Читать книгу If the War Goes On . . . - Герман Гессе - Страница 11

If the War Goes On Another Two Years

End of 1917 *

Ever since I was a boy I have been in the habit of disappearing now and then, to restore myself by immersion in other worlds. My friends would look for me and after a time write me off as missing. When I finally returned, it always amused me to hear what so-called scientists had to say of my ‘absences’, or twilight states. Though I did nothing but what was second nature to me and what sooner or later most people will be able to do, those strange beings regarded me as a kind of freak; some thought me possessed; others endowed me with miraculous powers.

So now, once again, I vanished for a time. The present had lost its charm for me after two or three years of war, and I slipped away to breathe different air. I left the plane on which we live and went to live on another plane. I spent some time in remote regions of the past, raced through nations and epochs without finding contentment, observed the usual crucifixions, intrigues, and movements of progress on earth, and then withdrew for a while into the cosmic.

When I returned, it was 1920. I was disappointed to find the nations still battling one another with the same mindless obstinacy. A few frontiers had shifted; a few choice sites of older, higher cultures had been painstakingly destroyed; but, all in all, little had changed in the outward aspect of the earth.

Great progress had been made toward equality. In Europe at least, so I heard, all countries looked the same; even the difference between belligerent and neutral countries had virtually disappeared. Since the introduction of bombing from free balloons, which automatically dropped their bombs on the civilian population from an altitude of fifty to sixty thousand feet, national boundaries, though as closely guarded as ever, had become rather illusory. The dispersion of these bombs, dropped at random from the sky, was so great that the balloon commands were quite content if their explosive showers had spared their own country – how many landed on neutral or even allied territory had become a matter of indifference.

This was the only real progress the art of warfare had made; here at last the character of this war had found a clear expression. The world was divided into two parties which were trying to destroy each other because they both wanted the same thing, the liberation of the oppressed, the abolition of violence, and the establishment of a lasting peace. On both sides there was strong sentiment against any peace that might not last forever – if eternal peace was not to be had, both parties were resolutely committed to eternal war, and the insouciance with which the military balloons rained their blessings from prodigious heights on just and unjust alike reflected the inner spirit of this war to perfection. In other respects, however, it was being waged in the old way, with enormous but inadequate resources. The meagre imagination of the military men and technicians had devised a few new instruments of destruction – but the visionary who had invented the automatic bomb-strewer balloon had been the last of his kind; for in the meantime the intellectuals, visionaries, poets, and dreamers had gradually lost interest in the war, and with only soldiers and technicians to count on, the military art made little progress. With marvellous perseverance, the armies stood and lay face to face. Though, what with the shortage of metals, military decorations had long consisted exclusively of paper, no diminution of bravery had anywhere been registered.

I found my house partly destroyed by aerial bombs, but still more or less fit to sleep in. However, it was cold and uncomfortable, the rubble on the floor and the mould on the walls were distressing, and I soon went out for a walk.

A great change had come over the city; there were no shops to be seen and the streets were lifeless. Before long, a man with a tin number pinned to his hat came up to me and asked me what I was doing. I said I was taking a walk. He: Have you got a permit? I didn’t understand, an altercation ensued, and he ordered me to follow him to the nearest police station.

We came to a street where all the buildings had white signs bearing the names of offices followed by numbers and letters.

One sign read: ‘Unoccupied civilians 2487 B 4’. We went in. The usual official premises, waiting rooms and corridors smelling of paper, damp clothing, and bureaucracy. After various inquiries I was taken to Room 72 and questioned.

An official looked me over. ‘Can’t you stand at attention?’ he asked me in a stern voice.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘Because I never learned how,’ I said timidly.

‘In any case,’ he said, ‘you were taking a walk without a permit. Do you admit that?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That seems to be true. I didn’t know. You see, I’d been ill for quite some time . . .’

He silenced me with a gesture. ‘The penalty: you are forbidden to wear shoes for three days. Take off your shoes!’

I took off my shoes.

‘Good God, man!’ The official was struck with horror. ‘Leather shoes! Where did you get them? Are you completely out of your mind?’

‘I may not be quite normal mentally, I myself can’t judge. I bought the shoes a few years ago.’

‘Don’t you know that the wearing of leather shoes in any shape or form by civilians is prohibited? – Your shoes are confiscated. And now let’s see your identification papers!’

Merciful heavens, I had none!

‘Incredible!’ the official moaned. ‘Haven’t seen anything like it in over a year!’ He called in a policeman. ‘Take this man to Office 19, Room 8!’

I was driven barefoot through several streets. We went into another official building, passed through corridors, breathed the smell of paper and hopelessness; then I was pushed into a room and questioned by another official. This one was in uniform.

‘You were picked up on the street without identification papers. You are fined two thousand gulden. I will make out your receipt immediately.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ I faltered. ‘I haven’t that much money on me. Couldn’t you lock me up for a while instead?’

He laughed aloud.

‘Lock you up? My dear fellow, what an idea! Do you expect us to feed you in the bargain? – No, my friend, if you can’t pay the trifling fine, I shall have to impose our heaviest penalty, temporary withdrawal of your existence permit! Kindly hand me your existence card!’

I had none.

The official was speechless. He called in two associates; they conferred in whispers, repeatedly motioning in my direction and looking at me with horror and amazement. Then my official had me led away to a detention room, pending deliberations on my case.

There several persons were sitting or standing about; a soldier stood guard at the door. I noticed that apart from my lack of shoes I was by far the best-dressed of the lot. The others treated me with a certain respect and made a seat free for me. A timid little man sidled up to me, bent down, and whispered in my ear: ‘I’ve got a magnificent bargain for you. I have a sugar beet at home. A whole sugar beet in perfect condition. It weighs almost seven pounds. Yours for the asking. What do you offer?’

He moved his ear close to my mouth, and I whispered: ‘You make me an offer. How much do you want?’

He whispered softly back: ‘Let’s say a hundred and fifty gulden!’

I shook my head and looked away. Soon I was deep in thought.

I saw that I had been absent too long, it would be hard for me to adapt. I’d have given a good deal for a pair of shoes or stockings, my bare feet were miserably cold from the wet street. But everyone else in the room was barefoot too.

After a few hours they came for me. I was taken to Office 285, Room 19f. This time the policeman stayed with me. He stationed himself between me and the official, a very high official, it seemed to me.

‘You’ve put yourself in a very nasty position,’ he began. ‘You have been living in this city without an existence permit. You are aware no doubt that the heaviest penalties are in order.’

I made a slight bow.

‘If you please,’ I said, ‘I have only one request. I realise that I am quite unequal to the situation and that my position can only get worse and worse. – Couldn’t you condemn me to death? I should be very grateful!’

The official looked gently into my eyes.

‘I understand,’ he said amiably. ‘But anybody could come asking for that! In any case, you’d need a demise card. Can you afford one? They cost four thousand gulden.’

‘No, I haven’t got that much money. But I’d give all I have. I have an enormous desire to die.’

He smiled strangely.

‘I can believe that, you’re not the only one. But dying isn’t so simple. You belong to the state, my dear man, you are obligated to the state, body and soul. You must know that. But by the way – I see you’re registered under the name of Sinclair, Emil. Could you be Sinclair, the writer?’

‘That’s me!’

‘Oh, I’m so glad. Maybe I can do something for you. Officer, you may leave.’

The policeman left the room, the official shook my hand.

‘I’ve read your books with great interest,’ he said in a friendly tone, ‘and I’ll do my best to help you. – But, good God, how did you get into this incredible situation?’

‘Well, you see, I was away for a while. Two or three years ago I took refuge in the cosmic, and frankly I had rather supposed the war would be over by the time I got back. – But tell me, can you get me a demise card? I’d be ever so grateful.’

‘It may be possible. But first you’ll need an existence permit. Obviously nothing can be done without that. I’ll give you a note to Office 127. On my recommendation they’ll issue you a temporary existence card. But it will only be valid for two days.’

‘Oh, that will be more than enough!’

‘Very well! When you have it, come back here to me.’

We shook hands.

‘One more thing,’ I said softly. ‘May I ask you a question? You must realise how little I know about what’s been going on.’

‘Go right ahead.’

‘Well, here’s what I’d like to know: how can life go on under these conditions? How can people stand it?’

‘Oh, they’re not so badly off. Your situation is exceptional: a civilian – and without papers! There are very few civilians left. Practically everyone who isn’t a soldier is a civil servant. That makes life bearable for most people, a good many are genuinely happy. Little by little one gets used to the shortages. When the potatoes gave out, we had to put up with sawdust gruel – they season it with tar now, it’s surprisingly tasty – we all thought it would be unbearable. But then we got used to it. And the same with everything else.’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘It’s really not so surprising. But there’s one thing I still don’t understand. Tell me: why is the whole world making these enormous efforts? Putting up with such hardships, with all these laws, these thousands of bureaus and bureaucrats – what is all this meant to preserve and safeguard?’

The gentleman looked at me in amazement.

‘What a question!’ he cried, shaking his head. ‘You know we’re at war: the whole world is at war. That’s what we are preserving, what we make laws and endure hardships for. The war! Without these enormous exertions and achievements our armies wouldn’t be able to fight for a week. They’d starve – we can’t allow that!’

‘Yes,’ I said slowly, ‘you’ve got something there! The war, in other words, is a treasure that must be preserved at any cost. Yes, but – I know it’s an odd question – why do you value the war so highly? Is it worth so much? Is war really a treasure?’

The official shrugged his shoulders and gave me a pitying look. He saw that I just didn’t understand.

‘My dear Herr Sinclair,’ he said. ‘You’ve lost contact with the world. Go out into the street, talk to people; then make a slight mental effort and ask yourself: What have we got left? What is the substance of our lives? Only one answer is possible: The war is all we have left! Pleasure and personal profit, social ambition, greed, love, cultural activity – all that has gone out of existence. If there is still any law, order, or thought in the world, we have the war to thank for it. – Now do you understand?’

Yes, now I understood, and I thanked the gentleman kindly.

I left him and mechanically pocketed the recommendation to Office 127. I had no intention of using it, I had no desire to molest the gentlemen in those offices any further. Before anyone could notice me and stop me, I inwardly recited the short astral spell, turned off my heartbeat, and made my body vanish under a clump of bushes. I pursued my cosmic wanderings and abandoned the idea of going home.

*‘If the War Goes On Another Two Years’ was originally published under the pseudonym Emil Sinclair, which Hesse used again when he published Demian in 1919.