Before the Feast (21 page)

Be heroic with your memory by admitting honestly what has been done.

Be heroic and know that heroes cannot always be heroes; there are many other things to do.

III

ON THE 29TH DAY OF SEPTEMBER IN THE YEAR 1722
, I received a message from that unhappy mother who lost her little daughter so cruelly in an oven, the same child having bravely warned the village before of thieving vagabonds. I did not know why the woman should send for me in her hour of need, but I did not hesitate. Perhaps I might be able to offer a little comfort in the great sadness that her terrible loss had brought upon her and the village.

Many a house in Fürstenfelde has stood empty since the war. Those who fled the place come home only gradually, and many, may God have mercy on them, will never return. I am afraid for the village, I fear that devastation threatens it, and it will be deserted like others in the country round about.

My grief grew greater when I came to the woman's little house, and found more misfortune. The building seems to have suffered from a fire recently, and was patched up in makeshift manner against the weather. The fire has thrust its blades deep into the wood, leaving black wounds.

I found the mother in a wild fallow field full of weeds, under an oak tree. She was tall, thin and all in mourning, motionless as a figure in a woodcut. She spoke without any greeting, without looking at me, her voice hoarse with sorrow. It was not I to whom she spoke, hers was a message about the conduct of life intended for a child. That child would never
receive her message, it was her dead daughter to whom she called. To the mother, her daughter was not dead, and so she spoke as if she herself were going on a journey and leaving her child at home.

Her words went through my throat like a ploughshare. They cast my thoughts into turmoil, except for reflecting on the cruel fate that can befall certain human beings. I left the place without a word, taking what the mother had said with me. I am sure she wanted me as a witness to carry the story of her child out into the world, and may God help me, I will do so.

ALL THIS IS RATHER TOO MUCH FOR US. FRAU
Schwermuth raises her gun, as a sign to the others to come with her. The light of her flashlight wanders angrily between Anna and Herr Schramm. Anna has her arms in the air above her head like someone in a film. She is blinking.

“Anna, get down off that wall.”

Anna does as she is told.

“Right, now both of you come over here to me. You too, Lutz.”

Lutz? What Lutz?

“Come on, Johanna, are you crazy?” Herr Schramm isn't taking orders any more. He doesn't move. He sits enthroned, tall and warm, above the grotesque outline of a woman in a helmet threatening him. Or does he just sense the chance of a happy ending for him at someone else's hands?

Frau Schwermuth shines her flashlight in his face. “I won't repeat that again.”

Herr Schramm sighs. Hard to say whether it is a sigh of resignation or a sigh of annoyance. Anna's expression is more easily interpreted. Let's call it determined. Determination tenses her muscles, takes Herr Schramm's pistol out of the kangaroo pouch in front of Anna's raincoat and points it at Frau Schwermuth.

Determination: “Drop that gun.”

Well, well. Herr Schramm is beginning to feel as if he is the only one not crazy tonight. “I ask you!” he whispers. He takes a step aside, placing himself in the line of fire between Anna and Frau Schwermuth. The Wild West in Fürstenfelde. On such a night as this.

“I knew it, traitor!” Frau Schwermuth shows no sign of being about to give up. She has caught the tinker and made sure the bells are safe, now it's
her
turn. “Anna, lower your crossbow!”

As if taking your own life wasn't hard enough, Herr Schramm now has to save two others. “Right,” he says. “Right.” And: “Johanna, please. What's going on? This makes no sense.”

“Lutz, my dear Lutz, won't you see it or can't you see it?” Frau Schwermuth is breathing heavily. “The girl will give us away! She'll murder us all, all of us!”

Herr Schramm has no statistics ready at the moment to deal with something like this. “Johanna,” he says calmly, “my name is Schramm. Wilfried Schramm. And this is Anna. Granddaughter of Geher the toymaker. She's not going to hurt anyone. Isn't that so, Anna?”

Anna nods, which isn't very satisfactory in the dark, so Herr Schramm repeats his question in a louder voice and gets a loud “Yes” back.

“No, she can't help it!” Frau Schwermuth's voice breaks. “She has to give our hiding place away. Fürstenfelde will be looted, no one will survive! But if we lock her up we'll survive! Help me, Lutz, or you'll be the first to die. It is written! Every child knows that!”

Herr Schramm as a child had
Struwwelpeter
read to him, that's all he remembers. He has no idea what Frau Schwermuth means, but he does fear that her shaking voice and wild remarks bode no good.

Behind him, Anna clears her throat. “She,” she says, swallowing, “won't—I mean I won't give anyone away.” She is trembling all over, tries to calm down, tries to remember what her grandfather. . . “I can shoot, though. Twice. In the eye, twice. Two crossbow bolts. I won't give anyone away, I'm. . . saving people. That's how it is. Lutz—” She doesn't finish her sentence.

Herr Schramm knows that even someone with nothing to lose can lose time. He runs at Frau Schwermuth.

She is aiming at Lutz. Her big body sways in time to a song that only she can hear. Her pupils wander from side to side.

IT WAS IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1636 THAT NEWS
of the marauding Soldiery outside Fürstenfelde set the Village in an Uproar, for this was not the Troop of any Army, but that accurs't roaming Gang of discharg'd Mercenaries without Means, once enemies of One Another, now going through the Country with Fire and the Sword, leaving Death where they found Life, and nothing but Ashes where Houses once stood.

The People knew plundering and enforc'd Contributions all too well, whether by Swedes or Imperial Men made but little Difference. Rumors of the Cruelty of this Rabble, however, bore Witness to such barbarous Terror that many even fled with little more than the Clothes on their Backs. Those who stayed, perhaps eighty of them, Women, Children and the Aged, had been too weak to flee, or pray'd and hop'd that all might yet be well.

Old Lutz, which same had fought many a Battle in the Past, rail'd against those who resign'd themselves to their Fate rather than find a Hiding Place. The History of Man, said he, was the History of those who had hid well. So said the old Soldier, and furthermore he bade all who lov'd their Lives to follow him. Almost all did as he said. Lutz took them to the Passage hid Underground, dug out in Olden Days by two Thieves to get into the Cellar and rob Provisions. They could stay here, said he, without the Knowledge of Any, until the Danger be past.

The People had brought down Possessions and Nourishment, Chickens and even a Calf. The Dogs had barked, and were left behind. The Villagers sat in a long Row beneath the Earth, and the Earth was cold, and when a Fowl began to cluck Barth the Blacksmith wrung its neck, and none said a Word.

Old Lutz stayed up above, not for his own Sake. One young Woman had not wished to hide, but had placed herself with a loaded Crossbow on the Walls as if to drive off the Enemy. Lutz did not know her. She had arrived only a few Days since, being wounded in the Field and separated from her Regiment. She had been succour'd and tended here, and now she wish'd to show herself Grateful.

Down at the Foot of the Wall, old Lutz drank and squinted up at the young Woman. She was trembling, holding the Crossbow in the Crook of her Arm like as if it were a Babe. When the old Man said that most here had a good Hiding Place, she dismiss'd that without many Words, and kept silent Watch for the invisible Foe under Cover of Night. The Wind was already blowing with the smoky Smell of Death on it, and there was Fire and Screaming in the Darkness. The Mob was approaching over the Fields.

Lutz had found out her name: Anna.

WHO WRITES THE OLD STORIES? WHO ERECTS A
memorial to fear? Who traces the furrows for sowing seed with a rake?

Who tells us what we ought to know?

Who tells us what we know?

Who tells us what? We.

Who tells on us?

Who tells?

Who?

A fire comes and it's all gone, all of it.

Who writes the story of the fire?

Let's say a young woman is standing on a town wall, and she is armed. No, let's not say “standing.” Let's say she “steps from foot to foot on the spot in the cold.” That tells us about the weather too, and if someone is stepping from foot to foot on the spot, we get a sense of time passing. Let's say, instead of “armed,” that she has “a crossbow in the crook of her arm.” That's better. And ahead of her is the enemy in the uniform of the night. Uniform of the night!

Heroes need names. Let's call her Anna.

Down at the foot of the wall, old Lutz says, “Anna, one thing troubles me in this hour. I have never spoken loving words and meant them.”

What? Yes, what's that supposed to mean? No idea, it's written like that. However, it does us good to hear the old man's rough voice. He is drinking beer, perhaps leaning on a rusty halberd. But the girl says nothing. Such a crazy thing to say, and no reply? No, the enemy is advancing. “A movement,” calls Anna, loading the crossbow with her bolts. “They're coming!”

Old Lutz warns Anna not to shoot. “Put the bow away, girl, come down from there.” At that distance and in the dark, she won't hit anyone anyway. Even if she does, she can't win this fight. There are dozens and dozens of them coming, and she is alone. “That's enough heroism. Join the others, girl, disappear. You can yet be loving in your life, go, Anna, disappear!”

Who writes the old stories? Who decides who will be hit by the bolts? Bolts? Surely they all had muskets at that time. Anna has a crossbow, full stop. She takes aim, she shoots. The first bolt hits the leader of the rabble in the left eye, goes through his brain and kills him then and there. With the next bolt she hits the second man, who is carrying a banner with no crest on it, only dried blood, in the right eye and kills him too then and there. As quickly as those two fell, the attackers draw back.

David versus Goliath. Hmm, no. We don't like that. Why not? Why is Lutz hiding the people? It would be more exciting if they were really in danger. And this is all going too smoothly. Suppose someone else comes along? For instance, someone from the village who thinks Anna is a traitor. Thinks she is one of the rabble who has smuggled herself in to find out whether an attack is worthwhile, whether the village can defend itself,
and so on. Let's say the Mayor. Yes, him. He tells Anna to put her crossbow away and come down. Right, but if she is really a traitor then the Mayor needs a weapon, or she will shoot him. Okay. He has a. . . a wheel-lock pistol. What's that?
GEO Epoch
magazine about the Thirty Years' War describes it as the best handgun of its time. We're always learning something new. Okay. Anna comes down. We need another twist in the story now. Right. It's a fact that Lutz trusts her. He stands between her and the Mayor, who aims his pistol at Lutz. Right, we already know about that.

Who writes the old stories?

Who takes that job on?

FROM OUR VANTAGE POINT AS WE HOVER ABOVE
the scene, it looks as if Herr Schramm is working magic. Both his hands are outstretched, one to Frau Schwermuth, he's almost touching her, the other to Anna, and they are both of them aiming their pistols at him.

My word, thinks Herr Schramm. But he has already seen that it's not a real pistol in Frau Schwermuth's hand. A sort of pistol, yes, but he doesn't mind water, he's all wet anyway. However, Herr Schramm also thinks that if this were on
Crime Scene
you could bet on a minor character with strong feelings shooting him in the shoulder now, or shooting Frau Schwermuth in the forehead or the knee.

Anna is clutching his pistol in both hands.

Frau Schwermuth sobs.

What looks to us like magic is the fact that Herr Schramm slowly lowers his arm in front of Frau Schwermuth, and in a synchronized movement Frau Schwermuth lowers her gun with the yellow dolphin on the barrel.

Then Herr Schramm says Anna's name and the name of his favorite place. “It's all right, Anna,” says Herr Schramm, “in winter I'll take you to see the Güldenstein.” And he lowers his other arm, while in a synchronized movement Anna lowers hers.

Frau Schwermuth bursts into tears.

Herr Schramm clears his throat. He finds tears in connection with the Prussian spiked helmet really embarrassing.

“Johann.” Frau Schwermuth looks at him pleadingly. “I think Johann. . . in the Archivarium. . . we must. . .”

Herr Schramm offers her his arm. She gratefully links hers with it. Anna is trembling all over. Herr Schramm thinks of ruffling up her hair, but she must be too old for that, and also she is wearing a cap.

On such a night as this, the Güldenstein shines a little more brightly.

SOMEONE. SOMEONE WRITES THE STORIES
. Someone has always written them.

AN EXCERPT FROM THE ACCOUNT OF THE TRAVELING
barber-surgeon and dentist, Johanness Michael Harthsilber, of a girl who fell sick of a ravenous hunger. This occurred in the year 1807, in the little town of Fürstenfelde in the Brandenburg Mark, and was written down by Herr Harthsilber.

The girl was twelve years old, and small of stature. She hardly ever played with children of her own age, being weak and sickly in other respects as well, but regularly attended church with her father, a blacksmith. Her mother had died at the girl's birth.

It was on the second day of the New Year that the girl felt a great
appetentia
for food, which soon assumed such proportions that her father, in his concern and uneasiness, sent for me. I found the girl in an unusual
conditio
! Her forehead was burning, she was sweating, etc., yet when she was not asleep she kept calling for food. But her stomach would not accept any thing, and the girl vomited it all up again. Before my eyes, she devoured a large chicken, bones and all, a loaf of bread and a piece of butter, putting it straight into her mouth with her hand. In addition she drank milk and beer, and poured rye flour down her throat, but all of this came back up and out of her again.