The Antichrist (13 page)

In this region there was a village that was visited one day by skilled engineers. They examined the fields and meadows and found that great quantities of potash could be obtained from the earth of this village.

They returned to the poison factory and reported to the Masters of a Thousand Poisons that there was potash in this village.

So the Masters of a Thousand Poisons sent clever agents to the village. These agents told the owners of the fields and meadows nothing about the potash. They simply offered them money, great quantities of money, for their fields and meadows.

The farmers loved their fields and meadows, but they loved money even more.

And thus they sold the fields and the meadows to the Masters
of a Thousand Poisons but asked if they could live in their homes and on their land for ten more years.

This took place, however, a year before the great war that is known as the World War.

But once the war broke out there was a need for potash and also ammonia, not only to make the soil rich but also to bury the enemies of the fatherland under the earth and transform these enemies into rich manure. So the fields and meadows were taken from the farmers, although the ten years were not yet up – for what validity do the laws of peace have over those of war? – and with them was taken that which lay beneath, the potash.

A giant machine came, what is called an ‘excavator'. This is a hellish machine that rips up mouthfuls of earth and destroys everything that grows or lives on the surface. And this machine destroyed the houses and farms, the barns, stables, ploughed fields and meadows.

In this village there also stood a church, in the middle of a cemetery. The peasants said they would not hand over their dead or the church, however much potash there might be alongside the bones of the dead. For they had not sold the churchyard to the Masters of a Thousand Poisons.

But the Masters of a Thousand Poisons paid money, more money. The dead were exhumed, one grave at a time, and they were transported to the next village where there was no potash under the earth's surface.

On a certain day the villagers gathered in the church so as to take their final leave.

While they were praying and saying farewell, outside, the excavator began to shake the ground. And the roof of the church collapsed, along with the bells, on top of four hundred people, and the cross was sent flying into the open potash pit. The bells
were made into cannon and the four hundred dead were turned into ammonia. And with this ammonia the enemy could be poisoned.

I came to this village. It is no longer a village, it is one great wide pit of potash and ammonia.

A stench of pestilence and putrefaction dominates the air.

An old man, the caretaker, who had known the place when it was a thriving village and whose face was already marked by death, said to me: ‘I often think of the old village. But the fact that it has died wouldn't trouble me so much if its constant heavenly guests were still here. When it began to stink of ammonia here, the birds vanished. Under this sky the larks trill no more. The swallows no longer build their nests in these parts. To say nothing of the storks. Even the ravens and crows avoid our area in winter. Yes, the sparrows have also left. For twenty years I haven't heard the song of a bird. If I had money, I would go far away so that I could hear the song of a bird once more before my death.'

So spoke the old man. And in the air the stench of plague and chemicals reigned.

In this region a poison called nitroglycerine is also manufactured. With this, houses, cities and mountains can be blown skywards. If any of this nitroglycerine is left over it is sent to a neighbouring factory where artificial silk and goods made from artificial silk are produced. There they make stockings for women, and from there came the stockings that the
doppelgänger
of her beautiful shadow wore when she made nineteen attempts at dying in Hollywood and showed her calves as she died. Her calves were clad in nitroglycerine.

Then the mighty Master of a Thousand Tongues told me: ‘Go and look at the battle pictures that people paint so that war is not forgotten in peacetime.'

And I wrote to him:

Mighty Master of a Thousand Tongues

The old battle pictures aren't terrifying; rather, they are touching. The bloody red that may once have predominated has become brick-red, even a bit carroty-red. The tattered flags flutter at the front of the battle. Indeed, they have been sliced by sabres, ripped by swords, pierced by bullets. But the very fact that these delicate fabrics of cloth or silk can meet deadly weapons and still survive many battles confirms the impression that wars in the old days were actually more harmless than they are portrayed in the history books. The presence of many fallen soldiers is undeniable. Their deaths don't appear to have been final. They still have time to let a curse escape from their lips before they die or to bless the cause for which they have fought. It is obviously clear to them, at the moment of death, that they will awaken by some miracle to a further cheerful life of war, or they already see the military part of Heaven that is waiting to receive them.

No wonder! The enemy is usually non-believers – Turks, janissaries, Tatars, whose religion is at its base monotheistic but
which contains a fundamental misunderstanding. This is evident in their curved swords. Those who fight on our side – the Christian side – have straight swords (symbolic of the character of the warriors) with a handle that can at any time be used as a cross. While the janissaries, Tatars and Saracens prefer small, nimble, reddish horses, the heroes of the Occident ride on white horses reminiscent of the doves of the Grail. Ordinary men rescue the prominent heroes at the last moment. In general, the saviour is fatally wounded. But one already surmises that his descendants will receive a fief as soon as the hero's wounds are healed.

The battle usually takes place on a plain, the character of which is emphasized by the surrounding heights. On these hills stand the high commanders, those in whose name the battle is being fought. Behind them and out of sight most likely stand their white tents, in which the black-haired courtesans lie and keep their fingers crossed. If the battle goes unfavourably, those in whose name it is being waged are the first to turn around and go to their tents. They must be broken down in great haste. But the vanquished leader still has time for a fleeting embrace from his mistress.

It sometimes happens, however, that the hill – and what lies behind it – cannot be evacuated in time. In those cases, the victors storm out from the convenient plain, and the first of them to reach the top wave to those who are still below. Waving generally plays a great role in war. Somebody is always waving to someone else – to victory, to fame or to death. And those who wave apparently know very well that they are setting an example and that their actions will be handed down for posterity. The cause for which they are fighting and waving is a good one. The followers are aware of this, and they do not hesitate.

The sky is blue, the sun is hot and yellow, the dust white. The warriors' throats are dry, and the spectator thirsts even at
the sight of the battle. The various wounds must cause fever and intensify thirst. It makes one want to carry a bucket of fresh water to aid the men who are fulfilling their difficult duty under the fiery sun. One would like to refresh the fighters. It is impossible! There is no spring near by and there are no buckets on hand! The viewer can take comfort in the thought that they will drink when the battle has ended.

As evening comes the battle ends. We know that the sunny part of the day lasts about twelve hours. As soon as the sun sets behind one of the hills at its disposal, the trumpets blow in retreat, even if the battle is not yet decided. The sickle moon climbs slowly over the horizon and reminds one of the curved swords of the enemy. The unharmed lie down to sleep. And the wounded begin to groan.

There is nothing more horrible than the fact that the
last war
is already becoming the subject of idyllic war paintings. After it has ceased! Particularly in the victorious countries, where the people imagine that they have won the war somewhat in the same fashion as the knights of Christendom once vanquished the heathen. The poison gases seem like neat little clouds whose destructive force is a guarantee of resurrection.

The little cannon spit forth their lovely little flames. The little aeroplanes hum swiftly through the breeze. Touching little field postcards are written by heroes to their sweethearts. Especially beloved is the storming of trenches. Just like the attacks against the Saracens! Occupied hills are stormed with bayonets. These attackers are caught in barbed wire that pierces their entrails. And someone waves! Someone waves! To victory, to fame, to death!

Yet we are still alive. We, the Saracens and the Christians. And
we notice how they paint us, our fathers, our younger brothers. They make films about us and paint war pictures to hang on walls, so that our grandchildren will again develop a blood lust. Before our own living eyes they portray our entrails. They are already trivializing our own deaths. They are already making field-marshal hills out of our corpse-hills. Only about ten years later. Ten short years! They are rebuilding so soon! And they are painting! …

But the red that they now employ – and this is our only miserable consolation! – will never take on the peaceful shade of brick. It will be red, red as blood and fire. Our blood, our fire. The colours of today are composed of a different substance than they used to be. Actual blood is mixed into them. And our deaths were the last deaths that may be enveloped in idyllic lies. The deaths of our painters will be different, not to be painted. They will suffocate in their homes, in their studios, with their palettes in their left hands and their brushes in their lying right! …

This, Mighty Master of a Thousand Tongues, is my reflection on battle pictures.

Your obedient servant

J.R.

P.S. Where shall I go now, Mighty Master of a Thousand Tongues?

The Master of a Thousand Tongues sent me to the people who are scattered among all the other peoples of the earth – namely, to the Jews.

It is written that this people will be dispersed among all the peoples of the earth. Thus they have no land of their own. And, if one wishes to seek them out, one does not know where to go. Everywhere we see Jews among us. Where should one go to see only Jews?

The Master of a Thousand Tongues said: ‘Go there, where the Jews live together, tightly packed into villages or small towns.'

So I went to the Jews.

And there I met people who were Jews, that is to say, all the world around them called them Jews. But I saw no difference between them and other people, except in certain traditions of everyday life and of religion.

And I wrote to the Master of a Thousand Tongues the following letter:

Mighty Master of a Thousand Tongues

As I have already had the honour to tell you face to face that I do not feel able to remain in your service, I allow myself now to inform you that I am unable to view the Jews to whom you have dispatched me as a people distinct from the other peoples of this earth.

I repeat to you, Mighty Master of a Thousand Tongues, on this occasion that I am not at all able to distinguish between peoples or send you reports that will make the people to which you belong believe that this people or that is different or remarkable.

I view all the people of the world to be remarkable but also equally average.

I hold that, above all, people are people. And as long as it is not viewed as an obvious truth that throughout the world and in all languages of this earth all people resemble one another much more than they are dissimilar, I think it is a sin to call out the differences between the various peoples instead of their similarities and commonalities.

Certainly there are differences between races and peoples.

These differences are, however, in the first place not as great as the differences between people who belong to the same race or nationality.

Second, they are much less pronounced than the similarities and equalities that unite people with people and race with race, such that I believe I would be doing God Himself an injustice, and therefore committing a mortal sin, if I were to emphasize the peculiarities of any one people instead of its similarities with all other peoples.

For all peoples descend from Adam, into whom God breathed His living breath.

If I were to make distinctions between the Children of Adam, I would therefore be saying that God breathed not one but many different breaths to create
different
types of peoples.

And, above all, I see in every person the image of God.

Respectfully, your obedient servant

Joseph Roth

And the Master of a Thousand Tongues answered me with the following:

Dear Friend

Do not write to me the things I already know either about yourself or about others.

Observe the Jews for yourself, with your eyes. This is all I ask of you.

Your

Master of a Thousand Tongues

So I began to visit the Jews.

And I saw that above all they were regarded as quite a special people as their womb gave birth to the concept that says the peoples of the earth, the whole earth, are all the Children of God.

Because they were the first to say that all people of all nations are equally the Children of God, it is now said that they, the Jews, see themselves as the special Children of God.

For so it is in this world, where the Antichrist prevails for the moment, that the people who say they want good will be accused of evil.

The ancient Jews said that they were God's chosen people.

But to what end did they say this?

To the end of bearing the Saviour, Jesus Christ, who died on the cross for
all
the people of the world.

The arrogance of the Jews was, therefore, in reality humility.