sometimes allowed to congregate. They tried to harass the third level wherever they could, and were stunned when they realized that the director didn't always agree with the officials right away, whenever they and the three-lane quarrels broke out. They finally withdrew bitterly, leaving us alone, waiting for an opportunity to hit us and not failing to agitate the other prisoners against us a little. where the chosen six were sometimes allowed to gather. They tried to harass the third level wherever they could, and were stunned when they realized that the director didn't always agree with the officials right away, whenever they and the threelane quarrels broke out. They finally withdrew bitterly, leaving us alone, waiting for an opportunity to hit us and not failing to agitate the other prisoners against us a little. where the chosen six were sometimes allowed to gather. They tried to harass the third level wherever they could, and were stunned when they realized that the director didn't always agree with the officials right away, whenever they and the three-lane quarrels broke out. They finally withdrew bitterly, leaving us alone, waiting for an opportunity to hit us and not failing to agitate the other prisoners against us a little.

The prisoners of the first tier, however, used to abuse those of the second mustard with fervor until they themselves were in the second tier. Those who had no prospect of getting into the third were from the outset opponents of the progressive penal system as a system of the most terrible injustice. "There goes the killer class!" said one when we were walking side by side and not behind each other in the yard at a special hour. In fact, although the selection was by no means made according to the crime, but solely according to the degree of personal qualities of character, there was not one among the three-striped who was convicted of a crime against property or against morality. There was a shoemaker sentenced to twelve years for having killed a peasant who was attacking his wife in a hand-to-hand fight; a sergeant, for life, who waylaid a tailor and shot him because the man at the tavern table said he had been selling meat during the war; a clerk, fifteen years old, because he and his brother, who died in prison, returning from the war and looking for work, had attacked a mining magnate and shot a night watchman while fleeing pursuers; a streetcar conductor, ten years old, because his no less than agreeable wife claimed under oath that he put rat poison in her bean soup; a technician, twelve years old, because he didn't want to have his father, who later turned out to be innocently accused of theft, arrested and stabbed the Landjäger. All these men were easygoing people, comradely who waylaid a tailor and shot him because the man at the table in the inn had claimed he had sold meat during the war; a clerk, fifteen years old, because he and his brother, who died in prison, returning from the war and looking for work, had attacked a mining magnate and shot a night watchman while fleeing pursuers; a streetcar conductor, ten years old, because his no less than agreeable wife claimed under oath that he put rat poison in her bean soup; a technician, twelve years old, because he didn't want to have his father, who later turned out to be innocently accused of theft, arrested and stabbed the Landjäger. All these men were easygoing people, comradely who waylaid a tailor and shot him because the man at the table in the inn had claimed he had sold meat during the war; a clerk, fifteen years old, because he and his brother, who died in prison, returning from the war and looking for work, had attacked a mining magnate and shot a night watchman while fleeing pursuers; a streetcar conductor, ten years old, because his no less than agreeable wife claimed under oath that he put rat poison in her bean soup; a technician, twelve years old, because he didn't want to have his father, who later turned out to be innocently accused of theft, arrested and stabbed the Landjäger. All these men were easygoing people, comradely because the man at the table in the inn had claimed that he had been selling meat during the war; a clerk, fifteen years old, because he and his brother, who died in prison, returning from the war and looking for work, had attacked a mining magnate and shot a night watchman while fleeing pursuers; a streetcar conductor, ten years old, because his no less than agreeable wife claimed under oath that he put rat poison in her bean soup; a technician, twelve years old, because he didn't want to have his father, who later turned out to be innocently accused of theft, arrested and stabbed the Landjäger. All these men were easygoing people, comradely because the man at the table in the inn had claimed that he had been selling meat during the war; a clerk, fifteen years old, because he and his brother, who died in prison, returning from the war and looking for work,

had attacked a mining magnate and shot a night watchman while fleeing pursuers; a streetcar conductor, ten years old, because his no less than agreeab

and full of a single desire to go about their business in peace. They did not understand that they were being treated as criminals, and their conversations revolved around pleasant, plump girls and the preparation of promising meat dishes. When we came to the table, we would play Ham Knocker or Halma, and agree that even the most well-meaning penal code is not designed to educate grown people to be any kind of ideal type or true citizen, and that it is meritorious to get acquainted with all forbidden or permitted means of obtaining tobacco. Despite the strict prohibition, we smoked chewed quids and seaweed and were determined not to give up this pleasure, even at the risk of being knocked back to the first tier infernal regions if caught. Otherwise, hardly any of the jealous officials could do anything to us, because we were familiar with all the tricks and knew too much about most of them. Being allowed to fit me in unlimited numbers of books had made my days more meaningful. Now that I was no longer necessarily tied to the cell, I crawled into it of my own free will and read. I threw myself into a world that had become strange to me and unspeakably delicious, I read everything that came my hands in a jumble without a plan or system, learned English and Spanish according to the Toussaint-Langenscheidt method, without having mastered the pronunciation to this day to be able —, era ciego de nacimiento,

I will always remember this first sentence of the Spanish course — I spelled out my eyes dullly when the light in the cell had gone out, in the narrow glow of the courtyard lantern and, more than ever, kept me from sleeping. Sometimes in the morning, as soon as the narrow strip of sky began to light up in the window square, I would get off the rumpled bed after the grueling hours of staying awake all night, do calisthenics until I trembled in all my limbs, and when the calf-acters with an echoing roar Dragging coffee kettles across the flagstones of the corridors, having read many chapters without feeling anything other than annoyance at being interrupted. More and more often the director came into my cell to assure me of his pleasure that I was now building my own world. Even the hint that he might have enjoyed this pleasure much earlier did not diminish his unwavering gentleness, and his benevolence began to unnerve me. He had only ever done his duty, he said, and it was now his duty to have an educational effect on me. I tried to dissuade him from the possibility of my and my fellow inmates' moral reforms, but the long conversations ended in the end with the astonishing reciprocal statement that we were both basically quite respectable and sociable people, and that this fact could not say anything about the sense or nonsense of the now sacred principle of education in the progressive penal system none of his unshakable gentleness took away from him, and his benevolence began to creep me out. He had only ever done his duty, he said, and it was now his duty to have an educational effect on me. I tried to dissuade him from the possibility of my and my fellow inmates' moral reforms, but the long conversations ended in the end with the astonishing reciprocal statement that we were both basically quite respectable and sociable people, and that this fact could not say anything about the sense or nonsense of the now sacred principle of education in the progressive penal system none of his unshakable gentleness took away from him, and his benevolence began to creep me out. He had only ever done his duty, he said, and it was now his duty to have an educational effect on me. I tried to dissuade him from the possibility of my and my fellow inmates' moral reforms, but the long conversations ended in the end with the astonishing reciprocal statement that we were both basically quite respectable and sociable people, and that this fact could not say anything about the sense or nonsense of the now sacred principle of education in the progressive penal system to influence me educationally. I tried to dissuade him from the possibility of my and my fellow inmates' moral reforms, but the long conversations ended in the end with the astonishing reciprocal statement that we were both basically quite respectable and sociable people, and that this fact could not say anything about the sense or nonsense of the now sacred principle of education in the progressive penal system to influence me educationally. I tried to dissuade him from the possibility of my and my fellow inmates' moral reforms, but the long conversations ended in the end with the astonishing reciprocal statement that we were both basically quite respectable and sociable people, and that this fact could not say anything about the sense or nonsense of the now sacred principle of education in the progressive penal system

But one day the director called me and when I was standing in front of him he asked me to sit down. I was very startled by this circumstance, but the director insisted, and when I had sat down in a properly upholstered chair with a completely surprising backrest, he told me he could tell me the happy news—I jumped up excitedly, but he Startled, motioned to sit down again - that the possibility was not excluded that within the next few weeks official instructions would arrive that would have my pardon and release as the object. Friends would have submitted a request for me. He could predict the most favorable prospects, for a national government had taken over and a farreaching amnesty was being prepared. After being locked up, I lay on the bed with my arms crossed under my head and stared at the cell ceiling, on which the bars of the cell were visible in the trembling light of the courtyard lantern. Again and again I asked myself whether this was at all possible, whether it was conceivable that a day would come, and soon would come, tomorrow might come, when I would not fold down my bed in the evening, tired and unwilling to long for sleep, a day when the world would open up to me, an improbable, an incredibly diverse world with women and ideas and movement and demands, a world that must have been oppressive in its fullness, full of strong colors, with trees and houses and railways, with mountains and rivers and men

who wear a real white stand-up collar, no uniform and no brown overalls, people with faces, not grimaces, and animals and an air that turns bluish in the distance, and everything, everything, and at least nothing of what surrounded me now . That was the most important thing. In any case, a world of which I could only get an incredibly happy idea if I thought away everything that was now surrounding me.

I tried to imagine what it used to be like. But it was all pale and blurry, and the images showed up like random dreams, flat, confused, faces of comrades flashed past unreal, hours in the Baltic — where was that old Panje hut, who was that, that one lying heavy and groaning in the ditch, when was that again, that flash of shots from the swamp—nights in a dim attic room with guns in the corner—nothing, that was nothing, all that was distant and strange and without a strong connection. How then, no more relationship with Kern? No, by God — I got up and brought my eyes close to the picture on the wall that had been there for four years — no pose then, I thought, feeling a little chilly. Pose every thought about Rathenau? I sat down on the bed and thought. I forced myself to think of other things, tracing the four years, stroking them back and forth. So that, that was my life for four years! Screams from the cell, night after night, you can't even hear them anymore. An officer comes, unlocks the door, sticks his head in the cell and says: «Stuff

pack." He slams the door shut again and comes back fifteen minutes later and says: "Come with me." I go along and ask where and why. The officer says, "Shut up," and opens some other cell and says, "In there!" and the door slams and I'm standing in the midst of a whirlwind of questions that I never get an answer to. That was a cell transfer. It is unknown whether a head of cattle being moved from one barn to another gives any thought to the purpose of this process. Anyway, I thought about it. The prisoner was never given a reason for any measure affecting his daily routine. At first I followed the most natural reaction and did it like Edi - oh Edi, where was he now? I refused to do what I was ordered to do, until after wild yelling, which caused an uproar in the cell house, the sergeant arrived, and the use of force recommended in the regulations, spiced up with the not exactly friendly expression of personal feelings, was unnecessarily frightened official, stepped into your rights. Later, however, I gave the official, who listened in astonishment, a lengthy lecture about the fact that the order was always a bad order, which did not carry its meaning clearly recognizable from the outset, and who pronounced it, not exactly a good superior. — Faces appeared, worn grimaces over the brown jacket. There was Biedermann and old May and the hospital clerk and the arrest clerk, and there was, who else was that, right, the guy

had slipped a skrind, and what was the name of the pig who had betrayed my outburst in order to be pardoned? Over. Nothing was real, nothing stuck. The nights in jail, the time I kept watch over Edi in the hospital, the one, two, three, four different whistles I got hold of and they all got caught, and not the fifth, which I now hide under the books held. There by the books lay the bundle of letters, I had waited for each one with unnerving fervor, and each one ended up being a disappointment, and one was there too, the one that told me how the outlaws were coming to an end . Where did I read about the outlaws recently? Right, in the Iceland sagas. There were the outlaw men who did not want to comply with the statutes of the clans and were therefore driven out of the ordered area, they were allowed to keep their weapons, but anyone who was stronger than them was allowed to kill them. But it was always the most warlike men who did not want to submit to the tame discipline and were therefore ostracized, and gradually it was so that the ostracized became the ostracizers, the outcasts broke out of the forests and yet remained the masters of the land. There weren't any prisons back then - what's the use of boyish dreams? hours of insane desperation; didn't I already have the shards of glass in my hand, back then after the first failed escape? Why didn't I actually do it

And why did Senta have to bark, the guard dog, which I always heard rustling through the bushes in front of my window at night, whom I fed with pieces of meat from Sunday dinner to get used to me, why did Senta have to bark when I was already with the standing in the yard with a wall hook in your hand? I always had visitors at Christmas. How I dreaded the moment every time the officer called me into the visiting room, and how I longed for just that moment for a year. The mad pain when I turned around again and again and waved and then I looked down the long corridor until the iron bars closed again and the inner door creaked shut and then the outer one and I staggered back into the cell and threw me on the table and - damned. Wake up, damned ones of this earth, that's what Edi used to sing, in the evenings, when out of the brooding silence came the distant scream, somewhere in the prison cells someone was being beaten. And once, Edi sang the song instead of the chorale during the Christmas party and was taken away. The Christmas party. How annoyed I was when individual prisoners began to cry, how outraged I was by the garlands and candles in the prison church and by the colorful banner “Glory to God in the highest and peace to those of good will”. "Those who have a good will," always these delicate allusions, the kind I hated, the kind I looked for, everywhere, to annoy me about them. The pastor, who once said from the pulpit, that basically the prisoners were only slightly to blame, the bad

It was just an example, a bad example, because the children could already see how their mother was fornicating with the bedboy... And I then demanded from the director that the pastor should be forced to emphasize from the pulpit that he did anyway not mean my mother. The priest's rigid face when he came to me to apologize, and he wouldn't have meant it that way! A thousand pictures, none glowing, that was my life for four years. And none of this anymore when I'm free, free... Soon, unreal soon. Driven by an insane restlessness, I stood at the door half the day and listened to see if my name was being called, if no one came to fetch me. Day after day, night after night I counted. Now the request could go to the Minister of Justice, now it might go to the consultant, now it would go to the President of the Reich, now to the Chief Reich Attorney... The director came to see me whenever it was possible. He said he spoke to the man in charge at the ministry about the request at a conference he attended in Berlin. I can be hopeful. Another time he said I should prepare myself, the pardon could come any day. He ordered my suit to be mended and ironed, and the householder came and took me up to the room, and I spread out my things, to get rid of the smell of moth powder. And then one day I was told to go straight to the director. I ran so fast that the officer could hardly follow. A prisoner shouted to me: «I congratulate»,

Officials laughed, the sun shone in the corridors. The director let me in. He didn't offer me a chair. He was leafing through a file and was very pale. He looked up at me and cleared his throat and said, 'There's a new arrest warrant for you. You are accused of the murder of Lieutenant Weigelt. They will be transported to the competent regional court tomorrow."

transport

It's gradually getting light. I pull myself away from the window, shivering. The night has come to an end. There is a noise in the corridor. The key feels carefully, the door opens, the time has come. The chief constable whispers "Good morning". I smile and say, "It's like I'm being led to execution now." The chief constable shakes his head, he murmurs: "Well, well, it won't be that bad." I hesitantly take my little black cap and walk behind the sergeant. I've never seen the corridors like this, completely dead, in the pale gray of the morning. We walk on tiptoe. A hooded figure pushes past, the night official. Only a gas flame burns in the official corridor. The sergeant says in a low voice: "The director wishes you the best of luck." He sees me

not included. He opens the door to the office. Inside is the escort officer. I quickly take a look at the transport paper, it's red so I'm tied up. For a moment everything wants to rear up inside me, then I hold out both arms in front of me. The bondage snaps shut, the wrists are squeezed tightly into the pretzel. But then I laboriously bring my arms to my mouth and tear off the green stripes with my teeth. The sergeant raises his hand in a soothing manner. We turn to go. The sergeant stretches out his right hand, then looks embarrassed at the shackle and lets it fall again. One door is closed, the second, the third. We're standing in front of the main gate, the night watch unlocks it, I step out onto the street. I turn around again look up at the gray front of the penitentiary. Above the igen of the gate are carved in the stone the words: «O Maria». The streets are empty. The windows are closed, the curtains drawn. The head waiter in a stained white apron steps out of the Hotel “Zum Deutschen Kaiser” sleepily. He sees me and the hand he raised to his mouth to yawn stays halfway up. A number of gentlemen come out of a wine bar. You suddenly stop and look at me. I close my eyes and walk past. Her eyes burn my back so much that I hunch my shoulders. We come to a wide, tree-planted avenue. The ground crunches with every step. The huge elms spread their branches high and arched over us in the early morning sun. I

take a deep breath The morning wind sweeps the dust of the cell out of my lungs. We step faster. "Where is the tower hill?" I ask. I know it's a tower hill near the city. The officer silently points his thumb over his shoulder. I turn around, there lies the city, a tangle of brown and black roofs, in the middle of it high and gray a wall with many small black squares. The streets of the suburbs stretch far into the flat, slightly depressed countryside. I don't see a mountain and I'm disappointed. A worker is cycling towards us. He turns to me on his bike, I look behind him, he rides for a long time with his head turned back. The train station, a small red building against bumpy pavement, stands amid thick bushes. The officer quickly leads me through the barrier, grabs my sleeve. A woman with a large carrying basket avoids me with a hasty movement. Railway officials walk past slowly. Travelers come with suitcases and boxes. We stand behind a pillar. The strands of the rails lead far into the country. The grass between the brown stones is full of dew. The train comes, thunders past me, the collection truck stops right in front of me. A door is thrown open, I climb up with difficulty, the chains fall. A narrow corridor, with numbered doors on either side, loses itself in the darkness. A door flies open, the train warden gives me a quick push, I step in, the door closes, the room is just big enough that I can sit on the narrow side seat. When I stand on the bench with bent knees

I can put my head on the black, solid inner grille and see outside through one of the narrow, vertical gaps. The train is arriving. I press my eyes to the bars and cling to the wall with my hands. Soon my legs start shaking. Farmhouses fly by, bushes, the elongated squares of yellow-ripened cornfields. There's a barrier, a cart is standing in front of it, the farmer has a pipe in his mouth. A church tower towers over trees. Little stations come, I can't read their names. Every time the train pulls away, I bounce my knees to keep from falling. Gradually my eyes hurt, the draft hits them sharply. I wipe the eyelids, immediately regret it. A truck escaped me, I can just see the gray tarpaulin disappear. Advertising posters are in the middle of the field. Fences rattle past, the red walls of a factory. The landscape is deserted. The horizon blurs in the haze. A larger city is heralded by long rows of freight cars on sidings. We've been driving for about an hour now. The train brakes screeching. Suddenly my door creaks, I spin around and thump off the bench. "Get out," says the officer. "Can't you go on?" I ask amazed. The officer doesn't answer. I climb out of the car, three police officers are standing outside and a man with a German Shepherd. The handcuffs are put on me, meanwhile I look along the platform. Many people stare at me curiously. We go through the barrier, one of the policemen grabs me on the right and left, a policeman walks in front of me and behind me

follows so closely that he sometimes hits my heels with the toes of his boots, the man with the dog. I hold my arms rigidly out in front of me and look down. We're going very fast.

We go through facilities. People are already moving away from afar, I have the feeling that they all stop and look after me. I try to look around cynically, but I find it very difficult. If only they knew who I am, I think; I'm blushing. I grab my hat with my hands to pull it down over my face, and the two policemen immediately grab it tighter. "Is that Legnica?" I ask. No Answer. A lady with two greyhounds stops and pulls the animals towards her by the leashes. She has a light-colored, large hat that shades her face. I would have liked to see her face. We cross a square. A tram drives by on a narrow gauge, the conductor leans over the railing of the platform and looks at me. I won't be able to take it anymore. I shyly avoid every eye. People are now sweeping by like shadows. But that demeans me even more. I pull myself together and look a gentleman straight in the face. Then he turns his gaze. I look everyone straight in the face and immediately feel freer. A little girl in a white dress comes out of a doorway, probably six years old. She stops, looks at me, suddenly points her finger at me and calls out: "That's the bad man!" God bless you,

The police depot is in a narrow, dirty side street. An officer leads me down the worn steps of a rickety staircase into a large room filled with brown beds, unties me, and locks me in. I immediately rush to the window. It's big, but firmly attached, the bars are very narrow. There is nothing in the room but the beds, on which dirty gray straw sacks with the strangest bumps arch. I push one of the beds to the window and climb up to get a better look, but my eyes meet a brick wall. I'm pacing Inside me everything is cold and dead. I register what I see without thinking about it. There are probably bugs in the room, it smells disgusting. I'm used to bugs. In the penitentiary I always had bugs in the cell, sometimes when the morning distance was too great I would complain, and a prisoner would come and feel the cracks in the bed with the jet of a blowtorch, so that the smoke of scorched wood and burnt paint filled the cell for days. This was also the case here. The prison stench is the same everywhere. An officer brings me the food, thick pearl barley, bland and meatless. I leave it, I don't feel like eating. The officer comes back after an hour, silently takes the full Kump away. After a while he brings me a newspaper. "There's something for you to read," he says, and hurries off again. It's the Catholic Sunday paper; I read it all the way through. A minute

I later completely forgot what was in it. I'm pacing Towards evening a crowd of men carrying bundles and sacks comes with a bang. They immediately fill the room with screams and curses, at first they hardly notice me. Some have no shoes on, their unspeakably dirty feet sticking out of tattered, stained trousers that are barely holding together. They speak Polish to each other, I don't understand a word. Soon they become more and more agitated and I notice that they are interested in me. I lean against the wall and look at it. They give off a pungent smell. "Have you any tobacco?" one asks me. I shake my head silently. They chatter around each other. Finally someone knocks on the door and the officer comes. They talk excitedly to him. Their spokesman finally says in broken German that they are not criminals, they are Polish migrant workers, who were only to be expelled, one could not expect them to have to spend the night with a prison inmate. The officer, embarrassed, tells me to follow him. He takes me to another, smaller room where a barefoot old man is already sitting on one of the two beds. The old man had been arrested for vagrancy. I ask him, with pointed politeness, if he minds spending the night with a convict. He grins at me and the officer murmurs that unfortunately he doesn't have a single room left for me. in which an old man with bare feet is already sitting on one of the two beds. The old man had been arrested for vagrancy. I ask him, with pointed politeness, if he minds spending the night with a convict. He grins at me and the officer murmurs that unfortunately he doesn't have a single room left for me. in which an old man with bare feet is already sitting on one of the two beds. The old man had been arrested for vagrancy. I ask him, with pointed politeness, if he minds spending the night with a convict. He grins at me and the officer murmurs that unfortunately he doesn't have a single room left for me.

The window of this cell is low and open. I lean out as far as I can. I look at one

narrow street with low, neglected houses. Children play in the gutter. Now and then workers pass by. A wagon creaks around the corner. A woman comes out of a dark front door and calls out in a plaintive voice: "Siegfried!" The lamplighter comes, he twists the throttle with a long stick and shoulders the stick as soon as the pale green light has ignited. I can still see his shadow at the next lantern. It's getting dark. The old man is still sitting motionless on the bed. I stay at the window hour after hour. The children have disappeared. The lights in the houses go out. A young girl scoots out of the side alley, looks around, and then stands in a dark corner just below my window. I see her outline. She wears a headscarf. She waits motionless for a long time. A step echoes in the nocturnal street. The girl softly calls out a name I don't understand. A figure shoots at them, they meet, embrace each other. They walk slowly, pressed close together, up the street past the lantern. Sometimes they stop and kiss. They disappear in the dark. I turn back into the cell and grope for my bed. I lie down on the pallet and pull up the stinking Woilach. The old man stirs. He lifts his legs onto the bed and stretches out. His breathing is ragged. He hasn't spoken a word yet. I say good night." Be silent. Suddenly the old man says into the darkness: "The whole world can kiss my ass." up the street, past the lantern. Sometimes they stop and kiss. They disappear in the dark. I turn back into the cell and grope for my bed. I lie down on the pallet and pull up the stinking Woilach. The old man stirs. He lifts his legs onto the bed and stretches out. His breathing is ragged. He hasn't spoken a word yet. I say good night." Be silent. Suddenly the old man says into the darkness: "The whole world can kiss my ass." up the street, past the lantern. Sometimes they stop and kiss. They disappear in the dark. I turn back into the cell and grope for my bed. I lie down on the pallet and pull up the stinking Woilach. The old man stirs. He lifts his legs onto the bed and stretches out. His breathing is ragged. He hasn't spoken a word yet. I say good night." Be silent. Suddenly the old man says into the darkness: "The whole world can kiss my ass." He hasn't spoken a word yet. I say good night." Be silent. Suddenly the old man says into the darkness: "The whole world can kiss my ass." He hasn't spoken a word yet. I say good night." Be silent. Suddenly the old man says into the darkness: "The whole world can kiss my ass."

Morning. I get up and wash myself in a narrow, dirty bowl, without soap. I

dry myself with my handkerchief. The old man lies motionless and curled up under his woilach. An officer comes. He asks, "What's your name?" I say my name. He says: "Come with me." The same caravan awaits me at the door as on the previous day. I am tied up, we walk through the city, a school class comes towards us, many children stop, the teacher waves, they hesitantly tramp on. Gentlemen with briefcases, women with handbags. The morning sun is on the streets, painting the city a shimmering grey. The traffic is getting heavier. Lots of cars honk by, they have elongated, brightly painted bodies. All faces turn to me. I say loudly: «The whole world can...» «Shut up!» the policeman on the left interrupts me rudely. We come to the train station we push our way through the barrier. The train is already there. Many seagulls fly, lightning fast, white, fluttering shadows between the tracks. The travelers feed the birds. If you see me, stop it. I climb into the gloomy collection truck. I squeeze into my bunk and climb onto the bench. After a while the man who accompanied me with the dog comes and brings me a crust of bread and a piece of bacon wrapped in paper. The train sergeant brings me a pot of hot, weak coffee. The train runs. After a while the man who accompanied me with the dog comes and brings me a crust of bread and a piece of bacon wrapped in paper. The train sergeant brings me a pot of hot, weak coffee. The train runs. After a while the man who accompanied me with the dog comes and brings me a crust of bread and a piece of bacon wrapped in paper. The train sergeant brings me a pot of hot, weak coffee. The train runs.

As my knees bang against the wood of the bunk wall, I tear shreds of bacon off the chunk and devour them. In the next cell someone is humming a song. When the train stops, I hear the

Entertained prisoners from window crack to window crack. It's oppressively hot, the sun shimmers on the fields. It seems to me that I've never seen so much sun before. "Sagan," call the conductors outside. Suddenly there is a bang in all the cells. "Schatzi, Schatzi," whistles the one in the next bunk. I look hard at the platform. There go policemen and have a girl between them, a girl with a coarse brown skirt and a shawl, a prisoner. The girl has little curly curls on her ears, she quickly glances at my window, smiles and walks past. Immediately afterwards I hear noises in the hallway. The prisoners talk loudly and undeterred. "Doll" calls someone from behind, giggling sounds from the last cells. "A fine girl," says my neighbor loudly. The train is panting slowly We stop at a small station in the middle of the forest. Apparently the car has been detached. All I can see is a bush close to my window and a stack of logs dripping tough sap. A numbing, stifling scent comes from the blood-drenched forest. My shirt is sticky with sweat, I take off my skirt and vest. The neighbor bangs on the wall. "Where do you come from?" he asks at the window. I answer him. He comes from the Görlitz penitentiary and is supposed to go to Kassel for an appointment. Has already demolished three years and four more ahead of him, not counting what he can expect in Kassel. I tell him my name and ask for a comrade who is also supposed to be in Gorlitz. Yes, there he is, library clerk,

I excitedly ask for more details. The heat becomes unbearable. I also pull the shirt off my shoulders and now I'm sitting there shirtless. The officers don't care about our entertainment. My neighbor asks loudly what's going on with the doll. "Perjury two years," comes the reply. "Hello honey!" "Hello!" The girl has a bright voice. She laughs. We're going home soon. She has been summoned to Halle as a witness. The prisoners are noisy, moaning about the heat, laughing at the girl, who always answers cheerfully. We lie there for four hours. Gradually it became quiet in the car. Finally it goes on. Lots of forest and wide areas of break and heath, in between small villages that let the sky press down on the ground. In Kottbus I hear doors being closed in the hallway. I get dressed in a hurry. Heavy kicks and jingling of keys. An officer closes my door and asks, "What's your name?" I say my name. He says: "Come with me." I climb out of the car with stiff limbs. The others are already standing outside in two rows, the girl at the back alone. Some are in civilian clothes, with neatly ironed, shabby trousers, some in brown uniforms like me. I'm the only one who gets tied up. "Oh, is that a heavy one?" I hear the girl say, I turn and smile at her. "A very serious one," I say, "triple lust murder!" The girl pulls back a little, then says energetically: "I do not believe that." She looks at me and asks: "Are you a politician?" The officer pulls me away. we climb

across some tracks and walk past a waiting train. The compartment windows are immediately populated, "Stop the faxes!" says a policeman to the prisoner walking behind me. We come to the new collection truck. I get in first and look around for the girl upstairs. "Hail Moscow!" she suddenly calls. The officer shoves me and stuffs me in a cell. In the new cell, all the walls are densely scrawled. Name next to name written in pencil or scratched with a sharp object. Some names are followed by a swastika or a Soviet star. I read carefully. I trace line by line with my index finger. And there is the name Jörgs. No doubt it's his writing. An immense happiness seizes me. I undo a button from my trousers and carefully scratch my name under Jörg's name. I'm wondering if I should draw a symbol for it. Finally I add the date of the day. The monotony of the ride is unbroken. Suddenly all the time gets up alive again. I squat on the bench and keep my eyes closed, red and sore from constantly blinking. I sit like that for hour after hour. It is already dark. We drove a long time. Snippets of conversation still ring out from berth to berth. We seem to be entering a large train station.

The officer comes and asks, "What's your name?" I say my name. He says: "Come with me." How all this disgusts me. Police officers are waiting outside.

The cops are the same everywhere. They talk the same, they have the same tone of voice and the same twist of the wrist when they tie me up. We walk through the crowded train station. The train stations are the same everywhere, as are the people. The green car is waiting in front of the portal. We get in, the girl sits separately. I'm slowly chewing my bacon. We rumble along, hearing only distant noises, the ringing of streetcars and car horns, which sound strangely eerie to us. We are unloaded in a dark courtyard and hastily searched for forbidden things. Then we step into a large cell, in the sparse light of which stand a row of low cots, uncovered, and with straw mattresses stained with blood. In the corner is a tall, tin bucket that stinks horribly. There are six of us, I recognize some of them by their voices. One of them politely introduces himself to me, it's the man next to me who's supposed to go to Kassel. He says he's a vinegar manufacturer. It soon turns out that his factory consists of a cellar in the north of Berlin, in which the manufacturer and his brother brew vinegar. He entertains the whole company, who lie on the beds and curse the bugs that come out of every fold of the straw mattresses. They speak of public prosecutors, prison officials and women. The subject of women is inexhaustible. One tells dirty things in a hoarse, slimy voice. It sounds like saliva is dripping from the corners of his mouth. Finally the vinegar manufacturer says: "Now enough with the mess." who is supposed to go to Kassel. He says he's a vinegar manufacturer. It soon turns out that his factory consists of a cellar in the north of Berlin, in which the manufacturer and his brother brew vinegar. He entertains the whole company, who lie on the beds and curse the bugs that come out of every fold of the straw mattresses. They speak of public prosecutors, prison officials and women. The subject of women is inexhaustible. One tells dirty things in a hoarse, slimy voice. It sounds like saliva is dripping from the corners of his mouth. Finally the vinegar manufacturer says: "Now enough with the mess." who is supposed to go to Kassel. He says he's a vinegar manufacturer. It soon turns out that his factory consists of a cellar in the north of Berlin, in which the manufacturer and his brother brew vinegar. He entertains the whole company, who lie on the beds and curse the bugs that come out of every fold of the straw mattresses. They speak of public prosecutors, prison officials and women. The subject of women is inexhaustible. One tells dirty things in a hoarse, slimy voice. It sounds like saliva is dripping from the corners of his mouth. Finally the vinegar manufacturer says: "Now enough with the mess." He entertains the whole company, who lie on the beds and curse the bugs that come out of every fold of the straw mattresses. They speak of public prosecutors, prison officials and women. The subject of women is inexhaustible. One tells dirty things in a hoarse, slimy voice. It sounds like saliva is dripping from the corners of his mouth. Finally the vinegar manufacturer says: "Now enough with the mess." He entertains the whole company, who lie on the beds and curse the bugs that come out of every fold of the straw mattresses. They speak of public prosecutors, prison officials and women. The subject of women is inexhaustible. One tells dirty things in a hoarse, slimy voice. It sounds like saliva is dripping from the corners of his mouth. Finally the vinegar manufacturer says: "Now enough with the mess."

I wake up more often. Moans and curses come from the beds. The air in the room is heavy and stuffy. My head is spinning. It rises from the stomach to the throat. I stagger to the bucket and puke. One jumps up and with a wild jerk throws the straw mattress to the ground and stands in front of it like a shadow and stares at the window. Others toss and turn. I fall asleep again and wake up in the gray morning. Everyone is already up, one turns a skrind, which goes in turn. I, too, take a hit to stifle the gooey taste. Then we draw lots to see who gets on the bucket first. The bucket is so full that excrement spills over the edge when you use it. Every time the lid is lifted, a wave of noxious stench sweeps through the room. The window cannot be opened. We sit dull, unwashed,

The door slams open, the officer comes. "What's your name?" he asks me. I say my name. "Come with me," he says. I'll go with you so I can look around again. The train trundles through the Saale valley, I don't take my eyes off the finger-width slit in the window. There is Naumburg. I think of the ute from the Naumburg Cathedral and the night in Halle, and it shakes me. I try to make out the prison and the former cadet house in Naumburg. Bad Kösen must come soon. Staring at the wooded slopes, I am indescribably excited, My lips are very dry and my head is burning. Think

Fingers hook into the grid. Finally there comes Bad Kösen, Up there is the forest path to the Rudelsburg. The highs swing back in a slight curve. There's the hall again. I press my eye, breathing feverishly, so close to the grating that the white almost sticks to the rusty wire. There is the Rudelsburg, growing out of the yellowish rock. Now, now... I stare up. The Saaleck... Two gray shadows, the towers shoot up enormously, slowly turn around each other and are over. Kern, I scream... The towers are over. I fall back on the bench, my head hitting the wall. The officer unlocks the door and looks at me. "I'll give you a little breathing room," he says, securing the door with a small chain so that it is a hand's breadth open. I sit on the bench and don't move In Kassel I spent a restless night alone in a clean cell. The train stops in Marburg. The officer comes and asks, "What's your name?" I say my name. He says: "Come with me!" Two policemen tie me up and take me in the middle. We walk along the platform. There are students with colorful caps everywhere. We go right through them. They stay silent, embarrassed, when I pass, step back and stare at me. I examine the faces carefully. Shouldn't there be acquaintances among them? There, really, I know him, the fat one with the hacked face? Wasn't I with him in Upper Silesia? Of course he is.

I walk right past him, he's standing with his fellow students. I look at him ironically, his eyes wander to me in amazement, then he recognizes me. He recognizes me, pulls back a little, his hand goes up, stops, suddenly he turns around with a short jerk and stares somewhere in the air. I'm over, I say loudly: "I'm sure he wants to be a public prosecutor." The officer says, "Shut up."

Tired, I climb into the new car and sit motionless until I arrive at my destination. The next day I was questioned by the examining magistrate for eight hours without a break.

1927 I was taken to many interrogations, I answered many questions and I put my name under many minutes. Every time the examining magistrate entered the interrogation room, the thick bundle of files he was carrying under his arm had increased in size. And when, after the last interrogation, the examining magistrate gathered up the scattered papers and put them in a blue folder, he patted the stack triumphantly and said that the preliminary investigation was now over, for here he had a precise picture of what was going on. But I couldn't trust his full security. I've had enough opportunity

felt the peculiar difference between what I had worked out in full in turbulent nights of bitter brooding and what was later signed with my name in the minutes. What was written there in the curved blue folder on three thousand pages of yellow file paper might have been collected piece by piece with bee diligence, it might contain enough material from various testimonies, from police reports and civil status records, it might follow the course of the crime in minute detail, it stayed but distant and alien to the things that had happened back then in truthfulness. Nothing that was alive and moving in that unspeakably confused time arose again, but rather it arose to its own shadowy life, to a new reality, a process that was invented by many brains, each of which sublimated one differently. So it came about that I did not recognize the image of the deed in the dry aftertaste of a deed; So it came about that the examining magistrate always made a mistake exactly where he thought he knew the whole truth, that sixty out of a hundred and twenty authentic testimonies overturned the other sixty, that the indictment turned out to be a document of shocking ignorance, that in the court hearing the drama turned into comedy. So it happened that the murdered Lieutenant Weigelt suddenly stood in the courtroom and made his statement without the remotest resemblance to any kind of drowned corpse. He faced the seven days of the trial with his head bowed

Barrier without even glancing at the dock and reluctantly and hesitantly answered the questions put to him by the President and the Prosecutor and the Defense Counsel. He stated that he had dragged himself to a waterworks whose light could be seen from the scene of the crime and, despite the urgent questions of the serious-looking chairman, he did not want to explain why he had told the porter to whom he had turned for help told me that he had been the victim of a robbery by unknown persons. Certainly it would have been very useful for the prosecutor to know, in response to his urgent reproaches, why Weigelt left the hospital to which he had been taken to an unknown destination two hours before his police interrogation, thus leaving the public security authorities in the most shameful ignorance of the mysterious events of that night for almost five years. He could only vaguely remember the circumstances of the crime, the witness Weigelt asserted, and then hastily told him that he had worked as a groom for two years under a false name and that he was now the chief engineer of a larger plant. No, he has no interest in pursuing this case, he said with relief to the defense attorney's gentle question; on the contrary, he was extremely embarrassed, which everyone in the courtroom seemed happy to believe, with the exception of the prosecutor. He could only vaguely remember the circumstances of the crime, the witness Weigelt asserted, and then hastily told him that he had worked as a groom for two years under a false name and that he was now the chief engineer of a larger plant. No, he has no interest in pursuing this case, he said with relief to the defense attorney's gentle question; on the contrary, he was extremely embarrassed, which everyone in the courtroom seemed happy to believe, with the exception of the prosecutor. He could only vaguely remember the circumstances of the crime, the witness Weigelt asserted, and then hastily told him that he had worked as a groom for two years under a false name and that he was now the chief engineer of a larger plant. No, he has no interest in pursuing this case, he said with relief to the defense attorney's gentle question; on the contrary, he was extremely embarrassed, which everyone in the courtroom seemed happy to believe, with the exception of the prosecutor.

But the public prosecutor defended for seven days with imploringly fluttering hair and

robe sleeves the world of his files. With excited voices he pointed out to each of his main prosecution witnesses that the files had been stated differently; but each time he only elicited the gentle reproach that it could be understood differently. He went out of his mountain of books and papers like a rubber ball to confuse still more confused things with zealous arguments; but he also sank back into leafing through the files when the defense counsel, with a few gentle moves, steered the matter in the right direction. He fought, a valiant lion in the desert of politics and law, with the roar of his wrath at the wickedness of the world; but the thunder of his rhetoric couldn't stifle the giggling in the auditorium any more than the repeated admonition of the indignant chairman that this was no theater after all. But to me it seemed like a theatre. I sat almost indifferently on my little bench and had to force myself to escape my amazement at how little I really cared about what was being discussed. I had spoken my testimony into the inkwell that was standing on the judge's table. Now I listened to the noises of this muffled hall in which I was suddenly planted, and the small joy of knowing that the routine of the cell had been interrupted was smothered in the helpless feeling of being both the main character and the exposed object. What did I care about the speeches that went back and forth between prosecutor and defense attorney, between judge and witnesses? I got up and listened and

I stood up and asked questions and explained and interjected. This is a place to fight back, I thought, and I got caught up in wanting to get involved and annoy the prosecutor and catch the jury, who were staring at me with cocked heads and frowns, and confusing the witnesses for the prosecution. Certainly what was being tried here had a lot to do with me and a lot with the course of the proceedings, but it had nothing at all to do with the crime that was being tried. A hundred pairs of eyes stared at me from the depths of the room, there was an excited gentleman in a black robe and with slipping pince-nez fidgeting, there were officers in green uniforms and with huge mustaches. A man in a beret read it out of crackling papers, and there stood a stuttering youth with his swearing hand raised. But what did that have to do with reality? The defense attorney pored over the volumes of the Supreme Court decisions, the jury took notes, and the true and great experts sat at the press table and wrote that the criminal tendencies of the accused were already clearly evident from the structure of his receding forehead and the close-set eyes, right? they drew the reader's attention to the fact, corroborated by testimonies, that the accused had stolen apples from a neighbor's garden from an early age. And then the comrades came into the hall one after the other, the former comrades whom I hardly recognized and who I hardly recognized

rails. They came and took a quick look at my seat, and stood in front of the judge and said their quips. And I looked at her and nothing would come of what once bound us together. They were well-shaven gentlemen in black coats who were standing there, they said they had serious middleclass jobs and seemed ready at any time to collect the witness money due to them. They would sit on the witness box when they were dismissed and surreptitiously eyed me the way they greeted me when I looked at them. They would stand around in the court aisles when I was led back to my cell and waved and shook my hand if they could, and then they went off to lunch, and I was very pleased to see them again. Then there was Weigelt, sitting rather lonely in his chair; when I was led out, I walked right past him. Weigelt! Yes, Weigelt had a lot to do with the crime. The court scheduled a local hearing. Exactly on the same day that the deed happened five years ago, at the same hour of the night and in the same place, I stood with Weigelt and was supposed to demonstrate what it was like back then. And I grabbed him and pushed him to the railing, and the dark water clicked below, and there stood Kern and that's how I had the Weigelt...

And as I ducked his head against the railing and he lifted his leg to thrust, he looked away and twisted his neck with difficulty under my grip and looked at me again for the first time and smiled

distorted mouth. That's when the spark of that understanding jumped up, when we recognized the deed, and through the spell of the deed each other, and realized that what happened under her spell only concerned him and me. It wasn't about the law of the people, it wasn't about the murderer and the victim, how could the law demand atonement for the crime and punishment for the murderer? And Weigelt freed himself with a quick movement of his arm and said loudly into the darkness to the crowd of gentlemen who represented the law that he could now remember exactly that I had resigned from the attempted murder at that controversial and unclear moment by the water...

I was sentenced three days later to three years in prison for aggravated assault,

I was taken to the state penal institution to continue serving my sentence. It was a newer building, with slightly larger cells, set in three wings controlled by a central office. The cell presented the same picture as the one I had previously inhabited. It was the same types of officers on duty here, the same stench in the corridors, and the same selection of prisoners running from cell to cell as jailers. Everything was as I was used to it, and it wasn't long before I believed that nothing had changed and that nothing would ever change. I exchanged everyday phrases with the officials and the daily work was carried into the cell every day, I fought the daily struggle for small benefits, for a piece of pencil, for a book, for a letter, I

concluded the daily walk with the usual little sigh. And the daily rumors of a new amnesty were there too,

The director had great reservations about allowing me the same walking lesson as the third-tier prisoners. Because several communists were imprisoned in this institution, and the director could not help but warn me about them. They're completely uneducated people, he said, and they only cause unrest among the prisoners, and I'm not supposed to bother with them. But I insisted on not occupying a special position and assumed from the outset that the director had warned the communists against me in almost the same words.

The communists walked in small, tight-knit groups during off-hours and could be recognized by the fact that they did not wear the third-degree insignia. I eyed them curiously on my first walk, but they didn't seem to care about me. But once, when I was walking a little slower, they passed me in quiet conversation, and one raised his hand almost militarily to his cap and said with friendly familiarity, "Hello, ensign!" I looked at him in surprise and he grimaced and said, "I think Ensign, we've been in the same shit before." And slipped his arm under mine and said, "It's not nice of you not to recognize old Corporal Schmitz!" I assured him that I hadn't become too proud

went our way together in harmony and let the supervisor look behind us with a stunned face. Schitz is serving four years in prison for crimes against the Explosives Act. I asked him whether the Red Front was quicker than in the Baltic States, and he answered imperturbably, if not more quickness, then more sense. We quarreled about that and we quarreled that day as well as the next, we bitterly proved each other bourgeois thinking, and he didn't mind citing the Holy Scriptures to support his theses, and I didn't mind to prove it my claims to attract the Communist Manifesto. The two of us were still arguing on the day we had been waiting for with the same burning hopes, without wanting to admit it, on the Reich President's eightieth birthday; I said it was inconsistent of him to accept the pardon and he said it is liberal vanity to refuse them. But when the amnesty law went into effect, I waited in vain at the cell door to be summoned to the warden soon, I waited with a trembling desperation that I angrily tried to scold myself away, and I didn't know whether to cry or to laugh. when I saw Schmitz and his comrades in civilian clothes with boxes and suitcases across the courtyard to the gate, when I heard the blaring fanfare of the Red Front Band and the grinning officials said that the Communists had been received outside with bouquets of flowers and laurel wreaths.

The bell from headquarters hammered its three chimes. I got up in front of my thighs and stood at the door and, as so often, thoughtlessly felt the iron fittings with my spread fingers. Out in the corridor, the cell doors slammed, footsteps shuffled past. I ate my bread hastily, the singing had to start immediately. Every Saturday before lockup, the prisoners' choir sang the closing time. If only they didn't always sing such sentimental songs, I thought, "If I ask the wanderer" or "I'd like to hurry home"—and I was annoyed that I was always listening, my ear to the crack in the door, and didn't move until the song was over. Then they began: "It is determined in God's counsel..." I leaned my forehead against the wall of the threshold. The cold stone made me shiver a little. This is my life now, I thought, and looked at my fingers that were resting on the iron of the shoe. The fingers were thin and white, and the black rims under the nails made them alien and dead. I looked at the hand intently. It was an old man's hand. While they were singing outside, I tiptoed to the mirror and looked in. The hair had become thin and colorless, leaving the forehead wide open, and the face was gray, the skin leathery, and a network of tiny wrinkles grew around the eyes. I opened my mouth, teeth were all yellow and brittle, gums pale. I sat down on the lowered bed and thought how tired I had been all day, and yet I couldn't do it at night

sleep and there was a numb spot in the back that sometimes hurt again. How old am I actually, I calculated, and was shocked that I was doing the calculations. "I'm twenty-five years old now," I said aloud, and then lay down on the bed. The chant was finished, and the calfacter bolted the door. The light went out. Out in the woods, which pushed up a gentle slope behind the wall, a little owl cried plaintively. Ten years ago I was still a cadet. There I lived within the red walls of the house in Lichterfelde. Now the walls I lived within were gray. That must have been a bit pointless, my life, wasn't it? No, that wasn't damn pointless. Only the facts of this life were meaningless. But facts say nothing decisive. Weigelt came to me in the waiting cell during the interval between the end of the taking of evidence and the beginning of the pleadings and said breathlessly that he wished me good luck, that that had been a warning shot for him, and that he was now a decent person become. He had become a decent man. The comrades had also become decent people. The public prosecutor, the same who, with the pathos of justice, applied for five years in prison for me, the same who objected to my pardon, had come to see me before I was taken to prison and told me that he had only ever wanted what was best for me , he was only doing his duty. The prosecutor was also a decent man. All were decent people. There were only decent people in the world anyway. It is he is only doing his duty. The prosecutor was also a decent man. All were decent people. There were only decent people in the world anyway. It is he is only doing his duty. The prosecutor was also a decent man. All were decent people. There were only decent people in the world anyway. It is

Imagination that there are villains. I wondered if I had met a villain yet. No, I hadn't met anyone. Not among the comrades, not among the opponents, not among the prisoners, and not even among the officials. Man is good, I thought, and felt the full dignity of my scorn. Man is good and it does not depend on him. If the trial had told and shown me one thing, it was the certainty that the outlaws' struggle was over. The public prosecutor had unrolled the most gruesome backgrounds with tragic gestures, he had conjured up the OC, and everyone had laughed, as at the Bogeyman who once went around the Reich dibum. The audience had laughed and the witnesses and the comrades and. the judicial officers. At the press table, they grinned like honey cake horses on the Christmas tree, and even the inspector who had been sent by IA Berlin to observe the proceedings smiled. It was over and everything was in vain.

I got up and paced back and forth. Then my life was messed up too. Was it a botch? It had become immensely rich. There wasn't a second of my past that I wanted to miss. And what was sitting in my throat like a choking plug was just the fear of no longer having a task. This was the same fear from which good people saved themselves by what they called, with lying sliminess, duty. What we had done wasn't enough. The new task had to emerge from our actions

grow, or we were wrong. I knew we weren't wrong. I knew we couldn't have been wrong. For we had lived according to the urgent will of the epoch. And everywhere we received confirmation of our actions. We had lived dangerously because time was dangerous, and since time was chaotic, whatever we thought or did or believed was chaotic. We were obsessed with that time, obsessed with its destruction, and obsessed with the pain that made the destruction fruitful. We had thrown ourselves at the only virtue that this time demanded, that of decisiveness, because we had the will to decide, as this time had it. But the decision had not come. There was still a world that dreaded itself. No, the fight wasn't over yet. Everyone feels that it cannot be over yet. And when the world of the outlaws had vanished because time had released them from its spell, the task remained. We once called ourselves revolutionaries, and we had a right to do so. We, who were striving to transform the German situation, had more right to do so than those who were struggling to shift their social position. The former fought because they did not want to recognize any government that was legitimate, we because we did not want to recognize any that was illegitimate. But the domination that we had and always have the task of attacking was illegitimate because it was based on a system of values dictated by the needs of the people,

and not of that eternal, deeper power, for the sake of which it was necessary to have needs. We had always invoked this violence and nothing else. We had never appealed to parties and programs, to flags and signs, to dogmas and theories. And if our attitude meant being directed, it was because it set itself the goal of asserting violence against appearances, life against constructions, rank against happiness, substance against falsification, then because it it was not enough to ask about the meaning of what was to come, but also about the standards. There was the task. There was only one crime, and that was not to fulfill them. The field was wide and open on which the battle of God and demons was played. And to roam this field, armed with the last fervor of a will, of a belief, ready to decide, that could only mean the demand on the individual. I fell asleep very comforted.

Free For five years, I hold the same feeling every morning: This is the most dreary, hopeless, gloomy day I can live. For five years each day had meaning only because it

passed, each day was just a step toward the first day of freedom. For five years my thoughts revolved around this first day, around the first twenty-four hours and their unspeakable content of sun, space and life. The shrill sound of the bell from the switchboard jolted into my dreams. I was startled to hear its tinny echo, which insultingly tore the heavy air of the burrow. I sat up, exhausted and battered, stared dullly at the black walls, at the gray square of the window divided by the bars. I thought about how I could liven up the day. Maybe the doctor came to me for five minutes. I could have the sleep powder extended. I staggered to the window and lowered the skylight. But the wave of cold air couldn't clear my head, which was still so dazed from that night, with its wild faces, its stinking sweat, and its foul breath, that every thought hurt. Doors slammed in the corridor the grinding of the bread baskets was mixed with the clattering of the clogs of the calf, the rattling of the iron cauldrons. I groped my way to the bucket, lifted it with difficulty from the stand and stood by the door, holding my breath. The bucket was full, the lid was floating in the water-filled grooves. I pressed my mouth against the crack in the door and breathed in the cool breeze of the corridor. The key rattled in the lock. The officer turned on the light, which shot glaringly into my blinking eyes. I put the bucket in front of the door and took the bread in my dirty fingers. The door slammed, I slipped into it I pressed my mouth against the crack in the door and breathed in the cool breeze of the corridor. The key rattled in the lock. The officer turned on the light, which shot glaringly into my blinking eyes. I put the bucket in front of the door and took the bread in my dirty fingers. The door slammed, I slipped into it I pressed my mouth against the crack in the door and breathed in the cool breeze of the corridor. The key rattled in the lock. The officer turned on the light, which shot glaringly into my blinking eyes. I put the bucket in front of the door and took the bread in my dirty fingers. The door slammed, I slipped into it

Dresses, in the grey-and-white striped outfit, in the chunky boots. After a short wash in the narrow bowl, I cleaned up the cell as I do every day, folded up the iron bed against the wall and squatted on the stool. I ate the bread, chewing slowly, just so I wouldn't take the quid on an empty stomach, I had to hurry with the work. The sixty-five yards of raffia I had to braid took up the whole day. I had to make the same hand movement sixteen thousand times; if at the end of the month I was still six assignments short, the director, who certainly didn't dare punish me for insufficient work, would assign me bag stickers, and that was even more stupid. The damp musty bast stained my fingers. The noises of the corridor and the switchboard came to me in a confused way; the bell rang and announced the day. At half past nine, when I heard the keys clinking closer and closer to my door, I got up, tired and sullen, from my stool and tied my scarf on to go for a walk. The officer came, I stepped out and walked in the usual trot eight paces behind the cell neighbor. The chief constable stood with dignity on the control panel. When he saw me, he leaned over the railing and said, "Give me your workbook!" The work book, apart from the period, was only required from prisoners whose pardons had arrived. I stopped, startled, and looked up at the chief constable. He remained motionless, just drumming his fingers on the railing, impatiently, it seemed to me. I joined

returned empty-hearted, went back to the cell and got the workbook. The sergeant took it, leafed through it for a while, then put it in his pocket and disappeared. I scrambled along the long corridors in a hurry after the others.

The narrow courtyard with the high wall opened up before me. The December sun was cold and the wind howled around corners. I stopped for a second at the top of the stairs, as I always do, and saw the narrow strip of the world that one could only see from here: a strip of meadow, a country road, vague, deserted hills. Then an officer grabbed my arm: "You should come back to headquarters!" The director stood on the control panel with a solemn face. Suddenly I could hardly breathe. The director looked at me scrutinizingly and with cold eyes. I stood in front of him, almost satisfied that once again I was obviously wrong. The director said, "I have some happy news to give you..." "When, when...?" I screamed. The principal laughed and held out his hand and said: "You can be released at eleven o'clock." I pull myself together. I hesitated for a second, then shook the hand that was offered. I staggered, stumbled down the stairs, and then ran toward my cell with my eyes almost closed. The sergeant stood there, he unlocked the door, grabbed my wrist and said: "Pulse 250!"

I didn't come to my senses. I threw my things, books, notebooks, pictures, letters into a box, from this box into another, and only dimly realized that this junk contained everything that had been of value and uniqueness to me in the last five years was for joy. The door kept swinging open and shut. The entire clumsy bureaucratic apparatus of the penitentiary creaked in motion and cleared its throat to spit me out. I had to pack my things, bathe, settle accounts, have a shave; I ran from the cell to the chamber, from the chamber to the chancellery; I ran blindly past the officers and saw that the prisoners I encountered were looking at me as I had looked at the pardoned and pardoned year after year, with hostile envy. Suddenly I was a stranger to them, excluded from their oppressed community. And I had just enough time for selfcontrol to be ashamed that they suddenly became shameful to me, too, outcasts, despised. I had just enough time to feel the betrayed heart pounding against the brain, and the brain angrily pushing aside whatever was about to tremble. Small things filled me and left my consciousness only dull, veiled feelings. Basically I was afraid. Fear of Freedom? Fear of change, of salvation from rigidity? Did the rigidity break? Yes, it came loose, but it didn't start with joy, it set itself in motion, in trembling, hasty, nervous movements, as if I didn't have a second to miss, as if every moment was important now, the variety of the world carried me in itself, fill my whole being and leave no room

for clear feeling and will. When was it that I was in this tremendous tension, that I experienced, experienced deeply and intensively and yet did not come to experience? Back then, before the first battle?

And then I stood in the boarding cell, trembling, stripped off my grey, disgusting clothes, slipped into the white, starched, rippling shirt, threw my heavy, nailed clogs against the wall, stroked my fine underwear and stockings with fingertips that had suddenly become soft and sensitive — the collar, stiff and snow-white, the silk tie, the suit made of blue, good, non-slip material, how it fitted and how I stretched my hunched shoulders, how self-confidence suddenly rose imperiously again, the joy in the moment! I put my hat on. I lifted my feet, which had become light, I put on my gloves; the new suitcase stood with flashing locks on the door, which opened and revealed the way, the way to the gate... For five years I thought about the moment when the heavy penitentiary door would slam shut behind me. Shouldn't that give me an electric shock? Wasn't the world bound to open up, bigger and more glorious than I could bear? I wanted to keep my first thought in freedom until that other gate that would one day swallow me up; the first thought in freedom had to contain all the sweetness of the earth, or it wasn't worth living in freedom... I stood in the dark gateway. A prisoner, the Hofkalfakter, rattled his patinas at me, grinned, and held up his finger: 'With the right foot

over the threshold, and look no more! Otherwise you'll come back!" — I smiled weakly. The clerk at the gate pushed open the iron doors, and a streak of pale sunshine lit up the gateway. I picked up the heavy suitcase and stepped outside. The gate slammed shut behind me with a screech. i was free I thought, "Will I catch the train?" This was my first thought in freedom. I walked through the village street. The heavy suitcase robbed me of all form. It seemed to me that I had always had the low half-timbered houses with the large archways in mind. It was nothing extraordinary. A few geese rounded the corner, chattering, and the village street was very muddy. Wasn't the sun shining? I think she shone. Didn't it smell tart and fresh and no longer musty? I think it was like that. Didn't the farmer's wife with the wide skirts smile kindly? Maybe, but maybe she recognized the released prisoner, and the look was scrutinizing and suspicious. I did not know it. «Man, wake up, you are free!» the heart pounded against the brain, but the brain answered angrily, "Yes, yes, that's all very well, but hurry, you've got to catch the train!" — At the station counter I opened the blue envelope that the prison office had given me. For the first time I had money in my hands again, a lot of money, I thought, it was almost twenty marks, five years' earnings.

When I was deprived of air and space, there was other money. I looked at the coins in embarrassment, turning them back and forth, silver money and yellow dimes. The man at the counter gave me the ticket; I laboriously counted it out, he said, winking: "You probably didn't count money where you come from!" I blushed very much, but was almost glad that the man at the counter was cheerful, but because of him I was looking for an empty compartment when the train came.

I came out of tightness and rigidity. For years I only saw vertical lines and my eyes caught walls. The sky stood between the bars like a backdrop, a wall, unmoving and unfriendly. The bit of green in the yard was dusty, and the few trees, mostly leafless, stood in front of gray areas. The environment was simple and monotonous. Every little thing gained disproportionate value, since it alone interrupted straight lines and divided surfaces. Thus man became primitive, dull, inelastic. Those desires and dreams that could not be suffocated came in the long, sleepless nights and longed for space, for air, for structure, for horizontal, curved lines, for trembling, glaring light. How was the forest? A cry of diversity! How could one's gaze dart out over gentle meadow slopes! How could one breathe in uninhibited, sweeping air! The landscape in the dreams of the cell was free and alive.

Now I sat in the train and the landscape offered itself in changing images. I looked through the window. To the right stood the forest with striving trunks. "Nice," I thought, looking to the left eagerly. There

the field spread calmly. And I, who had hungered for years to experience the landscape, instinctively pulled out the newspaper the doctor had given me in the boarding cell and read. Until I got scared and jumped up. Until I balled up the newspaper and threw it in the corner and laid my head on the wooden bench. I was in despair, and yet my despair seemed like badly acted theater. I didn't get the experience! For five years I was outside the borders. For five years, dull, the most trivial, the most cold-ridden bourgeoisie had lurked idly in wait, only to pounce on me at the first moment of freedom, stifling all emotion. So everyday life was stronger than the most whipped-up person! I called myself to be sensible. But I didn't mean to be reasonable. I didn't want to be sensible to all the devils! I'd be damned if I got sane. But couldn't the newspaper give me a vivid picture of the urgent forces that were now determining life? I threw the newspaper out the window because I was afraid of taking a bribe.

I longed uneasily for the first encounter with crowds, for movement, for haste, for the multiplicity of the street and the market. The train drove into the hall of the station. I pushed my way through the barrier without feeling and stood on the station space. I wasn't particularly confused, but in order to observe details I had to switch off all thinking, had to look at all comparisons

give it up, otherwise I wouldn't have gotten along. The sheer mass of cars, the traffic, the chasing and hurrying, the gaudy advertising structures all seemed familiar to me, although five years ago the pile-up of impressions could not have been so massive. What frightened and chilled me were the people. They had no faces! Or, they all had the same face. These people seemed captivated, they seemed unaware of space and vastness. They walked stubbornly, joylessly and without expression, almost like machines, like wellpolished, saturated, panting machines, trembling with vitality but by no means alive. They wore their fine and elegant clothes with a staggering matterof-factness. They went with certainty and without astonishment—and I went with them. I joined the streaming line and automatically lost the pleasure of being well dressed and knew my face suddenly wore the same cold and busy expression. But the strangest thing were the women. They had nothing in common with the women of the cell's dreams. Their faces seemed drab and bare, and had the same monotony as their tall, boring legs. Only the little creases that threw up shiny silk stockings on the knees reminded of the wild tortures of the cell, because only they seemed alive. I hadn't spoken to anyone yet. My hostile rigidity persisted. I didn't want to acknowledge anything. I passed streets and houses that I knew, recognized, and owned by me

still unfamiliar. I passed little children playing and they annoyed me. I bought the pipe, tobacco, and matches, remembering that I had made this my intention for Freedom Day, and I was completely unsure of the seller. I got tangled up in the money again and tried very hard not to let anyone see how much I felt everyone was looking at where I came from. I stood alone in the throng of people and intensely felt the desire to return to the cell, to the even peace and security. I thought: "They're eating at home now" and "home" was the penitentiary for me. I stood in front of my apartment and I was afraid, immeasurably, miserably afraid. I rang the bell, nobody answered, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I climbed to my attic room, but it was locked. I kept running through the streets, entered a small, quiet café, sat there for a long time and was disconsolate and bitter.

When it got dark, I went to her apartment. I stood at the door like a beggar and felt the same breathless fear as such. She opened it, got a fright and silently pulled me down the hallway into the room. She set the tea table, I sat in a deep armchair, leaning far back under pillows, and I was excited. When she looked at me once, I bitterly forbade any pity. I spoke hastily and convulsed. The room narrowed, no sound penetrated from outside. Curtains hung on the windows, which struck me as pleasant. Then I became aware that I was a foreign body in the room, that I was not at ease

could endure. I could sit no longer, having sat for five years. I couldn't stand it in the four walls that I lived in four walls for five years. My brother came, surprised, eager and pleasantly noisy. I started talking, talking in a confused way, breaking off, searching for words, desperately waving my arms. I had lost all sense of boundaries, of speech, of expression, of rhythm. I would interrupt people, I was inattentive to the point of naughtiness, and every sentence I spoke began with "I." For years I was the only interesting thing around me, I could only talk to myself, I was always the only thing that stimulated my thoughts and questions. I urged my brother to go out with me. As I stood at the door, I waited for it to be opened. Then I changed my mind and took the handle in my hand. As soon as I touched her, she jumped up. I opened and closed the door three times. When my brother smiled, I snapped at him. It was already evening when my brother took me to a place where he was meeting friends. It was a circle of younger and older people who filled their place in life and moved and gave with infinite certainty. I was very quiet and listened to the speeches and the music. The place was very crowded, with empty, dull-hued walls and smooth, metallic pillars. On the dais sat musicians with strange black instruments with many silver keys.

On endless Sundays I had crouched by the cell window and listened to the confused tones that echoed somewhere out of the little town—perhaps a concert on the promenade, far from the walls and, I imagined, surrounded by crowds of festive people. The music in the coffee house was loud and strangely squeaky. It basically consisted only of rhythm and was reminiscent of Grieg. I listened with interest, wondering if she was naïve or clever. Then I got annoyed because she wasn't either of them, she was just taken for granted. But I wasn't as captivated by the music as I had dreamed and doubted whether I had any trace of openmindedness. Now and then the man at the conductor's desk, a very elegant man, in tails and self-confident, a tin funnel and yell something in the hall with beaming faces, which must have an intoxicating effect; for many women got a nervous, agitated, panting expression on their bare faces and twitched their legs and shoulder blades. Then a Negro sang, all faces turned to him. The abundance of impressions confused me. But I sat comfortably in the soft armchair, drank a coffee that tasted strangely full, and tried to take in everything that was offered. The gentlemen spoke from behind their flashing horn-rimmed glasses about politics, cars and women. I heard things that were completely foreign to me, that amazed me and that I had to believe because they were presented with nonchalance and certainty. I felt my absolute inadequacy. I would like to

asked many things, but I couldn't have a say in all of these things, and that restricted me. I was filled to bursting with the experience of lack of experience, and with every word I wanted to say I feared that I would not get out of the limited circle in which I had lived up to then, and that everyone would immediately have to learn from my idioms what kind of words I was saying a perimeter this was. At the same time I had a burning urge to speak. I wanted to ask, to force the essential, anything essential, out of the jumble of words and ideas—wanted to make a dash to break the circle, but I leapt against rubber bands with each thrust. But how, wasn't it that these so safe people were also somehow in chains? Did they get over their borders? Did they have the experience of being deployed that only gives them the right to break the chains? Was this the freedom I dreamed of? Wasn't everything that these people said crooked, crooked and one-sided in its diversity? Which of them became aware of the moment? Which one of them had built their life the way one could build it when one was free, really free? Basically they were all touchingly full of dissatisfaction, while my dissatisfaction burned and nagged. When I took stock of the five years, it was still a plus. How could I bear it if it were otherwise! But the bourgeois must not overwhelm me; for it is rigid, mobile perhaps, but not alive. And

I had to live, live! I've been rigid too long to wait any longer to live. The law of regularity that ruled me for five years, these clever, intelligent, agile gentlemen were also subject to it. But there were tensions in me that could not allow me to transition from shackles to other shackles, but could allow me to leap from rigidity into the limitless, into joy, into hardness, into things that are beyond words. We walked through the old town. While glaring lights flickered in the main streets, the mouth stood above pointed, articulated gables. Cats stalked the rooftops with their tails raised. What I saw was unreal in its reality, and that's why I felt good. I could no longer endure straight lines, and this confusion, overflowing with the mouth, which muffled everything and yet cast shadows, this multifaceted form, which first made the sky alive, this was what made me calm and sure. I was free and five years was sunk and forgotten.